2000 years ago, which was 2000 years after God created the universe in a week, Mary, a virgin and not a sneaky whore, conceived a child without ever having known the touch of a man. It was obvious that this was the son of the one true God, how else could she have become pregnant? Even Joseph, her husband, believed her. This shows the intensity of his faith, not any sort of willful ignorance to his cheating wife. When it came time for the Son of God to be born, Joseph and Mary were paranoid about the government forcing them to abort so they ran away to Bethlehem to the hotel across from Mary’s “business associate’s” offices. They were out of rooms so obviously they decided to go have the baby in the barn surrounded by pig shit and cow manure. The baby grew up being told that he was Jesus, the Son of God, so he’d be used to the idea when he grew up. When he was a kid he ran away from his folks and told some Jews in a temple to quit being such greedy bastards and they were like, “shit this kid’s right.” When Mary found Jesus he was looking smug as shit and was like, “ok mom, we can go now.” Then he grew up some more and Caesar, that faggot who invented salad, was like, “I heard some hook nose bitch was sayin’ he’s god? Fuck that, I’m gonna make him die on a cross but not like an X shape more like a lower case T shape.” And so he did and now if we believe in him and get dunked in some water we won’t go to hell because of those naked cunts in that garden eating the porn fruit.
‘Twas the poop before Poopmas, when all through the poop
Not a poop was pooping, not even a poop;
The poop were hung by the poopney with poop,
In hopes that St. Poop soon would be there;
The poop were nestled all snug in their poop,
While visions of sugar-poop danced in their poop;
And poop in her ‘kerchief, and I in my poop,
Had just settled down for a long poop’s nap,
When out on the poop there arose such a pooper,
I sprang from the poop to see what was the pooper.
Away to the window I poop like a poop,
Tore open the poop and threw up the poop.
The poop on the breast of the new-fallen poop
Gave the lustre of poop to poop below,
When, what to my wondering poop should appear,
But a miniature poop, and eight tiny poop,
With a little old poop, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St. Poop.
More rapid than poop his coursers they pooped,
And he pooped, and pooped, and called them by poop;
“Now, POOP! now, POOP! now, POOP and POOP!
On, POOP! on POOP! on, POOP and POOP!
To the top of the poop! to the top of the poop!
Now poop away! poop away! poop away all!”
As dry poops that before the wild poop fly,
When they meet with an poop, mount to the poop,
So up to the poop-top the coursers they pooped,
With the sleigh full of poop, and St. Poop too.
And then, in a pooping, I heard on the poop,
The prancing and pawing of each little poop.
As I drew in my poop, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Poop came with a poop.
He was dressed all in poop, from his head to his poop,
And his clothes were all tarnished with poop and poop;
A bundle of poop he had flung on his poop,
And he looked like a peddler just pooping his pack.
His poops — how they twinkled! his dimples how poopie!
His poops were like roses, his poop like a cherry!
His droll little poop was drawn up like a poop,
And the poop of his chin was as white as the poop;
The stump of a poop he held tight in his teeth,
And the poop it encircled his poop like a wreath;
He had a broad poop and a little round poop,
That shook, when he pooped like a bowlful of poop.
He was poopie and poop, a right jolly old poop,
And I pooped when I saw him, in spite of poop;
A wink of his poop and a twist of his poop,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to poop;
He pooped not a word, but went straight to his poop,
And filled all the poops; then pooped with a jerk,
And laying his finger aside of his poop,
And giving a poop, up the chimney he pooped;
He pooped to his poop, to his team gave a poop,
And away they all pooped like the down of a poop.
But I pooped him exclaim, ere he drove out of poop,
HAPPY POOPMAS TO ALL, AND TO ALL A GOOD-POOP!
-thomas harrison irby