I Don't Have To Tell You...

...who this man is. If I did, I wouldn't waste my time doing so. He's an icon and you should already know.

I have no feelings about the man one way or the other. I've never watched one of his crusades. But I don't watch anything religious. I appreciate his piousness and belief in the baby Jesus, but I think that any attempt to conjure up notions of pearly gates and the like are mystery's that are better left to the individaul. I believe in God, but probably nowhere near like this man does. But, neither he nor I will know until the end of our days. His will come sooner than mine, maybe. I could go tomorrow if fate would have it. I wish there were a way we could communicate the end result and call out "ABORT, ABORT" if his thoughts were proven to be misguided.

But this is not my point. This man is a revered icon. He guided presidents, met with other world leaders and all in his desire to proselytize his belief. Seems like a noble life to my ass. But there's a bruhaha brewing. His eldest son wants to bury he and his Mom in some sort of barn in my old home town of Charlotte. And it has a talking cow situated right inside the door.

Now, I have no idea what to think of this, other than it has to be monetarily motivated. Which doesn't surprise me. These Christian motherfuckers always have a way of making it about money. Which is exactly what the baby Jesus railed against. And which is why I don't subscribe to any particular religion. It's between God and me. And guys, you have my ass cremated and plant my Urn on your mantle. I'd rather be with you than with the money grubbing asshats in a heaven with pearly gates. My gates would be made of empty beer cans and women's underwear, but that's just me.