Lord, where are you? Now the Bone Spur veteran would like everyone in the country to gather together this Sunday, probably in an unventilated enclosure, to cough and sneeze on one another, without wearing masks, as he demonstrated at the Ford plant so that what’s left of us can presumedly die together in say, 4 to 6 weeks.
The morbidly obese bone spur resident of the White House is ordering governors to open these places of worship for this Sunday’s service. What does he have, a hot bet in Vegas?
Praise the Lord. Alleluia!
In one's church, temple, mosque, or synagogue of choice, this Sunday, we might as well also sign up ahead of time for our funerals.
His latest press secretary went out to her podium to make this announcement like a sacrificial lamb. The podium was the altar of sacrifice. She desperately attempted to justify “presidential orders” by repeatedly holding up a full hand of papers that were supposed to represent the rules and safety regulations, (still wet from the printer) for worshippers to follow this Sunday.
“You can find it on the internet.”
She was eaten alive by reporters and shot out of the press room in at warp speed.
Folks, no one has to go to a church to pray. Who hasn’t already found prayer at home? Or said words about god in the kitchen. Particularly after dropping a Thanksgiving turkey on the floor? And the dog gets to the turkey before the cook? Those are words directed straight up there to god. And God listens. Dog won't get a second helping.
Everyone also prays when they climb onto a bathroom scale. You don’t need a church when tip-toeing onto a scale.
Governors won’t order places of worship to be open this Sunday. They’ve already lost too many citizens to coronavirus. Quarantine has worked. Social distancing has worked.
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