Happy Blasphemy Day!

Jeezus Fucking Christ. It’s Blasphemy Day, and I totally forgot to blaspheme. I can never seem to keep track of all the blasphemous holidays. You’d think I’d promise to make a note of it so I remember next year, but come on. We all know that’s not going to happen.








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About Iris Vander Pluym

Iris Vander Pluym is an artist and activist in NYC (West Village), and an unapologetic, godless, feminist lefty. Raised to believe Nice Girls™ do not discuss politics, sex or religion, it turns out those are pretty much the only topics she ever wants to talk about.

4 thoughts on “Happy Blasphemy Day!

  1. Well, Thor fuck a duck. How can I let noncey-Mo and poncey-Jeebus down by not insulting everything about their entire non-existent existence?

    Mohammed: your beard is ugly, and you smell a bit funny. Also, I don’t like the scansion in the 14th suras. Any of them. And that nine-year-old wife thing was just sick, dude. Sick. You should seek help for that. The victim-blamey shit is going to lead to some fucking awful behaviour by your followers, Mo. You need to edit that crap out. Ask your wife about it, when she’s not too busy supporting your lazy ass.

    Yeshua bin Yusuf, you’re a bloody great hypocrite, and the religion they made where they eat you each week is creepy, as is the whole “I wear a torture device around my neck symbolically!” thing. One fashion atrocity hipsters are not responsible for: torture devices as ironic religious symbols. Turn the other cheek, unless they’re moneylenders in your holy place, in which case get your kickin’ sandals on, amirite? The meek shall inherit the earth – they thought you meant the planet, you just meant they’d get a quicker nap under a dirt blanket. “Forgive them, Father, they know not…” Like fuck they don’t. I hate to tell you, kid, but your Dad set the whole thing up. It was a frame job from the minute He “visited” (wink, wink) with your mother. If someone hadn’t fucked up trying to do prophetic calendarizing while using those idiotic Roman numerals, you’d have had your cork popped when you were 13. There was supposed to be poison in your Bar Mitzvah punch. There you’d be, “Baruch eta Pops, elohai- PLOP!” And stone dead you’d be. For a few days. That’s what he told you it would be, but it’s been 2000 years, buddy, and you’re not even rank anymore (though some of your followers are, morally at least).

    Abraham! How can I forget you, you child-murdering ratbag? Your invisible friend says, “Hey, Abe, sorry but, you need to pointlessly murder your own son. You’d do it if you loved me.” Abe, I don’t mean to make you feel bad, but you need to hear it from someone who cares: your invisible friend is an abusive fucker. He cut you off from your friends and family, got you to cut parts off your friends and family, made you kill your kid, then pretended to be the one who saved the kid. Classic abusive behaviour, Abe. You need to get out if or when you can. Maybe the Zoroastrians can give you a place to crash for a while. Take the kids, you don’t want them anywhere near this guy when he gets pissed about something. You know what I’m talking about. You know where I keep my corral of Philistine bitches, anyway, so if you need some help, just send a slave over.

    Did I miss anyone? Oh, crap, Buddha, I’m so sorry, but we’re out of time. I’ll have to blaspheme against you, and the Hindu…deity-industrial complex, I guess, next year. Unless one of you wants to get around to laying a mighty smitey on me for the post full of blasphemy? You’re all omnipotent, right? Right?

      • Glad you enjoyed. I’d felt bad because I didn’t get you anything for WBD. I promise on Joseph Smith’s Magic Underwear (may they catch fire if I lie!) that I’ll get you something twice as good for Iconoclasmas. Hereseaster at the latest.

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