From Father Troll, a prisoner of Holy Scripture, unto His Beloved Sinners weeping and ignorant in the darkness of the intertubes:
Grace and Peace to you! Such is the wickedness of these apostate latter days that this Epistle comes to you from prison, where I await trial for no other crime than that of proclaiming the Gospel without fear, compromise, nor compassion for those who would deny the Doctrinally Sound their right to speak on behalf of God. Bishop Quinine has finally remembered to smuggle in some notepaper and a pencil, and thus it is that with my Own Hand I am dictating this to one of the few faithful-but generally-illiterate prisoners gathered about me capable of such an important task - “Scribbles” was convicted for sending menacing letters, and thanks to my pastoral guidance is now looking forward to upon release using his skill and experience as a member of the team at Viagraville.
Nor is he my only convert here. After being cavity searched upon his first visit, Bishop Quinine has dropped by on a daily basis (twice daily if his favourite warden is on duty). Since not even the most indiscriminating of guards is desperate enough to go there a second time, he’s taken to bringing in more contraband than there are whacking pics on an Evangelical’s hard drive. As a result of which My Ministry has been enjoying the kind of respect normally only shown by travel agents to Gafcon Primates. Although the sudden influx is beginning to cause hyper-inflation (services which could once be purchased for a few cigarette ends now cost at least several packets and an autographed picture of the Ould twins - obviously the latter aren’t really genuine, but if Brother Richthofen’s facsimile is good enough for Dobby’s credit card provider it’s fine here) . Consequently the prison’s economy is already a pleasing foretaste of how things will look a few years after Mark Meckler and his fellow party-goers have saved America from the tyranny of just and equitable taxation.
Of course I must also reassure my British Sinners that this exciting new phase in my unequalled walk with Jesus has absolutely nothing to do with looting, rioting, or generally running amuck as an excuse to obtain new sneakers and a plasma television. Although I do think that words simply can’t convey how worthy of our respect those young men and women are for diverting attention away from St. Rupert Murdoch’s unfortunate difficulties. And as for Amy Winehouse’s ultimate sacrifice on behalf of the man whose newspapers fought so hard to preserve her privacy, self-esteem, and dignity… tears well up in my eyes at knowing it’s not just Biblical Christians like myself who love the man who owns both Fox News and Zondervan. Not, of course, that their core market is able to distinguish between the two.
No, it is purely due to my faithfulness to Scripture that things have taken this turn. The Bible explicitly calls us to “Praise him upon the high-sounding cymbals” (Psalm 150:5), and thus I can do no other. Accompanied by the tuneful blasts of my sackbut (“mine horn shall be raised as an unicorn” – Ps 92:10 ) my bold proclamation of Righteousness (in case you’re wondering I tie the cymbals to the inside of my knees, freeing my hands to manfully grasp my sackbut), was deemed in violation of a restraining order corruptly issued in favor of the local baptists, and - as if there’s any hour at which we’re exempt from praising the One who called us to serve the Scriptures - it appears that the irrelevant fact of it being half-past two in the morning caused the acting district attorney to successfully oppose my bail.
None of which should be any cause for alarm on your behalf, My Beloved Sinners, even if it has resulted in you all having been left for more than a month without any Biblical guidance. The reason my trial has been delayed is so that things could wait until the regular DA returned from vacation – a man whom has not infrequently availed himself of the ministry provided by Consuella’s pole-dancer’s fellowship, and whom when confronted with photographic evidence of the same is sure to seek a more appropriate sentence. Naturally since the charge is essentially one of preaching the gospel I can do nothing other than plead guilty, but rather than the period of incarceration currently proposed (I could have been mistaken, but I believe I heard the phrase “throw away the key” being bandied about) I expect something more along the lines of that enjoyed by Little Don Armstrong - charity service and a comparison to Mandela. And of course the charity will be my own “Leaf blowers for Africa”, although if the Murdochs are prepared to establish a suitably fraudulent trust fund I’ve no doubt I would instead be called to act for them as a consultant. In a strictly Biblical context, of course.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.