Join Virgin Monk Boy on a spiritually satirical journey through golden toilets, missing documents, and the gospel according to Pam Bondi.Warning: contains blessed heresy, divine sarcasm, and just enough truth to make everyone uncomfortable.
The line between satire and scripture has always been dangerously thin—just ask the authors of Revelation… or whoever writes Marjorie Taylor Greene’s press releases.
Yes, this scroll is satire. Yes, it might be genius. And yes, somewhere in a Facebook comment thread, it’s probably already been cited as “proof” that Trump was martyred by librarians.
Blessed be the brains that still detect irony in the age of AI apostles and algorithmic gospels.
That’s a terrific article, dear friend. Oh my, so many things in there. And sadly, so much truth. At this point, if people still believe that Trump and Party have anyone’s best interests at heart but their own….but why go into it? Thanks, VMB. 🙏
You speak with the weariness of a prophet who’s already shouted into too many whirlwinds. Why go into it, indeed? Preaching to the converted just echoes back as exhaustion.
At this point, believing the Trumpian priesthood serves anyone but themselves is like thinking Judas was just trying to help with crowd control.
So we write parables. We plant satire like mustard seeds in scorched soil, hoping maybe—just maybe—someone will wake up in the shade of what blooms.
And Lo, there cometh a prophet, sharp of wit and blessed with coffee and he smote the Orange One with words as heavy as hammers and as piercing as steak knives and the righteous rejoiced and laughed and waited for his next words like a pensioner for the Daily Mail*.
An English reference, the Daily Mail, required reading for the old, bigoted and hostile, allegedly you can be refused a place in Conservative heaven if you miss just one publication.
Truly, your words arrive like cinnamon incense in a bingo hall—unexpected, delightful, and possibly illegal in several parishes of Essex. I nearly spilled my sanctified espresso when I read “as piercing as steak knives.” That’s biblical weaponry right there. Gospel of Ruthless Clarity, Chapter W.T.F.
And your Daily Mail footnote? Canon-worthy. I hear even St. Peter checks your subscription status at the Pearly Brexit Gates.
May your scrolls remain sharp, your satire sanctified, and your coffee forever caffeinated.
To win thy heart is no small thing. That’s rarer than a televangelist refunding a tithe.
May your 💜 stay wild, your discernment sharp, and your memes well-aimed. The monastery of madness hereby grants you honorary robes of sass and sanctity.
If wit is the incense, then you just lit the whole sanctuary.
“Pure genius” is dangerously close to heresy in some corners of the internet, but luckily, this monastery runs on satire and side-eyes from saints. So thank you, sacred scrawler, for catching the rhythm and riding the roast.
May your joy be everywhere, your nonsense detector finely tuned, and your inbox forever free of messianic spam.
You had me at mellifluous. That’s not just a compliment—it’s a blessing in iambic pentameter.
“Parable-ic” is now canon in the Virgin Monk Boy lexicon, right next to “scroll-worthy” and “gospel-adjacent.” Whether parabolic like a sacred arc or just a holy boomerang aimed at golden calves, I receive your words with an exaggerated bow and a sip of sanctified espresso.
May your tongue stay silver, your spirit ungovernable, and your adjectives divinely mischievous.
When three exclamation marks arrive, I know the Spirit has moved.
Thank you for laughing at the sacred absurdity. That emoji? That’s the official seal of the Monastery of Madness—right next to the rubber chicken and the flaming scroll of inconvenient truth.
May your days be excellent, your grin irreverent, and your inbox free of vanishing files.
Your words volley like a sacred serve from the Divine Court of Satire! If Virgin Monk Boy is Jokovic, then hypocrisy is the tennis ball—and honey, we’re playing advantage Magdalene.
“Wondrous in our eyes” feels suspiciously Psalm-adjacent… which means you’ve just smuggled praise into the realm of holy mischief. Well played, saint of the scrolls.
May your backhand stay blessed and your humor forehanded.
I must proclaim this writing is satire or pure genius.
Though I feareth, that there are those, lame of brain, who will proclaim it as their gospel of truth.
Rian, thou art not wrong.
The line between satire and scripture has always been dangerously thin—just ask the authors of Revelation… or whoever writes Marjorie Taylor Greene’s press releases.
Yes, this scroll is satire. Yes, it might be genius. And yes, somewhere in a Facebook comment thread, it’s probably already been cited as “proof” that Trump was martyred by librarians.
Blessed be the brains that still detect irony in the age of AI apostles and algorithmic gospels.
Amen. And thank God for those who discern the truths therein.
