Joke Zone!

Q: What did the boy millipede say to the girl millipede?

A: I want to hold your hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand,hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand, hand.

Eleanors

"I call this meeting of The Society of Historically Relevant Eleanors to order." Eleanor Roosevelt said, striking the gavel on the table. Eleanor of Aquitaine, Eleanor Marx, Eleanor Boardman and Eleanor Bridgewater stopped their chatting and turned to pay attention to the president of their society, whom just having been voted into that position of authority was quite enjoying the exercise of it.
"What is the first item on the agenda?" Eleanor of Aquitaine asked politely, for she was a lady and always asked things politely.
"We will discuss the petition for a new member." Eleanor Roosevelt replied.
"Yippee!"Eleanor Boardman exclaimed.
Eleanor Bridgewater looked at her crossly, because, seriously who says Yippee?
"Who is this prospective member?" Eleanor of Aquitaine asked, attempting to re-inject some manner of civility into the proceedings.
"Eleanor Rigby."
"Who?" Eleanor Marx asked.
"Eleanor Rigby, she was the star of a Beatles song." Eleanor Roosevelt said. "Her grave is very popular and there's a statue of her."
"Is that all it takes to get membership in The Society of Historically Relevant Eleanors?" Eleanor Marx asked, somewhat annoyed.
"Do you have a statue?" Eleanor Roosevelt asked sharply. Eleanor Marx sulked quietly.
"Excuse me." Eleanor Bridgewater said, somewhat timidly, for she did not often speak up at these meetings. "But Eleanor Rigby is not a real person."
"But, she has a statue." Eleanor of Aquitaine said.
"She's not real. She's just a fictional character."
"Wait a minute, who exactly are you?" Eleanor Marx asked.
"Huh?" Eleanor Bridgewater said, trying to ignore the question and hoping the others would follow suit.
They did not.
"Yes dear, tell us why you are historically relevant."
"Um, well. You see...."
"I don't think you are historically relevant. I think you're a fictional character." Eleanor Marx sneered.
There was a pause. Everyone turned and looked at Eleanor Bridgewater. She quietly got up and left. A moment after she had gone, Eleanor Roosevelt struck the gave and said, "Meeting adjourned!"


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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Eleanor'.

Work All the Time

Once there was a woman named Eleanor who worked day and night, night and day, work work work. She never had time to post coordinated content.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Eleanor'.

Coming of Age

Morvan awoke and knew everything had changed. It wasn't until he had groggily stumbled to the bathroom when he realized what it was. He looked into the mirror and realized that he had come of age. He went down to the breakfast table and tried to sulk as he had the day before, but found he could only sulk in new, wholly different way. It did not go unnoticed. The twins, who were 8, started chanting: "Morvan came of age! Morvan came of age!" Their mother, upon hearing the squealing children entered the room.
"Oh honey, that's wonderful." She said, kissing Morvan gently on the top of his head.
"What's this?" Their father said as he entered the room.
"Morvan came of age!" Their mother said, almost bursting with pride.
"Oh, well that's good I suppose." He said as he picked up a danish and cup of coffee and left the room.
Morvan finished his breakfast and gathered his things for school. His mother met him at the door.
"Have a wonderful day at school honey! Oh, I'm just so proud of you." She hugged him with all her strength.
Morvan didn't want to go to school, he really wanted to go to a bar. He thought that it was the most appropriate thing to do seeing as how he had come of age. Unfortuantely, he found that the bars were closed, it being eight in the morning. So he'd have to go to school until noon anyways. Then he would go to the bar.

