How to Fuck Religion

The object becomes aesthetically significant when it becomes metaphysically significant.

Joseph Campbell

Sex and eroticism are about union and joining, so ultimately religions with their heaven and hell/ saint and sinner separation are decidedly unerotic.

Life is a deceptive fucker, who is in league with Death. The Tree of Life has its roots all interwoven with the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil to the point of mystical union. We are in paradise, but not of it. We are outcasts, but in the bosom of God (very maternal image by the way). Enough mystical bullshit, my point is that the cure to religion (if one is needed) isn't surgical removal, but integration. Don't denigrate Religion -- fuck it.

Get naked in the bathtub with Religion and turn out the lights. Grab her by the hair and take her from behind and let the lukewarm water splash her cunt and clit, as you rock back and forth in the embryonic waters of baptism. Plow the flesh of the black hole cunt of Religion, until it defies physics and spews out against eternal gravity spiritual fire onto your cock and the hot liquid of religion baptizes you on the outside and the inside. Just make sure that you get all of the flesh under water to really wash away all those sins. By the Power of my manhood which I hold, I baptize my cock in the name of the Father, and of the Son and of the Hole-y Cunt of Christians. Amen.

And what Millennial Religion is complete without a Second Coming? There must not be only the baptism of water -- There must also be a baptism of blood and fire. And how do you get the Religious Cunt to bleed? You wait for her monthly savior and then baptize your cock in her blood. The fundamentalist preacher may ban the wearing of red cloth, but he cannot ban the red cock of Christ coming with the sword of his righteousness. Explore every pore of Religion as it bleeds. The blood is red. The blood is black. The moon turns red and the sun turns black. The apocalypse is sprayed across the sheets in a crucifixion of taboo, guilt and separateness. You can pound the nails into the crucified soul. You can stick the sword in and out comes water. Your prick is a thorn and you can only hope to atone, atone, atone and atone in a rythmic thumping and humping of the death grind of pelvic collision. I am In. I am Out. I Am God. I Am The Son of the Blood Red Morning of Resurrection preceding my own Second Coming.