I forget where I came across this “letter” to Jan but it’s absolutely wonderful, well-written and totally hilarious! — RSG
God works in mysterious ways, but there’s no mystery that Jan Crouch
is way hot.
“Let her be as the loving hind and pleasant roe; let her breasts
satisfy thee at all times; and be thou ravished always with her love.”
– Prov. 5:19, King James Bible
Throughout the course of my life, I’ve had fleeting passes with the
four-letter word: Love. More often though, I’ve found the words Lust,
Fuck, Rash, Baby, and Kill, Kill, Kill more applicable to the affairs
of my heart and loins.
I lived with my first girlfriend for two years because she had a
killer rack and was willing to work three jobs while I sat at home and
played Freecell. My second long-term lady-friend stopped speaking to
me after I shit in her bed, blamed it on her, and then stole $50 from
her nightstand. Pity — she had an outstandingly accommodating
sphincter muscle. More recently, while finger-fiddling a chubby young
damsel on the couch, I was appalled to discover that her velvety
innards felt like they were lined with bubble wrap – probably some
heinous venereal disease that arrived on these shores attached to the
ass of a middle-management advertising exec who stuck his dick in the
wrong Bangkok tranny. (Not that there’s a right Bangkok tranny, but
it’s late, and my mind is moving slowly.) After massaging her open
sores for a few minutes, I concluded that her vagina was ribbed for MY
pleasure, double-bagged Captain Stifflewood, and rocked her world for
a full ninety seconds.
Why do I mention these incidents? Damned if I know — like I said,
it’s late. Maybe they’re good examples of how little I know of true
love; I blow bubbles in the shallow end of the emotional pool.
But that’s all changed now, and I have a very special woman to thank
for it: the beautiful, the vivacious, the pious Jan Crouch, famed
co-founder of the Trinity Broadcasting Network, multi-millionaire, and
heir apparent to the painted legacy of Tammy Faye Bakker.
The story of my love-at-first-sight relationship with Jan Crouch is
hardly the fodder for a Meg Ryan romantic comedy, mostly because she
doesn’t know I exist; or not consciously anyway. My passion for Jan
radiates from deep within my soulless being, crosses the country on
transmission waves O’ love, and is received by her tumbling pompadour
of unnaturally colored hair. No man-appointed committee like the FCC
can regulate transmissions of the heart – only the Lord Our God and
possibly Clear Channel holds sway over this spectrum.
Seriously, I love her. Don’t think for a minute that this is just
another sarcastic, witless attempt to shock and amuse the readers of
this forum. This past Saturday alone I masturbated on four separate
occasions to the beguiling beauty of Mrs. Crouch as she bleated
hymnals on her nationally-broadcast evangelical show, Praise the Lord.
And these weren’t your typical jerk-off sessions, mind you – the
masturbatory pastiches of porn imagery combined with that one hot
chick you once fucked and your best friend’s wife – no sir,
unzip-to-unload I thought of nothing but sweet, sweet Jan. Jan in bra
and panties slinking across my bedroom reciting the Lord’s Prayer. Jan
whispering “Jesus loves the little children,” in my ear as she tickles
my balls with one hand and spit-polishes my copper penny with the
other. Jan with her legs wrapped around my head, wriggling
uncontrollably with the Holy Spirit.
Merciful God, I’m barely containing myself right now.
Granted, I don’t know what to do about her husband, Paul Crouch. He
seems like an upstanding fellow, what with all the money he raises for
such hallowed Christian causes like GOP pocket lining, moral
crusading, and $5 million estates in Newport Beach, but he stands
between destiny and me, and, therefore, must be dealt with. Perhaps I
could appeal to Benny Hinn to lay his healing touch upon my rich blue
balls – or better yet, appeal to the Scientology nutbags to send a
Level III Fire-Breathing Thetan of Europa, with 15 endurance points
and 32 strength, to dispatch of Mr. Crouch violently in the night.
They could give his bones to the Scientology Kids Club and make
macaroni portraits of L. Ron Hubbard with his vertebrae for all I
care, as long as it removes him from the path to my precious Jan.
It’s obvious that I don’t know where this will lead – obstacles exist,
and our stars are crossed many times over, but I believe it is God’s
Will for Jan Crouch to be Jan Munoz one day, even though the name
rings like a bad Star Wars character’s. Fuck, I’ll change my name to
whatever she likes, even Paul Crouch II if it will seal the delicious
Jan, you’re probably busy two-way messaging Jesus right now, but I
pray that one of your followers has strayed far enough from the flock
to be reading this right now, and passes my sentiments on to you: God
wants us to get nasty, Jan. Really nasty.
And who are we to defy God?