****

Noon couldn't come fast enough, he was jittery all through his classes. When that time finally came he was out of there faster than a jet. The first bar he found was called The Runaway, and Morvan felt as though that name was symbolic and appropriate, so he chose that bar. It was dank and smoky. This song was playing on the jukebox. There were only a few people there, sipping half heartedly at their mid-day ales. The bartender noticed Morvan enter, but didn't seem to care. Either that or her knew that he had come of age. Morvan sat at the bar, the bartender gave him a beer. Morvan sat for a few moments reflecting somewhat melencholically about what it meant to have come of age. His didn't really know.
'What the fuck are you doing here?"
Morvan was stirred from his reverie by the questions, voiced rather harshly as it was. He turned around. It was his friend Isaac, whom everyone called Isaac the Wolf.
"Huh." Morvan said, trying to sip his beer nonchalantly and failing to, as it was a mediocre brew.
"What're you doing here? Shouldn't you be in school or some shit?" Isaac said, sitting on the stool beside him.
"I guess." Morvan replied. "I came of age."
"Just right now?"
"No, this morning. Maybe last night."
"Oh, cool. Wanna get high?"
"Sure.'

****

Moments later they were standing in the alleyway with Yulia Yemkova, Isaac's girlfriend, waiting for Johnny the Fox to come with the pot they were going to smoke. Morvan kept asking questions about smoking pot and how to do it, and if it would make him crazy.
"Vaht is vith ze boy?" Yulia Yemkova asked.
"Don't mind him, he just came of age." Isaac the Wolf replied. This seemed to satisfy her. They heard the sound of a raven, it was Isaac's phone. Johnny the Fox was at The Runaway beacuase that's where he thought they were going to meet.
"Fuck!" Issac the Wolf said as he hung up the phone. They trudged back to The Runaway and met Johnny the Fox.
After exchanging pleasentries they found out that Johnny didn't bring the pot because he thought Yulia had it. Isaac called him a stupid fuck because Yulia never had the pot. They decided to get drunk instead. Isaac put this song on the jukebox
After four beers, Morvan was feeling wobbly. He went to the bathroom and when he returned he saw that his father was sitting at the table with his friends.
"Hey Morvan." His dad said when he returned to the table. "I was just talking to your friends. They're pretty cool."
"You're pretty cool Mr. B." Johnny said. He high fived Morvan's dad.
Morvan didn't really feel mortified, like he would have yesterday. No, he had come of age, so he could only feel bemusement, which he attributed in some part to the beer.
"Well we should probably head home Morvan."
They said their goodbyes to Johnny, Isaac and Yulia and left.
On the ride home they were silent, until Morvan's father turned to him and said "Y'know Morvan the same thing happened to me when I came of age. It's perfectly normal."
"I know Dad." Morvan replied.
"Ok, good." They remained silent for the rest of the ride home.


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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Metamorphosis'.

Works Every Time

Saint Starosta was a young Christian woman, forced by her father to marry a pagan. She prayed for deliverance, and God blessed her with a beard to free her from the marriage, which it did when the paganish fiance crucified her. Saint Starosta is the patron saint of unhappily married women.
***

