i want to thank you for sticking with my blog for the last 15 months of exactly ZERO posts. you are truly dedicated. or lazy....
So you think a Spanish tennis great like me, Rafael Nadal, the best tennis player on clay IN THE WORLD, doesn’t need to be on Tindr to get some action?
Look. The level of tennis that I play demands my total time and concentration. I don’t have time to go out and meet girls. So yeah - Rafa needs Tindr!
Tindr Date #1
Once I was about to go onto centre court at the French Open – where I dominate on clay! - when Tindr tells me some girl in the stands likes me! I look at her photo.
All I can say is, Love - Love!
It is a match!
I want to win this match in straight sets!
I swipe yes to her. Then in my happy heart I proceed to beat Federer 6-3, (7-6), 6-4. I have so much respect for Fed. I think he may be better than me, well, except on clay, but most courts in the world are not clay. This is a source of great sadness for me. I have talked only to very close friends about this. I have wells of deep sorrow. And I cope by scarfing down jars of Nutella* while wearing shirts with no sleeves.**
*Nutella is a spreadable hazelnut chocolate, which you can put on crepes and toast. It is not a substitute for joy, says my coach Dionne Warwick.
**I have been thinking of starting “No Sleeves, Please,” a global foundation to raise money to help people in some way, and to transport tons of clay to areas around the world that need it.
Federer is a good-looking man, and sometimes I want to do with him what we in Spain call a “hair switch,” which is where you switch hair with someone.
I meet the girl next to a concession stand.
Let me tell you: she is ready to play!
But she is also 71. Too old for me. So I say, see you later! She leaves in a huff. I call after her, next time post an honest picture of your real age!
The next time I go on Tindr I am about to play Novak Djokovic at the US Open. Djokovic is okay to look at. He also has been playing very well lately and I don’t know if Rafa can win this one. Djokovic is from Serbia and he plays like a robot who just got a parking ticket. But I am Rafa! If I ever got a parking ticket I would spread Nutella on it and eat it as tapas!
A girl messages me on Tindr. It is a blurry picture, but I can tell she is a foxy woman for sure! 23 years old, with legs for kilometers! After Djokovic hands me my ass, I walk off the court in shame. Then I walk over to the ticket booth quickly because I want to distance myself from my loss. Also to pick up a package from Amazon that I had shipped to Flushing Meadows, a 256-ounce jar of Nutella.
All the way there I am staring at her profile on my Samsung Galaxy III*** …and all I can say is, Papa likey! She can serve and volley my heart…and more!!! I will rush the net when it comes to her!!!
But she is not 23. She is not even human, because she is a poodle that smells of peppermint. And I tell the dog, look, it is fine that you are a dog, and that you like me on Tindr but, Rafa can’t been seen dating a poodle! Only women! Think of my global dashing figure/image. Comprende?
And the dog leaves in a huff. Next time? I say, as the dog slinks away, Next time? Post a picture of how you actually look!
***This is a phone I recommend very much, it has a big screen and when you get Nutella on it, you can get it off without too much trouble.
Wimbledon. Centre court, against Scotland’s Andy Murray. I like Andy Murray, and he is handsome for sure, but once I saw him struggling with a pair of scissors, so I lost respect for him.
The score goes back and forth, but like the conquistador I am, I vanquish Murray 6-4, 6-3, (7-6), (7-6), 6-4.
What a day, but I’m looking forward to a little “R & R” with a Latina hottie named Estrella from Dominican Republic! She is 22 and has curves that could be fatal! I message her: “Estrella! Ola! Bring your sexy friends, and we will play mixed doubles - If you know what I mean! Do you know what I mean? I will explain soon after we meet.”
I walk off court, and I get the Wimbledon Cup, take pictures, etc, etc. And after a shower I am ready to dominate Estrella’s baseline! And her friends’!
Estrella and her friends however died in 1980.****
To all you women out there on Tindr who want a piece of Rafa, I say this: if you’re 67 or a dog who smells of peppermint or if you died a lot of years ago, LET ME KNOW! It’s just being fair to Rafa.
****In 1980 there was Nutella too, it just wasn’t as good or as precise as the Nutella we have now.
Get a large white egg, Grade A, and flip it. Put it in a jar, put some water in there, get some white stuff, put that in too. Rotate the jar a quarter turn. Get a lid, set that on the counter.
