Some Irish guy in a pirate hat asked me if I’d write a regular religion column for something called The Bogman’s Cannon. The only bit of it that made any sense to this bounty hunting preacher in rural Nebrahoma was “cannon,” because if we know anything in these parts, it’s weaponry. But I said yes, mostly because a combination of peyote and adrenalin from putting a few holes into a stage coach robbers had me thinking about all the people who should rot in Eternal Perdition. I’ve got more of these than a hare has five-second orgasms.
Writers of contemporary church liturgies–As a circuit-riding minister for the Church of the United Brethren–Schismatic, I know that sometimes, church music can leave something to be desired. The choir in my congregation in Krusty Crack, Nebrahoma consists of an accordion, a she-goat, and an illiterate farmhand who can’t read music or words and makes them up as he goes along. The bigger churches have no such excuse. Badass pipe organs, minor keys, and brutally patriarchal language are a religious person’s alternative to heavy metal. May you join your Indigo Girls CDs in the cacophonous pandemonium of Hell!
Hillary Clinton–Accepting, nay boasting about the endorsement of all-around war criminal and sinister rapscallion John Negroponte gives the campaign a suitable whiff of brimstone for those who get hard-ons at public hangings. Oh, and the Bushes like her, too. Never trust a Yankee with a drawl. It stinks worse than a North Dakota pigpen in February, a cold Plains state whose winter weather is an ironic counterpoint to the searing flames of Hell!
Joan Burton–She’s from Ireland, so normally I wouldn’t give a pile of mutant bison dung, but going after kids like this. Sure, I track down and regulate on scofflaws for money all the time, but scurrying away from peaceful protesters? Wyatt Earp would shit himself laughing faster than a prairie dog with the Tuscaloosa juicies! May she spend eternity trapped in a car in Hell!
Pretentious craft beers–This ain’t East India, and your waistcoat ain’t fooling anyone, you hipster drink-slinger. That waxed mustache makes you look like some kind of fancy-talking city slicker lawyer, only not as successful. You call yourself a bartender? If someone shot the piano player over a game of cards, you’d soil your pants smellier than the nastiest spittoon in a Bozeman whorehouse. Get me a goddamn lager, because oppressively hoppy beers are the beverage of choice for the weeping tooth-gnashers in Hell!
Literature reviewers in leading newspapers–Everybody who’s ever dusted a trail knows that a good book by the camp fire is essential when Curly’s supply of magic mushrooms runs out. So why do the hacks at The New York Times, Irish Times, etc. ad nauseam keep giving glowing reviews to millennials who couldn’t ford the Pecos if they were chased by the world’s slowest cougar? You know what gets a man’s mind off his genital warts when he’s two hundred miles from a doctor and out of semi-poisonous mercury solution? Not Ocean Vuong’s poetry, that’s for dang sure! May God Damn You, literary critics in major newspapers, to beat reportage of the monotonous torments of Hell!
Brangelina–It’s not a divorce thing. Or a vanity thing. They just suck, and may demon whores feast on their messy parts in Hell!
By Rev. Joe Jack Sarsaparilla, Poet/Preacher/Gun-for-Hire