A friend said to me recently that she was going to have to miss church this coming Sunday and that made her feel happy which made her feel sad and guilty because a good Christian shouldn’t be happy about missing church.

And I told her that it would probably be ok and that I didn’t think Jesus would care if she missed just one Sunday.

Everyone knows I’m a godless whore who doesn’t know crap about this Jesus stuff, but if I were Jesus I think I’d be annoyed having everyone coming over to the house every damn Sunday all. day. long.

When does Jesus do his laundry?

When does he have time to kick back with a brewski and bag of Doritos and watch some great new porn?

Never.

And he must be all “go home people! Quit coming here! I have no time to myself and I have like a ton of shit to do!”

And the Jesus peoples are all “Jesus we love you! We want to come over and eat your stale bread and drink your inferior quality wine!”

Seriously. They serve the worst food at church.

Cooking is not a talent of Jesus’s.

It must be really frustrating because in addition to what must be a rather difficult work week, he still has to deal with all his own stuff like pooper scooping the lawn, because I assume Jesus has a dog, and washing dishes. And then on Monday he’s still got to deal with some wars here and there and some cleansing of ethnic peoples over there and then there’s the guy who thinks it’s cool to drive up and down Crissy’s street on a dirt bike at 1am to smote.

Or is it smite?

And thusly the lord smited him?

And the lord smoted him?

I don’t know. They both sound weird.

Anyway. You get my point, right?

I mean really.

Poor Jesus.

It sucks to be him.

So I’m doing Jesus a favor today, even though he didn’t ask because I’m magnanimous like that, and I’m asking all of his flock of peoples to stay home this Sunday.

Do it so Jesus can finally wash the blood stains out of his loin cloth and maybe go shopping for a new thorny crown and a pair of sweet leather flip flops.

Who’s with me?

Crissy: 0
Woodland Creature:10

Remember when I dug my flower beds and I was all excited about it and I couldn’t wait for my sunflowers and my sweet peas to come up all sunshiny and wholesome and stuff?

Yes?

Well some little furry woodland buttmunch has destroyed all my sunshine and my wholesome.

Meet Frank.

This isn’t really him. It’s his cousin Albert. I couldn’t get a picture of Frank because he says he looks fat in pictures.

Whatev.

Everybody looks fat in pictures. That’s why God made airbrushes and anorexia.

When I first saw Frank I thought “awwwww…he’s so cute!” And I talked baby talk at him and then I gave him his name.

But this weekend when I went out to my garden that I lovingly water every day, I found that Frank the Garden Gansta, otherwise known as Woodchuckus Douchebagus from the Latin meaning motherfucker who’s goin’ down, had stripped the leaves off my sunflowers and mangled my sweet peas.

Do you know how much Girlfriend and I love to walk right out into the garden and enjoy a nutritious a sweet pea?

We like it a lot and a lot.

That’s why I’m not gonna lie to you Internet. I cried a little bit when I had to pull out all the stuff he killed .

I transplanted some cosmos to the bare spot seeing as he left that alone in another section of the garden, but by the end of the day he had eaten that too.

So now your Crissy is feeling angry and resentful and a little bit like Frank’s bitch.

In fact, while I was pulling the Cosmos stems out of the ground I think I heard him on the other side of the fence giggling in his little Woodchuck voice, saying “who’s your daddy now garden lady? Say my name! Say It!”

I out and out refuse to be a Woodchuck’s bitch Internet.

My grandfather, who is my garden guru,

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wants me kick it old school and just put a cap in his ass, but I’m not old school. I’m sort of like middle school and so I cannot shoot Frank.

Also my shotgun was siezed by the po-po is in the shop.

So help me Internet.

Does anyone speak Woodland Creature language?

How do you tell a Woodchuck to fuck off?

Before I tell you what this post is about today you should know that I decided to keep the name Crissy’s Page because your responses were overwhelmingly in favor of it. Apparently the cutesy dorkishness of the name is in such contrast to the vulgar whore behind it that it pleases you.

Fine.

But some of you had some great suggestions and you deserve a shout out :

Beef Johnson’s Circusrs27
Dirty BlondeLynne
Double Jointed Vaginastoogepie
My Husband Watches a lot of PornMelissa Lion
Free Moneylacochran
Donkey Punching and More! Morgetron

So thanks people.

Okay, on to the post!

So I really want my bike but I don’t have the scratch right now so I had an idea.

You guys are going to buy these tee shirts

with Crissyspage.com written on the back or else I’ll not like you any more.

People will think Crissy’s Page is a mom porn site but fuck them for being dirty birds.

I’ve discovered that you can get these all over the place but why would you do that when you can buy one from Crissy and help her get her dream machine and watch hours of videos of her falling off her bike riding it in circles in her driveway and then down the street and back a little until she gets the courage to leave her neighborhood.

So before I buy a bunch of these shirts and then get stuck giving them to everyone and my grandfather because no one wanted one, who wants one?

Shoot me an email or a comment below and I will decide if this is another one of my brilliant ideas or if I really need to stop smoking the crack.

It was actually my neighbor’s idea, not Michelle’s but her husband Rich’s, so maybe Rich and I will both need to stop hitting the pipe while our children run naked and dirty in the street eating garbage play nicely together in the back yard.

Maybe I’ll even have thongs and boxer briefs and onezies and bumper stickers and mouse pads and wine glasses and all kinds of other stuff too.

What’s cool?

I have no idea.