Pre-heat the oven to 875.
Put the lid back where you got it. Rotate the jar a full eighth of a turn. See how much mayonnaise you’ve got so far. Sit down.
Turn off the oven.
"How come I’m making mayonnaise when all my friends are out having fun?"
Ask yourself where’d that lid go. Flip the egg again, set aside the jar for now. Find the lid. No. Forget the lid. Has Linda called back?
The oven’s off. Pre-heat the oven to 935. Get more water from where you got it before, hopefully the tap. Put more water in the jar. Reverse rotate the jar (turn it the opposite way you’ve been turning it).
Why hasn’t Linda called? Does she exist?
Does she even?
Could it be she…oh, never mind. The oven should be scorching by now.
With a pair of oven mitts, place the plastic jar in the oven, close the oven, and watch the jar melt through the little window.
Great. Now you’re back where you started. Great. Great, great, great. Super.
Get another jar. You’ve still got the lid stashed away, don’t forget.
The jar’s melted, you’ve hid the lid away where no one will ever find it, and your egg’s been flipped, twice. Turn off the oven and now it’s time to think hard about Linda.
What’s her main problem?
Get a new egg. Flip that sonavabitch perpendicular to the counter.
There. Congratulations. You’re done.
Have you made mayonnaise? Not on your life.
What’s worse, you’ve wasted time. Life’s an idiot.
Bernice Rayclotte is a chef in her own mind and she lives in a house in a clearing, nobody visits her.
New York, NY XXXXX
To Whom It May Concern,
I am writing for a job at your ad firm, the job of junior copywriter. Let’s face it, I’m no “Don Draper”! I watch the show sometimes though.
Don Draper makes ME SO MAD SOMETIMES! The way he always gets the woman - he gives new meaning to the term “smooth guy”! And not just his smooth skin on the back of his neck, when it’s clear he’s got a haircut going.
But would Don Draper come up with these great slogans?
1. Heinz Ketchup. “If it ain’t Heinz, it ain’t Mines!”
2. Firestone Tires. “Hey Fatty, lay off my tires!”
3. Pepperoni Pizza. “You’d have to be an insane nut not to love pepperoni!”
4. Jamestown, New York. “A small city deserves small problems!”
5. Computers PSA. “Do YOU have a computer?”
6. Garbage pickup by the city. “Have your garbage picked up, today!”
7. Adoption. “Just cause you don’t have kids doesn’t mean you can’t have a kid, numb nuts! Adopt a baby!”
8. Sausage Pizza. “Who’re you kidding? Order the sausage, already!”
9. The color brown. “There’s tan, and then there’s brown tan!”
10. Anchovies Pizza. “Anchovies: they’re what’s for dinner when your dinner is pizza with anchovies.”
As you can see, I have a way with copywriting that’s better seen to be believed. I’m available to come in for an interview, or why not schedule a lunch, and I’ll be there. Name the time, and not the place. (Kidding, of course I’d have to know the place, that’s common sense.)
Okay, you pulled my leg. One more slogan.
11. Pizza with Tomatoes. “Tomatoes on my pizza? Nooooo, sireee!”
Okay, one more slogan.
12. Pizza sauce. “What the heck’s on this pizza - some kinda sauce?”
13. Pizza with another Pizza on Top of It. “Double pizza! Woweeeee!”
I hope to hear from you soon, and as for those slogans, how about one more?
14. Pizza Pillow. “What’s a kid want? A pizza to fall asleep your face on!”
Okay, that may not have been the one to end on, but say la vie. One more.
15. Pizza Music. “Hey! What’s pizza music?”
Over and out, and 10-4 good buddy,
At the cell phone store she was met by a red-haired manager who asked her what she had in mind. She told him, “Shut up. Just give me a phone.” Much to her surprise, he punched her in the mouth.
At the hospital, she recovered for several months, during which time she was visited by friends flung as far as Michigan who were all distraught or at least who pretended pretty convincingly to be distraught. Oh my God, they’d say, who did this to you? And she’d say, the red-haired guy at T-Mobile.
-Did you press charges?
-No. I didn’t have time, did I. I had to go to the hospital straight away.
-He must have really punched you hard. He totally made your face concave.
-Yeah, and the doctor said it’s gonna be years till it’s convex again.
