Tithe 10 %, But Tip 15...

The Ranch. Blaisedell Ranch. The obnoxiously-opulent conspicuously-consumptive north end of the small college town of Claremont. Mrs. G&T went to school there. Dr. B currently drills teeth there. I, however, delivered pizza there, oh so many years ago, to pay for my state college education.

The Ranch. Shopping mall-sized bungalows squeezed onto postage-stamp-sized lots. $3.5 million for a bay window view into your next door neighbor's garage. It lies along the foothills with just enough elevation to be above the smog layer on cool days.

The Ranch. It reeked of new money. Loose money. Money without class. Hillbilly money. Convenience store empire money. Professional sports money. TV money.

Oh, but not just TV. No. I'm talking Jesus TV. C'mon, you know who I'm talking about. I'm talking about JESUS TV! I'm talking TBN!!

Can I get an Amen??

Yes, they lived there. All of them. The entire cast. Paul and Jan. The faith healers. The rock singers. The Sunday preachers. All of them. Living fat on the tithes of the poor. And goddamn, did they like pizza. Lot's of pizza. Thick crust, extra cheese and loaded with toppings.

Fortunately for me, they also liked to tip well.

None, however, ordered nearly as much pizza as the Popoff household...

It started innocently enough, one Saturday afternoon lunch delivery. The name sounded familiar enough, but I didn't put it together until later.

The house was huge. Long ivory columns guarded the the expansive veranda out front. The tasteful Spanish stucco contrasted with the south-Asian fixtures and French garden. I balanced the single steaming pie with my right hand as I pushed the Call button on the security panel.

A girl came to the door, cute, with curly blond hair. She was probably a few years younger, but had a sparkling cherubic smile. She wore a half shirt with her tight tanned belly flashing beneath. The thin tight pajama pants draped deliciously down from her low back.

She was Popoff's daughter. The preachers kid.

She also, apparently, like pizza, and began to order, in relatively short-order, pizza every day. She tipped well, and was cute, so I would surreptitiously scope out the Popoff order and take it myself.

Funny thing though, and it could happen to anyone, but an every-day pizza habit can lead to unfortunate weight gain, and soon the sprightly little cherub became a lumbering Ganesha, tipping the scales and stretching those now-unfortunate PJs...

She continued to tip though, so, I kept the pies coming...

Thing is, her dad was a famous TV preacher. Famous, that is, for being a mastermind manipulator. In case you don't recall, Popoff was the one exposed for selling "blessed socks" to the faithful. That's right, for your low low cash donation to God (checks payable to Peter Popoff) he would pray over a pair of socks and send them to you via first class mail. That way, uh, you could walk around on the cushy arch-support of the Holy Spirit... or something...

Anyway...

Being a tad bit religious myself at the time, I felt conflicted about taking the money, and the generous tips, from such an evil man, but decided in the long run, "fuck it." After all, it was his sin, not mine, AND his precious Chubby little bunny was still pretty cute...

Now, all this all came back to me, just this last Sunday, after my daughter woke me up at some unholy pre-sun hour. Bleary-eyed and cranky, I wandered out to the living room whereupon I came across a host, a veritable bevvy, of Sunday morning religious broadcasts. One worse than the other. Mostly faith-healing snake handlers, but the Catholics were on too, as were the Mormons.

And there he was, bigger than life, the long-lost evangelist and worker of miracles. Peter Popoff, healing the sick, and preaching a gospel of wealth and prosperity. He was slapping the Devil out of people's foreheads and admonishing the poor to give their last dollar to God, C/O the Popoff Ministries, as always.

But now... Now!! Oh boy, he's onto something new. No more blessed socks. No miracle mittens. No Jehovah jumpsuit.

No, now, for a low low donation of at least $25, he will send you a plastic sippy-tube of miracle spring water.

Miracle Spring Water.

(Let that sink in...)

Don't believe me?

HERE LOOK FOR YOURSELF

Where this stuff used to make me blind with rage, I am now really quite impressed. The breadth and scope of his wanton depravity is a wonder to behold. I am taken aback. I am inspired. Sure, I take joy in encouraging bad behavior in others, but really, I am an insect compared to this mammoth devil.

Hmm... I'm getting kinda thirsty. I wonder whether the miracle water is cold.