Followers of Me, The Gospel of Bob

I expect a little more from My followers than the typical blogger. You must comply to My wishes or I will delete you. No exceptions!

The Ten Requirements

1. You must pray to Me 21 times a day. Twenty-one was Roberto Clemente's uniform number. It is holy to Me and now it is holy to you.

2. You must face Me when you pray. Assume I'm in the nearest bar.

3. You will not worship a golden rendering of Arianna Huffington or any of her body parts. You will not visit her blog more than once a day.

4. You must laugh at My jokes no matter how lame. You must leave a comment now and then. All comments will include exclamation marks. :)s are optional.

5. Tithing is required. I demand 10% over the Mormon going rate. Use My PayPal account.

6. You will allow Me to covet your wife, girlfriend or Golden Lab. If you are a wife, girlfriend or Golden Lab, you must allow Me to ogle you and rub your belly.

7. You shall not commit adultery unless you take pictures and send them to Me.

8. The firstborn of a donkey you shall redeem with a lamb, or if you will not redeem it you shall break its neck. All the firstborn of your sons you shall redeem at Shoprite during double coupon week.

9. No Amorites, Canaanites, Hittites, Perizzites, Hivites, Jebusites or Yankee fans.

10. If you meet Me in person and I say, "Walk this way." You must follow with, "If I could walk that way, I wouldn't need the talcum powder." No ad-libbing. If you follow with, "Talk this way," I will punch you in the face, unless you're Steven Tyler. If you are Steven Tyler, I will force you to watch Me make out with your daughter.

Have a Melonosky day!

Excerpt from: Not Just One of the Flock

She smelled him first. The earthy, musky odor of sheep and honest sweat. Far from repulsive, it was intoxicating and stirred long forgotten desires buried deep in the moist, dark cave of her psyche. His bare chest pressed against her back as his massive arms enveloped her. Two large callused and sinewy hands, brown from the sun or maybe, brown from his forbidden heredity, Italian, Spanish, or, Katie shivered at the thought, Hebrew, covered her delicate, heavenly white hands.

It was too much for her, she stopped twisting the knots of fresh sheep-milk mozarella and fainted in his arms.

She awoke in a hayloft to the the Passion of her Christ! She looked at him. His long, brown hair was in desperate need of a trim. I'll have to make him an appointment with Phillipe when I get back to the city. His rugged face, beyond beautiful, included an arresting angelic glow, however, Jesus was sporting a poser goatee and a five day growth of stubble that was a little too Colin Farrell for her sophisticated tastes. A razor and some shaving cream would make short work of that embarassment. No need to wait for the city for that! But then he smiled at her and she stopped thinking. A buzzing began deep in her loins. A buzzing she had not felt in years. A buzzing like a hive of bees was pressed against her engorged labia.