Pretty soon all her friends stopped visiting and she had a lot of time to think. About what to do next, about what had happened to her life. The day she was discharged she bought her favorite doctor a stuffed bear and four mylar balloons, which he never received, because a nurse ended up swiping them and taking them home to her kids, who got a lot more mileage out of them than he ever would have, let’s face it.
She paused in the lobby, holding a bunch of bills, and looked closer at the city magazine about the city. She couldn’t believe that the red-haired manager from T-Mobile who had punched her in the mouth was running for mayor! She threw the magazine down and called her old boss.
-Hello, sorry I haven’t been in.
-We’ve managed okay without you.
-Did you hear?
-About what? That you got punched in the mouth?
-Yeah, I did.
-Well I guess it might interest you that the same guy who punched me in the mouth is now running for mayor.
-Okay, well I can see I’ve piqued your interest. Gonna hang up now.
What a jerk, she thought. Won’t even help me go after this mayoral candidate who punched me in the mouth so long ago and who has seriously derailed my life.
She unlocked her apartment, sat down at her wooden kitchen table, and sifted through the hospital bills. The total came to over four billion dollars.
Oh my God, she said out loud, how am I gonna pay these?
Unused to such shock, she fell instantly asleep. She slept for a year and lost most of the weight she’d gained in her hospital days. Fact: hospital food should be healthy but it’s not.
In court a year later the Mayor appeared with his retinue and made a fuss of his double-breasted suitcoat and his double monk-strap shoes, pausing here and there during his testimony to brush an imaginary speck off them. At one point he draped his left leg over the witness stand and the jury members had tons of trouble not staring at the high quality leather and the shine and the hand-stitching of his left shoe.
-Can you point to her in the courtroom, Mr Mayor?
-Let the record show that he has pointed to Ms Enid O’Shea.
He smiled, swept a ringed finger through his bright red hair, and turned to the judge.
-That’s who I punched in the mouth.
Everyone gasped. Enid found herself laughing. Her attorney put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed just to the left of her clavicle. She winced.
-The mayor just admitted his guilt.
-I know, pipsqueak.
Her attorney didn’t like it when she called him pipsqueak, but he took it like a man.
-Let me call you so you have my number.
-Text me, she said. It’s quicker.
-No, I’ll call you.
-Just text me.
-Hold on while I call you.
-What’d I just say.
She frowned. Post-trial, and with her award of just over $50 million for damages and with the hospital bills picked up by the city, Enid was living large, but she still hadn’t cracked men. They picked fights or plain disagreed with her, like this man who had just bought her a pisco sour at an upscale wine bar and insisted on how he would transmit his contact info to her.
-Oh my God. You just called me, didn’t you. Didn’t you. Decline.
-It’s quicker! What.
She left in a huff. Nobody liked her anymore, and her friends were nothing but hounds after her newfound cash. She walked to the bridge and jumped off. The water was warm-ish.
-Your’e back! Do you still have a key card?
-Yep, still works.
-Your face is weird.
She got to her desk but found someone else sitting there.
-Uh, hello, what are you doing in my chair?
-Uh, yeah. Just cause I got punched in the face, had to go to the hospital for several months, went home and fell asleep for a year, and had to go to trial v. the Mayor doesn’t mean I can’t have my old job back.
The boss walked up, picking off a layer of golden croissant flake which he fed into his large mouth. He stared at her. She returned his stare. Her father had taught her never to back down. The staring continued. And finally it stopped. The boss looked down, sighed loudly, and left the area and she walked after him.
-I jumped off the bridge.
-Not my fault.
-All I’m asking for is a little concern. Is that too much to ask in this day and age, a little concern? Or are you all concerned out? Hello!
-Enid, ever since you started here you’ve left work and got bit by an escaped tiger or you left work and got punched in the face at T-Mobile or you went to a bar and jumped off the bridge. You know, I keep asking myself, when’s it gonna end. When’s the drama gonna end with you. Perhaps never, is what my guess is.
-That’s your best guess?
-That’s my best guess.
Fine, she muttered, fine. She went back to her desk, gathered her things—
-Hey, those are my things!
-Eat a nut.
She was going home. She didn’t need this place.
She walked to the hospital instead. She’d never got a thank-you from the doctor, and she was going to fix that.
BOMB DEFUSER: Hi.
ANT: First off, apologies that I’m an ant.
BOMB DEFUSER: No worries.
ANT: I know that can put people off.
