"And the dead in Christ shall rise first.
Then, we which are alive and remain, shall be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air.
And so shall we ever be with the Lord."
Well, them Old End-timers believe that today is The Rapture.
At first, I misheard, and thought that the name of todays apocalyptic annihilation was The Raptor, and we were all about to be devoured by rampaging Jurassic Pork type dinoclones.
But, sadly, it's not saurian shennanigans - it's either the abduction of humanity by Space Monsters to be feasted upon by invading interplanetary interlopers, or the Hosts Of Heaven will descend and take us up into Heaven/Nirvana/Enlightened Sphere/Valhalla, or whichever religious paradise meets your favoured form of faith.
And you gotta have faith (Well, I guess it would be nice if I could touch your body. I know not everybody has got a body like you, my pretty! xxx)
Anyhoo, it seems like today is totally uninterrupted by the trumpeting of trumpets, and the sounds of harpers harping with their harps. So it looks like no divine divinity is coming to take me up into her boudoir bower of paradise for a lifetime of rapturous rogering any time soon.
Hold on - Rapture... that's one of them portmanteau words, isn't it? Rape + Torture = Rapture.
No wonder there's no angelic beauties raising up all up to the celestial domain of eternal joy - it's that bloody Lynx Excite! "Even Angels Will Fall". One whiff of that, it it's the tossing off of the halo, and the tossing off of the hero with the perfumed 'pits!
There's us, all waiting to be enraptured, and these winged women are too busy tumbling into crowded foreign streets, and rising up like Arnie Terminators before rape-torturing undeserving muppets on mopeds based on their deodorantal preferences!
Right. That's it. Sod everlasting happiness in the afterlife - I'm off to boots to buy Lads stuff - Nuts, Loaded, For His Masturbation* magazines, and a stackload of Lynx.
Then I'm guaranteed a bit of "Rapture" from gorgeous goddesses.
Although it's going to be a bugger hoovering up all them feathers after all that rapturous shaggery.
* THERE ARE THEMS WHAT THINK THAT "FHM" IN FHM MAGAZINE STANDS FOR "FOR HIM MAGAZINE". THAT'S BECAUSE THEY'RE GORMSTERS, BECAUSE THAT MAKES IT "FOR HIM MAGAZINE MAGAZINE". IT'S QUITE CLEARLY "FOR HIS MASTURBATION" MAGAZINE, BEING FILLED WITH NAUGHT BUT PHOTOS OF FEMALE CHILDRENS TV PRESENTERS PORNING IT UP, AND HIGH STREET (NUBILE NEIGHBOURS THAT READERS ARE CREEPILY PERVING OVER) HONEYS.
IT'S A BIT LIKE SMARTARSES WHO MOAN ABOUT PIN NUMBERS, WHO THINK THEY'RE SO CLEVER BY POINTING OUT THE "N" IN PIN STANDS FOR "NUMBER", SO PIN NUMBER = PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION NUMBER NUMBER. IT HAS TO BE PIN NUMBER, YOU CRETINOUS TWONK, FOR IF SOMEONE ASKED YOU TO KEY IN YOUR PI NUMBER, PEOPLE WOULD BE KEYING IN THE PHONE NUMBERS OF THEIR MAGNUM STYLE INVESTIGATORY TYPES BY MISTAKE.
And they said Elvis was dead! Pay attention, 9 seconds into the video evidence for the above mentioned lack of rapture. A great fatarse old Elvis is there, masquerading as one of them old italian momma in a big black dress. Rule #1 of Faking Your Own Death - stay away from cameras, especially video ones for televisiual transmission:
