Donuts in the Sky

Illustration by Mitch Handsone

In the two years what’s gone by since you seen us last, my wife and I produced two more li’l Workers for the Lord’s Factory. Older one’s a boy, and we named him Ari, after the Jew what used to be the Messiah’s press secretary, on account of at the moment of conception my wife yelled out his name. Which I can understand. The Jew is an attractive fella, ball-headed heathen or not, and my wife and I are members of his official fan club. (You can join, too, at www.probush.com/arifanclub.htm.)


The younger one, the baby, we’re not sure yet if’n it’s a boy or a girl, but as soon as we find out we’ll give it a name so’s it gets a proper name tag at the Factory. Possibly Condoleezza, or Enron. I suppose we should look into joining their fan clubs, too.




So my wife and I were driving our beloved Abraham Lincoln Navigator home from church when I decided to stop on account of there’s a red light. My wife says, “Why did you stop?” and I said, “Because that there’s a red light, and if you don’t stop they give you a ticket.”



She said, “Who does?”


I said, “The po-lice! See that, over there? That’s one of them fancy light-post cameras what shoots license plates.”


She said, “Oh.”


I said, “Plus, even without the red light, we can’t go forward until the cars in front of us get out of our way.”


So then my wife says, “Well, why don’t you honk your horn?”


I can’t think why not, so’s I start a-honkin’. Honkin’ and honkin’ and honkin’. And the liberal in front of us — it’s got an anti-Messiah sticker on its bumper, says ImpeachBush.org, is how come I know it’s a liberal — the liberal opens its sunroof and flips me the bird. My wife wrote down its bumper sticker and license plate in our Book. We carry a special Book to keep track of such matters.


When we come home, my wife put our computer boots on and we taked a look-see at the ImpeachBush.org Web site. Just like we thought — bunch of liberal legal mumbo jumbo, Jezebelian hogwash and the like. So then we had a couple cold ones and took a browse of our normal look-ups, to see what’s new in Heaven, Rapture updates and so on. And we found us a place of par-ticular interest that I want to show you.


So now go turn on your fancy Hebrew Apple computers, and make your Internet go to http://BushFish.org. I’ll wait right here until you got the page up.


All right? Okay. There it is. You see that? They’s sellin’ Jesus-fish stickers, only instead of sayin’ J-E-S-U-S in the middle, they say B-U-S-H! You see that?


* * *


“Isn’t it a pleasure when people speak to you in terms that you can relate to easily?”


—The Cheerleader’s Guide to Life by Cindy Villarreal (ISBN 0-06-273291-9)




All right. Now, I don’t know if I ever told you before, but my wife and I own a donut shop called My Wife and I’s Donuttes. It’s in the strip mall down in Pinestump Glen. We been there a good long time, sellin’ specialty-shaped donuts in two varieties: Jesus-fish donuts (with J-E-S-U-S spellt out in the middle), and our best-selling crucifix donuts, delicious glazed replicas of the sacred weapon what killed the Lord.


My wife, B.J. — used to call her “Beej” until we found out the fella what played B.J. Hunnicutt on MASH is a damn secular Jewmanist, so now’s I just call her B.J. again — B.J., she invented both the crucifix donut and the Jesus-fish donut.


“Everyone loves donuts, and everyone loves Jesus.” That’s what B.J. says. And that’s what it says on the front window and the wall behind the cash register.


Well, one day last year, while the Messiah was running for re-election, one day I come up to my wife and I say, “You know what? You know what you oughtta do? You oughtta take them recipe for Jesus-fish donuts and turn it into a Bush-fish donut recipe! Just like the same shape, see, only in the middle part, instead of J-E-S-U-S it’d say B-U-S-H! Like that!” And I showed her a picture I drawed.


So my wife invented the crucifix donut and the Jesus-fish donut, but I invented the Bush-fish donut! And now them BushFish.org people is sellin’ the stickers and makin’ all the money, and there’s not one dang thing my wife and I can do about it. Oh, sure, we could sue, but that ends up with all the money goin’ to the Jew lawyers and us not seein’ a dime.


Oh, well. It doesn’t matter no-how. We’ll be retirin’ soon enough. Retirin’ to Heaven. With air conditionin’ and all the bells. But it was still my idea.




Have you ever been to Heaven? My wife and I got to visit once. Our whole congregation got to go, and it was the most wonderful weekend ever. They had slot machines and everything, and we won a bunch of money and even got free T-shirts! We can’t wait to go back, especially since next time it’ll be for good!


It won’t be long now . . . Yep, soon as the Rapture comes, we’ll be drinkin’ beer with our Messiah President, up in Heaven! Hootin’ and a-hollerin’, bettin’ on the Ken-tucky Derby and the Indy 500! Gettin’ free haircuts and sippin’ mint jewlips on the front porch of our cloud, lookin’ down through our bi-noculars and seein’ all your uppity heathen souls a-burnin’ and a-writhin’ in the lake of far.


“Nice day, today, here in Heaven, ain’t it, George?” (He’d make us call Him George, on account of we called him “Mr. President” at first, and he told us, “Call me George!” and handed us the beers, even though we already had our mint jewlips.)


I tell you, in Heaven, everything is fine! We’ll eat rib steak and baked potatoes with sour cream and chives, and I suppose I’ll have to try me a manicure. My wife’s always saying how it’d be nice if I got a proper manicure, only it just seems a bit ladylike to suit me. I suppose up in Heaven, though, people don’t worry about stuff like that.


“Yep, Jimboyo! Sure is a nice day! Say, do you think that wife of yours could bring us another plate of them special donuts she makes?”


“Why, sure thing, George! Do you even have to ask? There’s always more donuts in Heaven!”


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