BOMB DEFUSER: Not me.
ANT: Me being an ant doesn’t put you off.
BOMB DEFUSER: No, I don’t mind that you’re an ant. I defuse bombs for a living, so talking to an ant is pretty easy.
ANT: Right. Well, you’ve defused a lot of unexploded ordnance. What goes through your mind when you’re dismantling a bomb?
BOMB DEFUSER: Well we don’t dismantle it.
ANT: You know what I mean.
BOMB DEFUSER: Dunno, really. Just concentrate on the task at hand. All I can do, really.
ANT: All you can do really is what?
BOMB DEFUSER: Defuse the bomb.
ANT: The task at hand is defusing the bomb.
BOMB DEFUSER: That’s the task at hand, yes.
ANT: Defusing the Bomb. Title of your autobiography, perhaps?
BOMB DEFUSER: Haven’t written one.
ANT: Consider it.
BOMB DEFUSER: Will do, thanks.
ANT: Have you ever been killed by a bomb?
BOMB DEFUSER: No, obviously.
ANT: Obviously. What I mean is, you’ve been in situations where death was, shall we say, close at hand.
BOMB DEFUSER: Absolutely.
ANT: Very close at hand.
BOMB DEFUSER: Very close at hand, yes.
ANT: Very Close at Hand. Future title of a book you may write, perhaps?
BOMB DEFUSER: No, I’m not a writer.
ANT: Course not. What do you think of when you’re defusing a bomb?
BOMB DEFUSER: Well as I said before, I just concentrate at the task at hand.
ANT: Task at Hand: Death (Which Is Very Close at Hand). That’s a good title of a book.
BOMB DEFUSER: Yeah, sure.
ANT: But as you said, you’re not a writer.
BOMB DEFUSER: No.
ANT: Then what, if I may be so bold, the hell are you.
BOMB DEFUSER: I’m an ammunition technician.
ANT: What, on the phone?
BOMB DEFUSER: No. Out in the field. Where the bombs are.
ANT: Got it. So you’re not sitting at a help desk.
BOMB DEFUSER: [laughing] No. I don’t have a desk job.
ANT: You actually get your hands dirty.
BOMB DEFUSER: When I do it right, yes.
ANT: I Actually Get My Hands Dirty: Shocking Secrets of an Unexploded Bomb Lover.
BOMB DEFUSER: I don’t love bombs.
ANT: You hate them then?
BOMB DEFUSER: I don’t love them or hate them. It’s a job.
ANT: You say it’s a job. But what do you do with a bomb when the lights are out and your wife’s away?
BOMB DEFUSER: There’s always plenty of light. And I never bring my wife to work, so—
ANT: Why don’t you bring your wife to work.
BOMB DEFUSER: Too dangerous, isn’t it.
ANT: So there’s no Bring Your Wife to Work Day.
BOMB DEFUSER: In my profession, no.
ANT: Course not.
BOMB DEFUSER: And I hope there never is.
ANT: Not me. What if I were to tell you, in the studio with us today, is an unexploded 500-kilogram German bomb with a delayed-action chemical fuse.
BOMB DEFUSER: [pause] I’d say you’re crazy.
BOMB DEFUSER: Because you couldn’t possibly have transported it safely here.
BOMB DEFUSER: Here. To the studio.
ANT: Clever, this one. You’re right. There is no bomb here.
BOMB DEFUSER: Good.
ANT: Good indeed. Speaking of bombshells, what’s your wife like?
BOMB DEFUSER: She’s wonderful. Been happily married for 12 years.
ANT: No tension, then.
BOMB DEFUSER: Where.
ANT: In your marriage.
BOMB DEFUSER: When there’s a difficult bomb, sure. There’s a little. Nobody wants to go off to work knowing you may never see your spouse again.
ANT: Nobody Wants to Go Off to Work Knowing You May Never See Your Spouse Ever Again: The Salacious Story of a Real Live British Ammunition Technician (Who’s Somehow Convinced Us of Two Things: 1. That He’s Not a Writer, Despite Having Written This Book, and 2. That He Doesn’t Conduct Torrid Affairs with Petite German Bombs). How about it?
BOMB DEFUSER: No.
ANT: Course not.
Dude. I gotta tell you about this dude I saw. Dude was made of ping pong balls, yo. For real. I caught him out on the boardwalk. Dude was just shufflin along. Pingin and pongin. I’m telling you, man. Every square inch of that dude was small white table tennis balls!
So I go up to him, right? And I’m like, how come you’re all ping pong and shit?
And no lie, the dude turns around and his eyes—they’re like ping pong balls with like black magic marker dots for eyes—they look down at me and I shouldn’t be scared but I am, yo. For real. I’m shakin. I know I shouldn’t be but literally my arms start to shake and my legs go all weird like when you’re somewhere you’re not supposed to be, right? His eyes find me, they like rotate down cause I’m shorter than him, I mean this dude must be 7 feet tall and all ping pong ball.
And he goes, I’m like this because I lost a bet.
I mean what? And his voice? It’s all hollow. Yeah, like a ping pong ball. And I’m thinkin, the dude lost a bet? What the F? So I go, what was the bet?
And he goes, Twenty years ago a friend bet me I wouldn’t go up and kiss Kelly Mendes by the pool. We were at this pool party. 7th grade. I said, what if I do? He said, if you do kiss her, you get my brand new BMX bike. And what if I don’t? Don’t worry, he said. Just kiss her. But I’m not stupid. Not by a long shot. I said hey. What happens if I don’t kiss Kelly Mendes? And after a couple seconds of just not looking at me, he looks up and says quietly, if you don’t kiss her, you turn into the first thing you think about an hour from now.
That’s what the ping pong dude says! So I’m all like, what? You didn’t kiss her and an hour after that you thought about a ping pong ball? Sixty minutes later you thought about a ping pong ball and bam! You’re ping pong dude?
And the ping pong dude goes, Yep.
And I go, why didn’t you think about something cool, like a saber-toothed tiger?
And he comes toward me and kneels down real close to me and whispers, I did think about a tiger. But I didn’t have a watch on me. So I didn’t know when the hour was up. When you’re playing thought roulette sometimes it just comes up ping pong ball, got it?
Got it, I said.
He goes, Any more questions, punk?
Could feel his ping pong ball head on the side of my cheek, yo. His breath smelled like a rubber paddle. I freeze up. But don’t worry, I’ve got like a million questions, yo! A million questions goin round my mind that I need to ask this dude! Like was your friend an evil magician or something? What did your parents say when you showed up at home made of ping pong balls? And do girls even, you know, like, do it with you? And I was gonna ask him all that but this wind came alla sudden and got under the ping pong dude. I’m tellin you, yo. Sir Ping Pong the First just launches straight into the air. Musta weighed an ounce. If that.
I got a picture. Oh damn. Where’s my phone. I keep it in my … my back pocket sometimes when I’m rockin the skinny jeans. Hold on… nope. Oh hell no. Hell no! Ping pong dude stole my iPhone!
There was a hill. There was a cat at the bottom of the hill, and the cat had suffered many injuries in recent weeks. So many injuries that the cat’s friend discouraged her from climbing any hills.
You’ve suffered enough in recent weeks, said the cat’s friend, who was a lioness, and very much in demand in the feline social scene. Why don’t you get some rest, the lioness suggested. Come with me to a declawing party. Erica’s getting done.
Erica berica, said the cat. You’ve got to see this hill. I’m at the bottom of it right now.
I know, said the lioness. I’m here with you.
Where, said the cat.
At the bottom of the hill, she said.
Right, said the cat. Sorry. I guess I’ve—
Suffered many injuries in recent weeks? Yeah. We know, said the lioness, glancing at her watch.
I’ve got to climb this hill, said the cat.
Call me when you’re not stupid, said the lioness, twitching her nose. And with a flick of her tail she left her friend alone at the bottom of the hill.
The cat looked up. The hill loomed at her. Flecked with purple brush and thorny here and there, the hill cast a deep shadow on the little cat, who, because of recent injuries, appeared no thicker than a snaggy root poking out of a stray plastic bag. The cat shrank back.
The sun was going down.
All of a sudden her cell went off.
You’ve got to see this chocolate fountain, came the voice at the other end. Erica’s parents spared no expense. It’s ridic. And guess who’s the d-clawer? Pushkin.
No, said the cat.
Yes. And he’s gonna do a set.
Be right there, said the cat. She closed her phone, and looked back up at the hill. The sunlight now was just a fringe of light behind the hill.
