• I can gobble down mammoth amounts of prescription dope, take anesthesia to go nite nite, bleach my skin in an attempt to change races, wear more lipstick, blush and eye liner than Gloria Swanson did on set, publicly lie about everything from my facelifts, to nose jobs, to pedophilia, to fathering white children and hundreds of other things which only a mind gone amok can spew.
• And, upon my expiration from a lethal drug cocktail from hell, I can plan to Billie Jean through the pearly gates, electric slide up to St. Peter and expect Pedro to unlatch heaven’s velvet rope and usher me to God’s right hand just because I sold millions of records?
That’s the message the Jackson oglers are putting out to us cattle. Yep, these theological wizards are telling us to live however we want and never repent, do the most inane, grotesque, immoral junk imaginable, stuff our carne full of psychotropic drugs, and upon death, if we entertained dumb butts, we’ll get to spend eternity in heaven where we can eat ice cream with Jesus. Behold; salvation via moonwalking.
Yes, the goofy goobers will put you into their imaginary heaven, with a make-believe Messiah who winks at impenitent whack jobs and applauds style instead of substance, charisma instead of character and doles out eternal life on the basis of how people made us feel versus the personal exercise of faith in the finished work of Christ’s sacrifice on Calvary.
Isn’t that sweet?
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