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The Mark of the Beets:A Testimonial by Peter "Premillennial" Preheim |
It was during a typical family Sunday dinner that I first
realized my son was Satan Incarnate. From his slices of bread the
toddler always pulled off and refused to eat the crusts.
Indulgent parental love blinded my eyes to this plain proof that
he was the Anticrust.
But finally the (non-alcoholic) Spirit opened my eyes. My
precious, insidious three-year-old was playing with the end tines
of his fork when his elbow knocked over the open jar of pickled
beets. Beet juice soaked the tablecloth like a valley flowing
with blood. As my wife wiped beet juice from my son's forehead
and hands, I saw the Sign. Three beets had landed in a row in
front of his plate, and the spray of the juice gave the
tablecloth three red curved tails: 666, the Mark of the Beets.
Behold, my blind eyes were opened. Horrified, I exorcized my
son's demon with a crucifix made by tying two butter knives
together with a noodle. Thank God, it worked for my son soon
giggled, grabbed one of his crusts, and began eating it.
But there was no time to celebrate, for I knew the apocalypse was
coming. I ordered my family into the basement with all the canned
goods we could find. From the closet I grabbed my assault rifle,
and from the bookshelf I grabbed my well-worn copies of The
End-Times Encyclopedia of Eschatology from Alpha to Omega and
The Complete Consummated Works of Hal Lindsey.
I was desperately barricading the outside kitchen door by pushing
the refrigerator against it when the Rupture came . . . and my
wife drove me to the hospital for my emergency hernia operation.
Nevertheless, I am firmly convinced that God in his almighty
mercy was with me in my battle with the Evil One. God's victory
in my kitchen postponed Armageddon in order that his chosen ones
will have more time to prepare.
So dear Brothers and Sisters, leave the lid on the jar and don't
serve the beets.
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