The cat looked back into town. She imagined the party. Her friends would be swilling cherry juice by the pool and yammering about Pushkin, maybe mentioning how sorry they felt about the injuries the cat’d suffered in recent weeks. She would be welcome there for sure.
What was left of the sun now made the top of the hill look like backlit whiskers.
Come, said a voice.
Who’s that? the cat said, slinking to the ground.
It’s the hill, said the voice.
What the? said the cat.
Come, said the hill. It’s not so steep.
The cat took a step up the hill.
There we go, said the hill.
The cat took another step.
Look who’s moving up in the world, said the middle of the hill.
Shut it, hill, said the cat.
Look at you, telling a hill what for, said the bottom of the hill.
Yeah just you watch, said the cat.
The whole hill laughed. And the cat stepped. Softly at first, and then surely, and as she climbed, the sun climbed down the other side. Midway up the cat heard the party in the town below: the tinks of tinted cherry juice flutes, the d-clawing shears being sharpened against a rod, Pushkin testing his mic…the cat twice crept backwards, back down into the world she knew below.
Come, said the hill. You’re almost there.
The cat climbed.
Not bad for someone who’s recently suffered many injuries, said the top of the hill.
Can it, top of the hill, said the cat.
You’re the boss, said the middle part of the semi-top of the hill.
How is your voice divided, said the cat.
It’s complicated, said the whole hill.
She stepped up. And up and up and up.
And that night, as Erica’s declawing party tore the party world a new one, the cat sat on the top of the hill. Silence was all there was, that high up.
And on the other side, the barely-there sun slouched finally away.
The cat shivered. Her cell rang again. She didn’t want to answer. So she tossed her phone over the side. It clattered the way down and hit a rock and broke.
I should’ve gone to the party, said the cat.
Thanks a lot, said the hill.
I’m serious, said the cat.
But she wasn’t. She smiled. The whole hill shook with laughter.
Late that night the hill gave her a long hug. It was inappropriate. The next morning the hill was talked to.
The cat was told to come down the hill, which she did, but she still looks up there every day and waves.
1. Buncha Crumbs
2. Weed Killah
3. Sandwich Thugz
4. Crammin 4 Finals
5. Test, Tossd & Tyrone
6. DJ Peer Approv’d
7. Wickah Basqit
8. Shorn Sheep
9. Lil Upstandin Person
10. MC Ruhsponzibilitay
[Applause from congregation.]
Fellow parishioners. We all know that teenagers aren’t my favorite people in the world. They lie. They cheat. They steal. And they sure as heck aren’t good at sports.
[Laughter from the back row.]
I mean I can run the 40 in less time that it takes them to sext their friends!
[Huge wave of laughter; standing ovation.]
Okay, okay. Have a seat. Sons and daughters of God, I want to call your attention to one teenager in particular by the name of Willie Framham.
[Dead silence. Scattered coughing.]
Willie’s not particularly bright, as you all know. Back in 6th grade he was assigned to paint the chapel. Now he did paint it, he did, only problem was, he used his sister’s cherry red nail polish as paint. What a moron, right?
[Cries of “Crucify him!”]
Hey! Nobody’s getting crucified. Now Willie, he’s not smart, and the girls of the parish might best describe him as looking like a feral hog. But Willie Framham—
[Louder, more insistent cries of “Crucify him!”]
Willie Framham is a user too. He uses drink to escape his misery. Willie, are you here today?
[Sounds of scuffling and papers dropping onto floor.]
Doesn’t matter. Last night, our boy Willie, and if you’re here, Willie, you went to a party at a football player’s house, and you found God in a box of glue.
[Collective sigh. Expressions of disbelief.]
Now how do you find God in a box of glue?
[Staggered breathing, cries of “What is glue doing in a box?”]
It doesn’t really matter, does it. Willie found his Savior in a box of glue, of all places, and this morning, Willie Framham has given up the devil’s drink.
[Cries of “Go Bears!”]
Willie? Are you here?
Willie? It’s okay if you want to come forward.
[Cries of “He’s not here!” and “Go Bears!”]
No. You’re not here, Willie, are you. Because I … I am Willie Framham.
[Massive protests. Renunciations of faith. Bold declarations of renewed faith. Conversions to Judaism.]
Sons and daughters of God, we are all Willie Framham, and we all have the power within ourselves to change for the better. Amen.
[Sounds of cars starting, and CDs of Ke$ha playing.]