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| 44446 | STU_RSFURR   | STORIES              | 12/15/92 | 12/22/92 |    25    |
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| Description: sermonity                                                       |
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The Collected Sermons of The Right Honorable Reverend Ronin
by Robin Furr
 
I: Introduction
 
These sermons were originally written to be posted on the JMU
computer bulletin board. On this bulletin board, I am known
as "ronin," and occasionally I "feel divine inspiration," and
unleash a sermon on anything that strikes my fancy, as you
will no doubt discover in reading these. In no way do I intend
these as serious theological works, nor do I intend to mock
any established religion. I merely take advantage of a form
of writing that allows me to "be funny."  Please enjoy them as
one might enjoy one of Dave Barry's less coherent essays.
However, as these were written to be read on the VAX computer
system, to get the full effect, one should be aware of certain
conventions of VAX typing: First, using all capital letters is
indicative of shouting ("Hey! YOU KIDS GET OUTTA MY YARD!").
Second, the use of underlines around words is interpreted as
having greater emphasis than other words. ("You did _what_ with
your car?") And lastly, although this is not specifically a
VAX convention, these sermons were written to be read as if
they were being spoken aloud as if by an overly enthusiastic
evangelist.
 
II: The Great Fruitcake Coverup
 
Praise the banana!
Today, I take my text from the label of Claxton Fruit Cake,
yea and verily. I say unto the world, "enriched wheat flour,
fruit, polysorbate 80, lactic acid, cinnamon." Today, we
take up the question of fruitcake! Is fruitcake the work of
the Evil One? Did Zamfir actually create the first fruitcake
in 1908, somewhere in Tunguska? Or, was fruitcake the First
Creation, which has survived to this day?
 
To answer this question, yea and verily, we must consider,
what ARE those little greasy green things in the fruitcake.
Yea, we must wield the machete of truth, hack apart the
evil Guatemalan sheep herders, and leap into the very Mouth
of Doom with enough Scope to wash the Gingivitis of Untruth
to Mars. Wielding the machete, we hack through the bloody gore of
the Forces of the AntiFruitcake, to reach the pinnacle
of Fruitcakedom and its concommitant truth!
 
Glory, glory, sayeth the bearer of the fruitcake!
Yea, and we must consider this fully: The fruitcake
is eternal, lo and verily, for each man hath his
fruitcake, trading it off once per year at the Time
of the Great Fruitcake Swap, sometimes known as "Christmas."
Each has his chunk of the Holy Whatever It Is, and merely
passes it along, touching the First Creation, that which
was formed before the firmament, in a celebration of all
that is good, true, and sticky with an icky sort of clear-sugar
frosting.
 
But where does the fruitcake come from? To protect its true
origin from the eyes of the Antifruitcake, the fruitcake
masks itself with the shield of "the Fruitcake Companies."
These companies, each of which is secretly controlled by the
Vatican. The truth is thus, yes it is:
 
The fruitcake is hewn whole from the Great Mother Fruitcake,
located somewhere near Wall Drug, South Dakota, by dedicated
and hard-working miners, working in extremely dangerous
conditions, each only able to break one chunk of the ever-growing
Mother Fruitcake out of the mine per day. Let us praise
these men, let us honor their work, supplying all with
enough fruitcake to stave off the collapse of the world!
Halleujah!
 
let us make small "whoop"ing noises.
 
 
III: Erik Estrada and the Great League of Nations Conspiracy
 
Glory, glory, yea and verily. Today, as we all know, is the
tenth anniversary of Erik Estrada's plummet off the face of
stardom! Yea, there is woe and lamenation upon the land. No
more will we drive in PEACE and SAFETY upon California's
many, many, (yea, there are a lot of them, too) highways,
byways, and teeny little roads that don't seem to go anywhere!
In relation to this, I take my text from the IBM AT Technical
Reference! Yea, and I quote from Chapter Three, the Book
of the DLC Interface, subchapter Token-Ring Network Adapter
Technical Reference: "When the buffer is placed back in the
buffer pool, bytes 4 and 5 (buffer length) of the buffer are
set to zero." Although the interpretation of this vital
(and extremely important, too) text varies from scholar to scholar,
most agree that it has almost absolutely NOTHING to do with
Erik Estrada (Except for a few, very puzzled scholars who
happen to live under a small rock in front of Sheldon Hall.)
 
But yea, Erik has become WOEFUL, and is casting DOOM AND
MAELFICTIONS UPON THE LAND, becoming a veritable PROPHET
of DOOM for the cardiovascular system of TRUE BELIEVERS
everywhere! For Erik NO LONGER promotes GOOD DENTAL HYGENE
every week on NBC, nor does he promote good and FLUFFY chest
hair, in accordance with offical NBC policy.
 
For lo, it is General Electric's fault that Erik Estrada
has FALLEN from the grace of the ACLU, and is no longer POPULAR
with the small tykes, tots, toddlers, and any other synonym
that begins with the letter "R."  For, lo, this is a month
containing the letter "R," and Erik MAY NOT EAT OYSTERS to
replenish his NATURAL SEXUAL VIBRANCY, and his chest hair shall
SURELY FALL OUT, becoming a BLACK CARPET upon this once-green
and verdant land! And without his chest hair, he may NEVER
return to the glory of appearing yearly on "the Circus of the
Stars," nay and begorrah.
 
And it is Harold Stassen, arch-foe of the ACLU, who is his
arch-nemesis in this matter, for he hath LACED Erik's cleansing
hair ointment and professional styling equipment with "Nair,"
and keeps doing so, for Harold Stassen, being the TRUE SUCCESSOR
to "Tail-Gunner Joe," aka "Richard Nixon's Old Boss," or even
"I Have Here In My Hand The Names Of Fifty-Three Communists That
Now Work In The State Department.", is a RIGHT NASTY FELLOW.
His secret control of NBC has TRULY DESTROYED Erik's ability to
CONTROL HIMSELF, and Fred Silverman has INVADED the SANCTITY
of Erik's OWN BODILY FLUIDS and BLESSED five (AND I say AGAIN,
FIVE) talentless kids from BOSTON, yea and verily, it is only
Erik's own bodily fluids that allows the New Kids On The Block
to be the Teen Sensations (tm) that they _obviously_ are. For,
lo, the New Kids have NO CHEST HAIR, none whatsover, for Erik's
own SACRED ESSENCE _keeps_  his chest hair growing on HIS chest
and his chest alone, but Harold Stassen and Fred Silverman
have managed to keep Erik impotent and powerless to grow MORE
chest hair.
 
And yea, this chest hair is the SOURCE of Erik's new status as a
veritable PROPHET OF DOOM, for he is now exuding, nay, CASTING
FORTH UPON THE WATERS, the very ESSENCE OF ANTI-CHEST HAIR.
People who encounter this WANDERER OF DEATH will have their chest
hair GROW INWARDS, seeking the source of THEIR chest hair, the
very SOURCE of THEIR popularity, the place in each of us that
allows us to ASPIRE to be like Erik, the Bile Duct of each, and
when that anti-chest-hair _reaches_ the Bile Duct, everyone's
chest hair ability is AUTOMATICALLY sent, C.O.D. to Harold Stassen,
under the name (his most SECRET alias) of Merv Griffin.
 
But LO! Each of us MAY SAVE Erik's career, we may SAVE this poor
wanderer of the NIGHT, who is picking on the poor, the lonely,
the vampires and the werewolves, the motorcycle cops and the
persecuted mercenary teams who wander around and save farmers and
sharecroppers from the evil land barons when the railroad is going
through!
 