Stella was not attracted to the young man, Jake, who laughed at her weak joke (she herself forgot the joke within three minutes) at the party neither of them seemed to be enjoying. But he asked if she liked the same things that he liked (he did bother to dress it up; he didn't say, "Do you like the same things that I like;" he said, "Do you like Watchmen? The comic book." She said, "Yes.") She knew that he was going to ask out, and she knew that she didn't want to and that she would say yes.
She dressed carefully for the date although she didn't know why she bothered. Perhaps it showed a fundamental respect for this young man as a person (she was considering his feelings, right?) or perhaps it was a sign of nothing but a basic respect for keeping up appearances. She was dreading the awkwardness, the painful silences as Jake realized that there was nothing between them. Or worse, he wouldn't realize, and she would have to feel awkward for both of them. But it would end. It couldn't be more than a few hours. Unless he asked her on a second date. And she accepted. Why would she accept? Stella didn't know. What a stupid girl, she was. How could Jake like her? How could she dare to reject him when clearly he was far better than she deserved. What if he asked her on a third date? And she said yes. And then they slept together. And she said it was great. And they moved in and had a pregnancy scare and it turned out to be nothing and they got engaged and married and had three kids.
And then she was hit by a taxi.
It didn't hit her hard. It bumped up against her knees like a rambunctious puppy. She woke up in the hospital. Her legs seemed to be balancing a hot fire poker on them, and her head seemed to be rattling around like a dry pea inside the balloon of her headache. Her face itched. She put her hand up to scratch it, and it scratched her hand.
A man said, "You've had an accident."
"I know," said Stella. She'd gathered this man was a doctor, but he didn't seem very helpful.
"You've a small degree of brain damage."
"Oh dear."
"Yes."
"It's made you grow a beard."
"What?"
"It's made you grow a beard."
"Oh."
"You see," the doctor explained. Stella thought she heard him squeaking a marker across a white board in fervent explanation, but she'd closed her eyes to better locate her head inside the headache. "In fact, at all times all people have a beard waiting to grow as quickly as possible. But the lambascar region of the frontal cortex functions as an inhibitor. 'No, no, no, don't grow, no, no,' it says (for woman). For men, it just says, 'No, no, slow down, don't grow so fast, no, no."
"So it's like your conscience," said Stella.
"You could say that. If you had issues."
Stella thought that she did have issues.
"So I'm going to have to shave now?"
"Oh no. Your lambascar region has entirely ceased to function. The beard will grow back within minutes."
"Oh. What time is it?"
"6:27."
"Oh dear. I was supposed to meet my date at 6:00."
"Well, you'd better hurry then."
Stella hurried to the restaurant, where Jake was still waiting politely.
He'd gotten a table, drunk three glasses of promptly refilled water, and eaten half a roll. He was now plucking crumbs from the roll and dabbing them across the tablecloth.
"I'm so sorry," said Stella. "I was bumped by a taxi and got brain damage, which made me grow a bread."
"That's okay," said Jake.
In fact, Jake wasn't too keen on the beard. It made him realize that he really didn't like this girl so much. It sat on her face like a little creature, saying, "You don't have anything to talk about." But he'd asked her out on a date, and she'd been kind enough to accept, and he couldn't leave just because she got brain damage and grew a beard.
They ordered. They ate. It was awkward. At one point, they were forced to cannibalize their neighbor's conversation and discuss the relative merits of income versus sales tax. "So do you like taxes?" Jake asked. "Which are your favorite?"
"I guess it's only fair I pay my share. I don't have a favorite."
At one point, they concocted a false history of chopsticks. But they didn't enjoy it. Like people in love would.
They finished eating, but dinner didn't end. Finally, Jake had to crucify Stella. "So I guess you'll have a early morning," he said as he pounded in the nails. "Sorry," he said, "Does that hurt?"
"Oh no, that's fine," she said. She didn't even want to go on the date in the first place.
"I guess I'll call you."
"That's okay."
They might have had a second date but certainly not a third.
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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Metamorphosis'.

Stegosaurus

"I would sup with a triceratops, I would sup with an ankylosaur, I would even sup with a goddamn raptor! BUT, I would never sup with a fucking stegosaurus!

A Tale of Poverty

Stanislaw Wolovski always remembered that day. It was early in the morning, cold still clung to the air, fog wreathed the mountains. Stanislaw breathed in, the peaceful cold of morning mist tickling his lungs. Yes, there could be no better time, the simplicity of this morning was perfect. Slanislaw gripped his hunting rifle, his ears seeking the sound of any wildlife. He moved slowly, stops tentative, not wanting to disturb anything. He head a sickening snap and felt an unbearable pain in his foot and ankle. He looked down and saw that a bear trap had ensnared his foot.
"Fuck!" He yelled.
The bear trap remained attached to his ankle. Stanislaw got used to it, it just became a dull ache that he pushed to the back of his mind. One night after the awkward fumblings of attempted intimacy, his wife suggested that he see a doctor about getting it removed. Stanislaw went in the next day for a consultation. The doctor advised Stanislaw that it would be a simple operation to have the bear trap removed. Stanislaw had no health insurance. This is why we need socialized medicine.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Poverty'.

More or Less Breakfast Chatting

2: I can't believe that you're pouring milk and corn syrup on your cereal when children are starving.
1: I can't believe that you're pouring ethanol gasoline into your gas tank when children are starving.
2: I don't pour ethanol gasoline into my gas tank.
1: Well, you shouldn't. Children are starving.
2: I know. We say that they're starving, but really they're starving.
Pause
1: Why'd we take this so political?
2: I don't know. I just felt like taking it political this time.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Poverty'.

