The Cult of C-dog
That's right, bitches!!! Today is the dawning of a new era in holiness. All other religion is false. All other prophets are straight-up poindexters. For it has been written that a fat man would rise up from the ashes (a small, one-bedroom apartment near a Mexican event hall) and come forth to gather, to lead, to teach, to sex up, and to take large monetary contributions from the lowly masses. O, thou forgotten souls... thou miserable and wretched... thou chunky and ill-kempt... thou too cool for school and in need of dance lessons... your time is NOW!!!
It is I, your new Messiah!!! C-DOG!!!
Roll that name around in your mouth for a minute and say it doesn't freshen your breath... and your soul!!!
Let me tell you a little bit about how this is going to work. You might want to take notes, as there will be a quiz at orientation. Those that fail the quiz will be stripped naked and forced to fight out in the parking lot; those that pass will be welcomed into the cult and, as a reward, offered Seven Minutes in Heaven (heaven is the closet in my living room) with yours truly.
C-dog was once like any other man; a waiter, kind of a drunk, adept at spending long hours watching reruns of Roseanne and eating his considerable weight in ice cream sandwiches. One day, while out for a late-night stroll to the convenience store that illegally sells beer after midnight (as well as loosey cigarettes and foot-fetish pornography), C-dog tripped over a dropped 40oz of St. Ides malt liquor and fell over in a heap on the cold, fairly nasty asphalt. When he came to, he found an angel standing before him. Or, rather it was a tranny dressed as an angel, but it still counts as a sign because... I mean, c'mon. ANGEL! The tranny-angel said unto him, "You have fifty cents; I need to call my landlord." C-dog did in fact have upon his person fifty cents, and he gave it the hulking tranny-angel. "You a sweet thing, sugar," he/she said to C-dog, and tottered off into the steamy, Arlington night.
Oh, and as she walked away, the tranny-angel said, "You should think about starting a cult."
Thy will be done, tranny-angel... thy will be done.
The Eight Commandments of C-dog (because any more than that is getting dangerously close to some copyright infringement issues)
1. C-dog is the Way and the Light. He'd probably liketh very much a sandwich right about now. Go taketh him a sandwich.
2. Pants optional.
3. Any money or goods valued at over fifty dollars ($50) should be given as tithes to C-dog. Maybe wrap them, too. Nothing fancy, but enough to show you care.
4. Cleanliness is no longer next to Godliness. Cleanliness has been replaced by Sluttiness.
5. Don't kill anybody in the name of C-dog. Showing up at court is SUCH a hassle. (wet willies and purple nurples, however, can and should be delivered to thine enemies at will)
6. Farting is hilarious, but if it gets to be a bit ripe in here, he who dealt it must openeth a damn window.
7. Don't touch the ice cream sandwiches in the freezer marked "C-dog." Those are only for C-dog. You couldn't handle them anyway because you're not the Messiah.
8. When someone says, "Let us doeth some shots," you must... you know... doeth some shots. Happy hour is from 5pm-'til-7pm. Nickel wings and dollar drafts on Tuesdays.
-I'll be honest with you, there's been a little bit of trouble securing a compound. Apparently the Realtors won't accept a blessed bag of Funyuns as a down-payment. So, for the time being, we'll have to start the cult in my apartment. Most of you will be crashing on the floor, so bring a sleeping bag. The ones that want it the most, if you catch my drift, can sleep in the Holy Love Bed with me, C-dog. (chicks only) (maybe dudes too... we'll see how crazy the nights gets)
-Three times daily, you will eateth of the Holy Sacrament. This consists of a handful of Cheez-Its, a shot of rotgut bourbon, and a dollop of Reddi-Whip (it was on sale). All other meals are on you (there's a Taco Bueno near my place... er, near The Compound... as well as a Subway sandwich shop).
-Your waking hours will be filled with toil, for toil is the pick axe that breakeths the shackles that bind you to this Earthly life of shittiness. Mostly, your toil will involve running errands for me... mailing my Netflixes, making liquor store runs, some light vacuuming, etc. If you're not toiling, then you should be giving me a rubdown, or at least dancing in a comical manner for my amusement.
-After nightfall, we'll break out the kegs (that you bought as an offering to me) and then The Compound be a-rockin', if you get me!!! When the nightly kegger ends, that's when the sweet, sweet worshiping starts. If you catch my drift. Sex... big time sex!!! There'll be just so much sex, you'll slip on the way to the bathroom due to the amount of "worship" flung all over the damn place. It'll be a wild scene, man! And, you know, totally holy and whatnot.
How To Join
Shit, it ain't brain surgery. If you want to be a part of my cult, just shoot me an email with your name, net worth, an attached nude photo, an essay describing your love for me (C-dog), and your location. If you're holy enough, I'll send you a Google Map with directions to the compound.
Oh, and there's a membership card! Print that bitch out and then you can identify other members and... if the deal goes through... get a nice Bloomin' Onion from your local, participating Outback Steakhouse (don't try to claim said free Aussie-tizer just yet, though, as we're still in negotiations and I don't want to queer the deal):
So there you have it. The Cult of C-dog is open for business!. Come to me, those that seek the answers to the questions that hold within them nothing more than the meaning of our existence. They're most likely in my pants, so start looking there.