"How?" I hear you cry.
It is very simple for ALL OF US to save Erik, to DEFEAT the evil
Harold Stassen, and SAVE Erik from the AFFLICTION THAT afflicts him!
For, you see, WE MUST ALL SHAVE OUR CHEST HAIR AND MAIL IT TO
_BOTH_ Fred Silverman and Merv "Harold Stassen" Griffin, we must
DELUGE these EVIL MEN, these "TV Greats" with MORE CHEST HAIR
than they have DREAMED OF in their MOST HEINOUS DREAMS, whereupon
Erik, sensing his CHANCE for REDEMPTION will mystically APPEAR
and absorb ALL the chest hair in a CATACLYSM OF DESTRUCTION AND
REUNIFICATION.
 
And then Erik WILL BE the true EMBODIMENT of all our hopes, dreams,
and chest hair. He will be a TEEN HEARTTHROB ONCE AGAIN, and
the New Kids On The Block will DISAPPEAR INTO oblivion! Yes! Lo,
they SHALL BE FOREVER GONE! Ho! And GIGGLENESS! And then the
THUNDERCATS shall be absorbed in this GIGANTIC CLIMAX of all
that is _good_, _pure_, and _holy_ in the American TV scene!
("This could be...trouble" says Panthro, of the Thundercats.)
 
Yes! Halleujah! Praise Erik Estrada! Praise the Most Holy Iguana!
 
let us make small "whoop"ing noises.
 
 
IV: How To Schedule Classes
 
Welcome, welcome, my friends, to the Show that Never Ends.
Today I take my text from the JMU Schedule of Classes, chapter
5, verse 16, lines 1-6. "Students who plan to process a course
adjustment on Jan. 9 should pick up an appointment card from
the Registration Center that morning after 7:45 a.m. This card
will indicate the time at which the student can return to process
the course adjustment without encountering a lengthy wait."
 
This text has long been the subject of controversy and yea, even
STRIFE amongst the populace, for lo, nobody knows what the hell
it means. And furthermore, lo, and otherwise, it has been REVEALED
to me exactly what this text means! I have received DIVINE INSTRUCTIONS
as to what this text is and how it applies to you, me, them, everybody,
everybody ("...i need you...you...you...") Yea and BEGORAH,
through PROPER interpretation, we arrive at the correct ANSWER
to this burning question:
 
For lo, "students" must mean the populace, the enlightened masses,
in short, us, the Whoopists of the world. To process a course is to
complete a holy war, to TRIUMPH over the evil of the world, and the
appointment card MUST BE the HOLY WORKS of the most INSPIRED prophet,
the honorable Harold Stassen, he who has brought MORE JOY to the hearts
of political comedians EVERYWHERE.
 
You must see now what this means! We must, all of us, play DIPLOMACY!
For Harold Stassen was a diplomat of the FINEST kind, and his instructions
to us ALL say that we must be DIPLOMATS, like unto Kissinger (he whose
brother starred on M*A*S*H, and dressed like unto the WHORE OF BABYLON!)
(SHAME! SHAME!) And furthermore, according to Stassen, Nixon, and Tail-Gunner
Joe, we must INVADE POLAND! AND then we must TAKE OVER THE UKRAINE!
For, lo, St. Petersburg lies within SPITTING DISTANCE OF DANZIG! Fear
Danzig! Beware Danzig! For Danzig is TRULY the city of DIS, home of
Franz Ferdinand, aka "ArchDuke of Austria," alias "Baalzebub," "Lucifer,"
or "Bob." For lo, WORLD WAR I was CAUSED by the aliens who have sought
to KILL Harold Stassen, Tail-Gunner Joe, and Chi-Chi Rodriguez.
These aliens were IN LEAGUE with ArchDuke Ferdinand, and sought to create
THE LEAGUE OF NATIONS! That most FOUL organization that seeks to cause
STUDENTS to NOT REGISTER!
 
Beware this call of the evil League of Nations, which still exists in
forms both foul and fair, from the Moose Lodges of America to Paula Abdul's
dance troupe. Yea! the League of Nations has been waging its secret and
evil war against Harold Stassen and his Most Holy Crew for decades. If this
evil and maelficient plot is NOT stopped, then registration shall become
almost impossible to achieve, and no one shall be able to progress to the
SECOND LEVEL of existences, that level which has heretofore only been
achieved by Sam Snead, Lee Travino, and Arnold Palmer, after they visited
AND DEFEATED the nasty and foul forces in the UTTER PIT OF DESPOND, that
city known to the world as Danzig.
 
Therefore, to stave off the triumph of the League of Nations, to accquire
the registration card at 7:45 on January 9th, we must become a nation of
Diplomacy players, for Diplomacy is the game which teaches one how best
to DEFEAT the forces of the League of Nations, spawn of Satan that it is!
 
Praise Harold Stassen! Praise Diplomacy! Yea! Amen! Halleujah!
 
let us make small "whoop"ing noises.
 
 
V: The Shape Of Things To Come
 
Yea and verily, to be sure, bwa and ha, in today's chaotic and tumultous
world, we must have FAITH in the eternal verities. The eternal TRUTHS
that make life on THIS planet worth _living_. Today, I take my text from
Revelations; "And he whose name was not found in the Book of Life was cast
into the lake of Fire."
I will give you ONE guess, just ONE guess as to WHOSE name was not found
in the Book of Life. Yea! Can't guess? Roger Staubach was NOT found in
the book of Life, the dirty Dallas Cowboy-sympathizer that he is. Not
even the owners of Parker Brothers, the arch-enemies of those who write
the true Book of Life (Milton Bradley and General Foods) were NOT listed
in the Book of Life. Halleujah!
Now I must ask you to ask yourself, and look deep in your heart, would it
not have been better for Roger Staubach to truly _appreciate_ the Power
of the Football, than to have him to a triple-gainer-and-a-three-fourths-
spin into Mount Pele? And if he was to DENY the football, to REFUSE
the very OBLATE SPHEREOID that catapulted him to the PINNACLE of modern
american cinematic achievement (it's not everybody who gets to do rental
car commercials, ya know), then the buck would be passed to Kathy Ireland,
and if he was to DENY Kathy Ireland, and NOT accept her into his heart
as his Short Duration Personal Savior (see Church of the Sub-Genius),
then we would be forced to assume that Roger Staubach is, to use the Words
of Satan Himself, a "loony."
 
For, lo, Kathy Ireland is the proud possessor of major-league garbanzos.
And lo, those very same items, those glorious _OBLATE HEMISPHERIODS_
could have SAVED the unfortunate Staubach, but HE was not offered the
opportunity to investigate these bazoomers, as his glory days, the
days that caused him to take UPON himself the mantle of FALSE PRIDE
that shall surely lead to his immolation and permament imprisonment
in a bucket of rock, were LONG AGO and FAR AWAY, probably somewhere near
BOISE, _IDAHO_ by now.
 
But WAIT! Perhaps there is YET HOPE for the ex-quarterback! If he
has the WISDOM to purchase a typewriter, nay, not just a typewriter but
a Smith-Corona, he may be able to INSCRIBE his name in the book of
life, through penance, trials, and a strip of transfer plastic! Be
glad! Retribution may PASS Roger by yet! YEA! REJOICE! BE GLAD!
 
let us make small "whoop"ing noises
 
 
VI: I Never Could Get The Hang Of Thursdays
 
 Yes! I bring unto YOU the light of spiritual SALVATION!
Hear me now, and save yourself from an ENTIRE THURSDAY of
torment and suffering! Perhaps you might save yourself from
more than just ONE Thursday of torment! Even TWO Thursdays
of pain and anguish might be avoided! And, dare I suggest it?
Dare I even HINT at this ultimate goal? No, I should not,
for this glorious end might cause certain amongst you to
LEAVE the path of righteousness in desperation that they would
NEVER attain such a state of holiness, but I shall! I shall
OFFER YOU, and at a reasonable cost, too, THE ULTIMATE GOAL
that one such as yourself might strive to! Yes, now you TOO
can dream of avoiding THREE Thursdays! Just imagine yourself,
smiling in bliss as you skip directly from the veritable PIT
of FEAR and LOATHING that IS Wednesday to the true heaven of
the week, FRIDAY! YEA! FRIDAY!
 