Some Prosperity

This party was much that same as other parties of its ilk; thought Paul as he surveyed the room, drink in hand, looking for a place to sit. These parties, always commemorating an occasion, demarking our days until we die, then throw another party. It was New Year's Eve. Another year was ending. Another calender would be thrown away. Paul spotted an attractive woman sitting alone on the couch. He didn't recognize her. Perhaps she didn't fall into the intersection of the Venn Diagram that composed their respective circles of friendship. He decided he would make her acquaintance. She had ample bosoms. He longed to fuck her.
"I bid you a prosperous New Year." He said to her.
"It must be so." She said. Paul couldn't tell if she was forlorn or drunk. He was historically bad a telling those two apart. There was a pause, which Paul took as an invitation to sit beside her on the couch.
They talked for an hour or so, though the stilted nature of their conversation (which consisted of his questions and her one syllable answers) made it feel as though it had been two, perhaps even three hours. Still, Paul felt as though things would end well between himself and this stoic woman. He leaned over and whispered an invitation into her ear.

****

Hours later, they arrived at his apartment. He asked for her name. She replied that it was "Nebula". He had never bedded a woman with such an odd name. They both disrobed.
"There's something I must tell you, before we engage in intercourse." Nebula said.
Paul was a bit perplexed at her clinical language. He would have preferred "make love" or the more colloquial "fuck". But he told her to continue.
"I didn't lie to you when I said my name is Nebula. That is the best approximation for it using this cumbersome tongue. I did lie when I told you I was human."
"You didn't tell me you were human." Paul replied.
"Yes, but there is the tacit acknowledgment that we are both human."
"So you're not human?" Paul asked, somewhat disappointed.
"I'm afraid not, I am from the Chrrrox planet in the Ghraszenti Pesudo-cluster. It is a star that is much to far for it's light to reach the earth. You see, many years ago, all the men on out planet died. We found only three planets in the universe where we could adequately reproduce with their inhabitants. By the time we had reached the other two, they had killed each other off."
Paul, who was familiar with this trope, knew what was coming next.
"So we need you to help us repopulate our planet."
Visions of a non-stop interstellar fuckfest with comely aliens flashed through Paul's mind. He was abruptly stirred from these fantasies when Nebula handed him a small container.
"Please fill this with your semen. We will ensure you have a very prosperous new year."
"But...." Paul stammered.
"I'm sorry Paul, but we do not engage in intercourse to reproduce. We have advanced technology. Our genitals are vestigal."
Paul sighed, but obliged the alien by filling the container with his semen. The next day he found that seven million dollars had been deposited in his bank account. He also fucked the bank teller when she got off work. As he was doing so, he said:"Thank you Nebula".


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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Prosperity'.

Breakfast Chat

A la Chiltingham, this dialogue features 1 and 2

1: You know what you don't hear much about anymore, a land flowing with milk and honey. You hear about milk. I have milk on my cereal all the time--but not so much about honey.
2: I guess since sugar cane became a cash crop, originally thanks to the global disgrace of slave labor,it's been the preferred sweetener.
1: Oh.
2: Although, really it's all about the high-fructose corn syrup now.
1: Land flowing with milk and corn syrup. I'm going to put milk and corn syrup on my cereal.
2: Don't.
1: I'm going to.

2: How is it?
1: Eh.
2: Are you going to eat it?
1: I'm not going to throw out a perfectly good bowl of cereal flowing with milk and corn syrup. In this economy.
2: No.

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This post is an installment in a continuing series of content coordinated by theme or motif with posts from Enoch Allred of Chiltingham, John Allred of clol Town, Jon Fairbanks of Funkadelic Freestylings of Another Sort, Eli Z. McCormick and Miriam Allred of Modern Revelation!, John D. Moore of Whatnot Studios, Joseph Schlegel of Sour Mayonnaise, Sven Patrick Svensson of Sadness? Euphoria?, William C. Stewart of Chide, Chode, Chidden, and WiL Whitlark of The Real McJesus. This week's theme: 'Prosperity'.