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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