For lo, TODAY I take my text from Erma Bombeck, scion of the
world-famous Bombeck armaments factories (you knew there was
a reason they were called "Bombs", didn't you?), third verse,
fifth chapter, ninth hole, just ahead of the sandtrap, i'd
suggest a four-iron, Mister Trevino, wherein she said "Thank
God It's Friday."
 
Now, we modern theologians know that it is not God who should
be directly thanked for the current structure of the week, as
the weekdays are a BATTLEGROUND, a BATTLEGROUND wherein the
souls of MILLIONS and MILLIONS of REGISTERED VOTERS are fought
for by the mystical forces of Ahura-Mazda (25 percent of which
is owned by Ford) and Barry Goldwater, who, as we all know,
WOULD have nuked this planet into the STONE AGE, if it had not
been for the MOST HOLY Lyndon B.Johnson, child of the wildnerness,
and who is worshipped to this day by certain Polynesian islanders
FOR THIS DEED, but rather considered as the OWNER of the various
TEAMS who fight on the SIDE of the GOOD and the RIGHT, such as,
for instance, the Edmonton Oilers and the Buffalo Bills, and since
he IS considered to be the OWNER, nay, the GENERAL MANAGER of
the Buffalo Bills, and so the upcoming contest between the BILLS and
the Forces of Darkness (otherwise known as the New York Giants)
is therefore a battle in which the fate of the upcoming LENT
is, in the terms of modern theologians, "up for grabs."
 
But, even if the Giants triumph (see Genesis, "And there were giants
in those days," and First Kings "David 1-8   Goliath (favorite) 4-5")
YOU CAN AVOID THE TRUE HORRORS that will SOON BE APPEARING in
theaters EVERYWHERE (and especially NEAR YOU!), by sending in $19.95
to The Divine Masters Of Light and Holiness, in care of, oh, gee,
I don't know...who could be trusted with such lucre? Hmm...me? Oh,
well, nevermind. ANYWAY! YES! WHERE WERE WE? OH yes. IRREGARDLESS
of all that scheming profiteering, The Divine Masters of Light And
Holiness can help YOU! ME! THEM! THE BLOB! to overcome the BAD VIBES
generated by the GIANTS, the personification of EVIL in football,
much as GEORGE STEINBRENNER was the personification of EVIL in HOCKEY!
(the Yankees weren't playing _baseball_, were they?)
 
"How?" I hear you cry. Well, The Divine Masters of Holiness and Light
are the only beings in the universe ABLE to skip straight from SUNDAY
to FRIDAY, unlike normal beings like US, who can only miss THURSDAY,
or SENATORS, who can only avoid TUESDAYS, WEDNESDAYS, and THURSDAYS,
when CONGRESS is in session. (these vocab words WILL be on a test
THURSDAY. You can now see the benefits of giving THURSDAY a miss.)
The Holy Masters of Divinity and Light have, over the years, perfected
the WEEKEND, after long years of study and DEPRIVATION of the GOOD
THINGS IN LIFE, and now arrive fresh on Friday, to put in a good day's
work, and then leave at five! The Grand Master of Holiness, Divinity,
and Light has perfected his abilities to such an extent that he can
arrive at the office at four-fifty, only to go home at five!
 
To learn the skills of the Light Masters (not to be confused with
Dry Masters), one must be at PEACE with the universe! One must JOIN
with the COSMIC FLOW! One must be EXTREMELY RICH! Then, and only THEN
will the Masters descend from their endless volleyball game at the
Courts of Ahura-Mazda and BLESS YOU with the ENDLESS JOYS of never
seeing THURSDAY until age 65, when the offical Divine Masters IRA
opened in YOUR NAME will be released, and you will be free to enjoy
all the THURSDAYS you ever missed, except those which fell on bank
holidays!
 
