As I fight for the inalienable right to get turnt on a heady combo of Nerd Rope Edibles and hubris and ransack the seat of the legislative branch of the federal government, I know that I go up against the laws of man. These are flimsy constructs in opposition to the greater good I serve, but give my enemies cause to imprison me. Though they may lock up my body they can never hold my spirit, which soars beyond the confines of my cage!
While my body is held, however, it must be a respectful and generous incarceration, making allowance for my religious beliefs. My needs, as set forth by the god that is mine and mine alone, in a religious system that is mine and mine alone, follow.
First and foremost, my god requires me to acknowledge my body is a temple, and everything I put into it an offering. For me to be forced to pollute my body is a pollution of my beliefs. In keeping with this, I can only consume food that is organic, and also Hot Wings Jacked Doritos.
My god considers proximity to that which is not of the light to be base and sinful, so my god is gonna need you to make sure I’m in the white people part of jail.
My god commands that my body receive its proper rest on a pillowtop mattresses like in that pyramid we stayed at in Vegas before my boy Poochie bet he could chug a whole bottle of Fireball without puking and lost. Also those shiny sheets that make you feel all slidey are necessary for me to continue on my path of holiness.
My god is not one of fire and brimstone. My god keeps things at a steady 75 degrees, utilizing a rotational copper ceiling fan with mahogany blades and a window open to a field of lavender, its fragrance floating in on sunbeams in the current. Any deviation from this is a blasphemy that will stain my soul and you are laughing in my god’s face.
If there is no field of lavender nearby my god will make an exception if y’all can hook me up with one of them candles that smells like Gwyneth Paltrow’s pussy.
My god respects that Jesus turned water into wine but in my case is good with Crown Apple, else my throat be parched with wickedness and you strangle my god with your contempt.
My god wishes me to honor him with conjugal visits from as many deluded young women as possible and wishes you to make sure they don’t run into each other. My god will be offended if you don’t smell my finger afterwards.
My god has already released season #4 of Ozark, and honestly if this is not produced immediately it’s essentially just like you’re slapping my god in the face with your dick. Seriously don’t slap my god in the face with your dick.
My god needs my visiting hours to include a session with a tattoo artist who can make a dreamcatcher with the stars and bars inside it on my neck, and who will sign an exclusivity contract for the design because once it gets out there everybody is going to want one.
My god rejects my worship if I am in a prison jumpsuit and will only accept my prayers if I’m dressed in an outfit that’s a cross between a wolf, a twelve year old’s idea of what cool rebellious adult men wear, and a douchebag. My god says ask my mom to get it from my room.
My god dictates that during my confinement I have full outside communications to negotiate news interviews, magazine photoshoots, and television appearances. My god would really like it if I could be on CLAWS as like the sexy white dude who the women fight over, and you are pretty much breaking the stone tablets of the Commandments or whatever if you stand in the way of this.
If my god says Blue Hurricane Four Loko is organic then Blue Hurricane Four Loko is organic.
My god says Blue Hurricane Four Loko is organic.