(Legal Disclaimer; nothing written here applies to Benny Hinn)
Those selfless, poverty stricken little bast……ions of watertight moral integrity whose theistic circuses jet around the world distributing pious fraudulency and heavenly sleight-of-hand to those less fortunate, or confused, in return for a few shekels here, and entire bequeathed estates there.
During my life I have overheard many people say that I too am a real little bastion, or something very similar, so I have also decided to follow this hallowed calling.
GOF's own crusade of healing is about to hit the road.
My qualifications are impeccable on three levels;
1. Genetic Inheritance; Aloysius, the great-uncle of one of my second
cousins was a water diviner who, on at least one occasion, actually
discovered underground water using nothing more than two short
lengths of 8 gauge fencing wire, one held in each hand. His career
was sadly nipped in the bud when, soon afterwards, he thought he
had discovered a subterranean equivalent of the Amazon River,
and in all the excitement he poked both of his eyeballs out.
2. Training; At Agricultural College we found out during evenings of
utter boredom how to hypnotise chickens.
3. Personal Grooming; I bought a white suit to reflect my purity of
thought and saintly intentions. Gerald, the nice man who owns
the hair salon gave me the correct mix of hydrogen peroxide and
conditioner to make my flowing silver locks refract the stage lights
into a personal halo of holiness.
Last week, just to check that I still "had it", I performed two healing miracles.
Our incontinent dog was instantly cured midstream when the healing jolt of ecclesiastical energy from my hand was so powerful that it made him fall off the tractor seat he was sharing with me at the time.
Then the very next day, Mrs GOF, sitting in a highback chair was complaining of a sore hip, when, quite unexpectedly for her, the full mystical power of my palm was applied squarely to the centre of her forehead. Following this single act of loving compassion and healing, I have heard no more about this painful infirmity.
Today I am just standing-by waiting for a fistful of divine recharge, together with some scriptural instructions on how to cure her new whiplash injuries.
The Town Halls of Australia have been hired.
Special parking signs have already been prepared.
Pastor GOF's Ministry of Miracles is born, and, as God suggested to me last Tuesday, it will be travelling in a luxury Winnebago.
Before setting out I guess I should firstly pray for redemption for Australia's recently appointed Minister for Sin.
(What a complicated web of blogging confusion one doth weave)