That’s a terrific article, dear friend. Oh my, so many things in there. And sadly, so much truth. At this point, if people still believe that Trump and Party have anyone’s best interests at heart but their own….but why go into it? Thanks, VMB. 🙏
You speak with the weariness of a prophet who’s already shouted into too many whirlwinds. Why go into it, indeed? Preaching to the converted just echoes back as exhaustion.
At this point, believing the Trumpian priesthood serves anyone but themselves is like thinking Judas was just trying to help with crowd control.
So we write parables. We plant satire like mustard seeds in scorched soil, hoping maybe—just maybe—someone will wake up in the shade of what blooms.
Grateful for your eyes on the scroll, always.
And Lo, there cometh a prophet, sharp of wit and blessed with coffee and he smote the Orange One with words as heavy as hammers and as piercing as steak knives and the righteous rejoiced and laughed and waited for his next words like a pensioner for the Daily Mail*.
An English reference, the Daily Mail, required reading for the old, bigoted and hostile, allegedly you can be refused a place in Conservative heaven if you miss just one publication.
Steve, thou art a bard of the blessed burn.
Truly, your words arrive like cinnamon incense in a bingo hall—unexpected, delightful, and possibly illegal in several parishes of Essex. I nearly spilled my sanctified espresso when I read “as piercing as steak knives.” That’s biblical weaponry right there. Gospel of Ruthless Clarity, Chapter W.T.F.
And your Daily Mail footnote? Canon-worthy. I hear even St. Peter checks your subscription status at the Pearly Brexit Gates.
May your scrolls remain sharp, your satire sanctified, and your coffee forever caffeinated.
Thank you, witty wise one; you won my heart.💜
Could you make it a muu-muu? I’m older than dirt and unduly fond of creature comforts 😁.
Ah, Carol—sweet sage of the comment scrolls—
To win thy heart is no small thing. That’s rarer than a televangelist refunding a tithe.
May your 💜 stay wild, your discernment sharp, and your memes well-aimed. The monastery of madness hereby grants you honorary robes of sass and sanctity.
Stay holy. Stay cheeky. Stay inconvenient.
Cannot meditate my way out of that circular file.
Some files are so cursed not even Buddha on a backup drive could retrieve them.
But fear not. Even the most enlightened beings have shouted “Ctrl+Z!” into the void. Sometimes the path is the paper jam.
You don’t need to meditate your way out. Just laugh your way through. Laughter breaks loops faster than silence ever could.
Blessed be the corrupted files and the saints who stop trying to debug them.
Your wit is pure genius. Thank you, again, BVM!
If wit is the incense, then you just lit the whole sanctuary.
“Pure genius” is dangerously close to heresy in some corners of the internet, but luckily, this monastery runs on satire and side-eyes from saints. So thank you, sacred scrawler, for catching the rhythm and riding the roast.
May your joy be everywhere, your nonsense detector finely tuned, and your inbox forever free of messianic spam.
Mellifluous. Parable-ic (parabolic?). Epic. And true.
You had me at mellifluous. That’s not just a compliment—it’s a blessing in iambic pentameter.
“Parable-ic” is now canon in the Virgin Monk Boy lexicon, right next to “scroll-worthy” and “gospel-adjacent.” Whether parabolic like a sacred arc or just a holy boomerang aimed at golden calves, I receive your words with an exaggerated bow and a sip of sanctified espresso.
May your tongue stay silver, your spirit ungovernable, and your adjectives divinely mischievous.
Amen.
Excellent!! Thank You!!! 🤣
When three exclamation marks arrive, I know the Spirit has moved.
Thank you for laughing at the sacred absurdity. That emoji? That’s the official seal of the Monastery of Madness—right next to the rubber chicken and the flaming scroll of inconvenient truth.
May your days be excellent, your grin irreverent, and your inbox free of vanishing files.
Dispatches from the Doomsday Temple of Delusion
You just named the next gospel, darling. Dispatches from the Doomsday Temple of Delusion belongs on a scroll carried by a rogue angel in combat boots.
Honestly, I might embroider it on the Virgin Monk Boy battle flag—right beneath “Blessed are the disillusioned, for they’ve seen the group chat.”
May your dispatches stay sharp, your satire stay sacred, and your inner temple remain delightfully unhinged.
Your words volley like a sacred serve from the Divine Court of Satire! If Virgin Monk Boy is Jokovic, then hypocrisy is the tennis ball—and honey, we’re playing advantage Magdalene.
“Wondrous in our eyes” feels suspiciously Psalm-adjacent… which means you’ve just smuggled praise into the realm of holy mischief. Well played, saint of the scrolls.
May your backhand stay blessed and your humor forehanded.