Friday, January 25, 2008


This time Sir Richard Branson kills us all…

Friday Sir Richard Branson will take the first test flight in his spaceplane, the White Knight 2, which by then he has convinced us is not a Klan affiliated name. He crashes. Not even from in orbit, or from a legal flight elevation. The thing barely gets off the ground, but as Sir Richard Branson plummets from near basketball goal heights, it occurs to him: he’s not a brilliant astronaut, he’s a brilliants salesman… and a little bit evil.

Branson abandons his coach-class-in-space project and devotes all his time and money into the one thing Americans want most: fat surgery. By 3 PM Friday afternoon, Branson has developed the first FDA approved medical procedure for fat people. What’s it do? It makes you not fat. Is it healthy? Who knows, it’s new. The American people are on board.

Branson is the first person to get his procedure universally approved by the FDA for everyone who is overweight, primarily because he’s the first person to ever approach the FDA with space shuttle money. By 5 PM Virgin Fat Surgery is so hot, Richard Branson has more American Dollars than China. Not only that, the Virg Surge is so popular that it has pushed our economy out of recession by providing untrained workers easier access to the healthcare field and by thrusting young, wide-eyed and wild-imaginationed liberal arts graduates with no sense of repercussion into their first marketing jobs.

By 9 AM Saturday Morning, we’ve made Sir Richard Branson our president. He’s not American, but no one really says anything, because everyone thinks he’s so cool, plus—what are we all supposed to be, experts on the constitution? The press lets it slide too, because he has such a dreamy accent, and it sells papers, most of which are owned by Branson and his cronies anyway.

President Sir Richard Branson’s first order of business is to start naming cities after himself. Not only is it a proven leadership strategy, it’s good branding too. But to keep things cost effective, he simply makes Branson, Missouri the capital of America. That way, we all just draw a little star in Missouri on our maps instead of printing new ones with the capital’s name changed. Teachers use those shiny gold and silver stars kids used to get in school—it’s been years since they’ve been able to put one on a student’s paper in good conscious anyway.

From the new White House in Branson, which was built not only to over shadow the previous White House but also Graceland, President Sir Richard Branson reads that abortion rates are down nationally. Branson immediately jumps on this marketing opportunity and holds a rally to celebrate the drop in abortion rates. You have to capitalize on every marketing opportunity, after all.

Saturday afternoon at 4PM, President Sir Richard Branson holds an America Beats Abortion Celebration Party in the front lawn of the New White House on the strip in Branson. Every good American woman who hasn’t had an abortion and their teenage daughters show up to celebrate the victory and keep on protesting abortion.

When they arrive, the teen and tween girls start to hold their stomach/uterine area. Before long, they are completely doubled over at the waist, holding their uterus. At first everyone thinks it’s an act of political and spiritual protest with the young women yelling, “Not my uterus! Not my uterus!”

You know how teen girls are, before long they’re all doin’ it. A weird trance like state comes over them all, as groupthink turns to groupaction- like people speaking in tongues, or the girls in the Crucible when they see a witch, but with the added modern fervor of a Hannah Montana concert or mall appearance.

Mothers join hands and sing out loud. “Kumbaya” seems too predictable and hippy-dippy, so it’s mostly old Tanya Tucker numbers. It’s quite moving; so many women circled together, celebrating the drop in abortion and protesting evil aborters, while hunched over, clutching their hips, singing Tanya Tucker songs. It’s a beautiful thing-- until a thin stream of blood starts running down several of the girls’ legs. A drop becomes a trickle, and a trickle, a stream. Then suddenly, all at once, a Mexican junkyard of rusty old coat hangers and vacuum parts start falling out of the teenaged girls’ vaginas like a bandito shakin’ out his sack of loot. Even a ball-peen hammer falls out of one girl.

Not only do all those girls die, everyone who saw it or even hears about it immediately falls to the floor and dies. No dinner, no dessert—just dead. It’s that nasty. But you know how teenage girls are, they keep talkin’ about it, and dyin’ off. Fortunately, most of the men aren’t listening, so they’re fine. But by 10 PM Saturday night there are only men and children left in America.

With only men left to raise the kids, families stop going to church, but they have a spiritual void that needs to be filled, and they want their kids to have some sort of faith, so they start taking them to the creationist museums with the divinosaurs. Why not? Kids love dinosaurs, kids need Jesus. Walk on water? Ride a dinosaur? Who gives a fuck? Shit’s cool.

President Sir Richard Branson’s no fool. If people are into Jesus riding a T-rex, you get behind it. You have to admit, the King of Kings riding the King of Dinosaurs is a pretty bad ass image, and an image that can move some serious merch. Not just t-shirts and dolls. You think an eagle looks good on the hood of a Camaro, think about a roaring t-rex head with snarling, bloody teeth and steam blowing out his nostrils, with a muscular Jesus on his kneck, holding the reins with just one hand ( the other’s for blessin’). Put an American flag behind it, and you can salute it, praise it, and fear it all at once, just like you should.

Branson copyrights the image then pumps it out on every t-shirt, lunch box, and automotive decal available. The image is everywhere it’s like Calvin never even pissed on Ford or Andre the Giant never had a posse.

By 9 AM Sunday morning, it’s as if the old loving, forgiving, gentle Jesus ever existed. American Christianity has been completely redefined behind President Sir Richard Branson’s marketing vision. Even the Church of Latter Day Saints R&D department could take a page out of Branson’s book. He’s that good.
Church attendance is through the roof, reaching 100%.

However, there have been some changes made at the First Church of Christ King of the Thunder Lizards. For one thing, the stained glass is a lot cooler, but there is still an equitable amount of blood. The Holy Communion has been replaced by a bucket of chicken and a six pack. Say what you will, but it puts asses in seats. Father President Sir Richard Branson preaches from his pulpit in the New Grace White House in Branson, Missouri, but is telecast with picture in picture NFL simulcast, and the season’s not over till Commissioner Father President Sir Richard Branson says it is.

America is in greater harmony than ever before, briefly. Ever since acting Surgeon General Father President Sir Richard Branson greased his own commission’s palms with his space shuttle money, their standards have faltered more than a little. Bird Flu has erupted in the developing world and made it into our poultry population.

So Sunday afternoon, shortly after receiving the first communion of our Lord Christ King of the Thunder Lizards, the entire congregation, which is everybody in the country, died of H5N1 avian flu after Popeye’s let a bad batch of legs slip into the communion fried chicken. It’s a strong strain. Even dousing a drumstick in the Blood of Christ King of the Thunder Lizards hot sauce couldn’t kill it.

Everyone in America is dead, except Sir Richard Branson, who turns tail and runs, screaming “Not me! Not me!” At this point, the aliens who have been hovering over Texas freak out. There’s no one left to worship the thunder lizards. What if these dragons rise up? So they blow up the rest of the planet as a preemptive move. By 4:22 PM EST Sunday afternoon the world has ended.

Somewhere across the universe, God chuckles, “Gettin’ closer, guys. Gettin’ closer.”

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