Halleujah!
 
let us make small "whoop"ing noises.
 
 
VII: The First Sermon
 
(This sermon requires a bit of explanation. All lines preceded by a > were
typed in another posting, in which I replied with the following sermon.
The "Nice Guy Club" referred to herein is a mythical organization formed
of men who have been told by women "Let's just be friends...you're too
nice a guy to date." A person is retired from the Nice Guy Club when he
has, officially, Gone On A Date.)
 
>well, i am extremely happy to say that a closet member of the nice guy club
>is now officially being retired.... namely, me!
>her name is Jenny, and maybe, if you're lucky, you'll get to meet her soon
>happyhappyhappy,
>Homey da Clown
 
"taa ta taaaa....ta ta taaaaa..ta ta Ta ta ta Taa..ta ta taaaaa"
(for those of you who are tone-deaf, that's "Taps.")
 
it is now time for some inspirational words from one
of our fictional forefathers, the one, the only,
Ratliff (from the comic strip Eyebeam. If you don't know,
don't ask. i don't have the books with me.)
 
"I hereby resolve to enter into the world of _dating_!!!"
"Yes! It is time for me to go and make a woman _mine_!!!"
 
Well, maybe that wasn't very inspirational for the rest
of us, but what the hell.
 
At any rate, we are gathered here today, and tomorrow,
and quite probably for the next six days, to mourn the
loss of one of our most stalwart and courageous brothers,
a man who has, through courage, mental strength, and
quite possibly something illegal in all fifty states,
finally crossed that threshold, stepped over the line,
and swept a woman off her feet. Yea, I take my text from
the Book of Dad, who hasn't realized that I've swiped it
yet.  "'But how,' said Inspector Morse, 'did she get the
iguana out of the treehouse?'" Let us consider this
stirring line in this way: Has Homey da Clown _truly_
gotten the iguana out of the treehouse? Is he, perhaps,
the iguana itself?
 
Yea, brethren, Homey da Clown _is_ the iguana. He has
been taken from the treehouse of his niceguyhood by
a woman. A woman, who he will, in future days, surely
curse, and call down malefictions on, and refer to her
as "that wench who dumped me." It is too late for him
to use his sharp iguana teeth and bite the hand that
plucks him from his treehouse. It is too late for him
to clamber up the rough bark of the tree, because the
woman has surely, by now, gone and gotten a chainsaw,
and cut the bloody thing down. As all women will do,
aye and verily.
 
But further, consider the woman. Did she, in truth, know
what her deed would do to this poor, lost, wretched,
hairless iguana? Do you think that she will give a thought
to his safety? His well-being in a treehouseless world?
I submit to you that she will not! She will make that
iguana take her to soppy movies! And have it buy her
the occasional rose, and perhaps even a candy bar! And,
horror of horrors, have it go to terribly expensive
resturaunts, dressed in funny-looking clothes! AND HAVE
YOU SEEN AN IGUANA DRESSED IN FUNNY LOOKING CLOTHES!
Iguanas are NOT at their best in funny-looking clothes.
Give one a t-shirt, maybe a pair of loose jeans, and all
will be well in the land of the iguana. But, force that
poor reptile into a tweed sporting jacket, and look at
the result! A fashion nightmare! A sartorial disaster!
A funny-looking iguana!
 
But perhaps it is _not_ too late for the iguana to return
to the safety of its warm, comfy treehouse! For, as
the Book of Dad says: "'Obviously, she took the butler's
cummerbund and her daughter's remote-controlled submarine
and concocted a devilish device to fling the iguana through
the air to land on Sir Albert's toupee!'"
 
It is that toupee! that hell toupee! (that's a pun, son.)
That device out of the devil's mind which offers our lost
iguana his SALVATION! Homey da Clown, or Kojak, or Hair,
CAN be saved through the good work of Sir Albert's toupee!
Halleujah!
 
Let us make small "whoop"ing noises.