I’ve witnessed some sorry fucking sights in my life, but the display you just put on in front of that nursing home crowd was the most pathetic excuse for Christian-themed slapstick I’ve ever seen. Dropped lines, missed cues, and I don’t know what you all thought you were doing during the Ten Commandments skit, but it sure as shit wasn’t what we rehearsed.
Come on, are we just a bunch of assholes fucking around here? Or is this a clown ministry?
We’ve got standards to live up to. We’re not just some dipshits in polka-dot overalls and fright wigs playing grab-ass. We’re clown ministers—righteous Christians called to preach the word of the Gospels through costumes, props, and physical comedy.
Maybe you forgot, but when you put on those big floppy shoes and that Jesus-fish necktie, you’re not just some grease-painted jerk-off standing there with your thumb in your ass. You are a messenger of our Lord and Savior. We’re supposed to be saving souls here—using our comic antics to spread hope, faith, and Christian goodwill. Do you think we opened the audience’s hearts one fucking iota to the everlasting love of Jesus with that huge stinking turd of a puppet show you just tried to pass off as the parable of the prodigal son?
Seriously, are you fuckwits here to share the good news of the Kingdom of Heaven through lighthearted hijinks and pantomime or to yank on your goddamn dicks?
Seriously, are you fuckwits here to share the good news of the Kingdom of Heaven through lighthearted hijinks and pantomime or to yank on your goddamn dicks?
Yeah, I’m talking to you, Father Rumplebottom. When you play Judas chasing Saint Glitterbug and Jingles the Penitent around the Last Supper table with a seltzer bottle, you’re supposed to slip and fall on your 30 pieces of silver. That’s the punchline to the whole bit, for crying out loud! Same goes for you, Blowflower T. Hezekiah. A fucking monkey could’ve made a better Immaculate Heart of Mary balloon sculpture than you did this afternoon. Oh, and by the way—just how exactly are we supposed to glorify God with our walls of Jericho tumbling routine when half of you shitheads forgot your trumpets in the van?
Do you think the greats, clown ministers like Faithful Bonko or ChooChoo the Prophet, ever phoned it in like that? No. When they were supposed to teach a Sunday school class the story of Noah’s Ark, they got out there and started pulling stuffed animals out of their sleeves, two of each kind, in an endless chain, until they had the attention of every kid in that audience. You can’t just throw on a red nose and an oversized crucifix necklace and expect a group of recovering alcoholics or terminally ill children to invite the Holy Spirit into their hearts right then and there—especially not when you’re out there pissing around like a gaggle of bumbling dildos like you were today.
Most of the seniors in that rec room had nodded off by the time we got to Humble Doink’s burning bush ventriloquism act, and with the god-awful snoozefest you just put on, I can’t say I blame them.
Look, it’s up to you. If you’d rather sit around and wank each other off than spread the wisdom of the Lord, that’s fine—just go do it somewhere else. For any of you who are ready to start taking God’s mission seriously, chalice-juggling practice is this Saturday.
