Heads I Win, Tales You Lose, Dept.



Here's how I see it:

-if what he claimed to believe--and rarely practiced--isn't true, he is so very clear on that right now. Assuming his consciousness exists in any way that can be said to be cognizant of just how off the mark he was.

-if, however, what he claimed to believe--and rarely practiced--is true, he is so very fucked right now. Because I'm guessing Jesus has strapped on steel-toed boots in anticipation of an eternity of ass-kicking.

I've said it before and I'll say it again: some people I'm only willing to let off scot-free from this life because their crimes can and will be requited on a cosmic scale.

George, Dick, Don, Condi, Karl, just a little something for your screensaver:

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear --
'My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."

Falwell was a cunt.
He is now a dead cunt.