i hate bullshit like this. my parents forward me things like this in vain attempts to "open my eyes" to the sickly world of god and jesus and other fictional characters. read it if you want. does anyone else have this problem? jesus is creepy, no man should love another man so much. god has no place within these walls.

THE ROOM

17-year-old Brian Moore had only a short
time to write something for a class. The subject was
what Heaven was like. "I wowed 'em," he later told
his father, Bruce. "It's a killer. It's the best
thing I ever wrote." It also was the last.

Brian's parents had forgotten about the essay when a
cousin found it while cleaning out the teenager's
locker atTeary Valley High School. Brian had been
dead only hours, but his parents desperately wanted
every piece of his life near them-notes from
classmates and teachers, his homework.

Only two months before, he had handwritten the essay
about encountering Jesus in a file room full of
cards detailing every moment of the teen's life. But
it was only after Brian's death that Beth and Bruce
Moore realized that their son had described his view
of heaven. "It makes such an impact that people want
to share it. You feel like you are there." Mr. Moore
said.

Brian Moore died May 27, 1997, the day after
Memorial Day. He was driving home from a friend's
house when his car went off Bulen-Pierce Road in
Pickaway County and struck a utility pole. He
emerged from the wreck unharmed but stepped on a
downed power line and was electrocuted.

The Moores framed a copy of Brian's essay and hung
it among the family portraits in the living room. "I
think God used him to make a point. I think we were
meant to find it and make something out of it," Mrs.
Moore said of the essay. She and her husband want to
share their son's vision of life after death. "I'm
happy for Brian. I know he's in heaven. I know I'll
see him. "

Brian's Essay: The Room...

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I
found myself in the room. There were no
distinguishing features except for the one wall
covered with small index card files. They were like
the ones in libraries that list titles by author or
subject in alphabetical order. But these files,
which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly
endless in either direction, had very different
headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the
first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls
I have liked." I opened it and began flipping
through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to
realize that I recognized the names written on each
one. And then without being told, I knew exactly
where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude
catalog system for my life. He re were written the
actions of my every moment, big and small, in a
detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder
and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within
me as I began randomly opening files and exploring
their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories;
others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I
would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was
watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked
"Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from
the mundane to the outright weird "Books I Have
Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given,"
"Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some were almost
hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at
my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I
Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered
Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be
surprised by the contents

Often there were many more cards than I expected.
Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by
the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it
be possible that I had the time in my years to fill
each of these thousands or even millions of cards?
But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written
in my own handwriting. Each signed with my
signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have
watched", I realized the files grew to contain their
contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet
after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of
the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the
quality of shows but more by the vast wasted time I
knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts, " I
felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file
out only an inch, not willing to test its size and
drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed
content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been
recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One
thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see
these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have
to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file
out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it
and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and
began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge
a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a
card, only to find it as strong as steel when I
tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file
to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I
let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.. The title was "People I Have
Shared the Gos pel With." The handle was brighter
than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled
on its handle and a small box not more than three
inches long fell into my hands. I could count the
cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so
deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and
shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I
cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of
it all.. The rows of file shelves swirled in my
tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of
this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But
then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Jesus.
I watched helplessly as He began to open the files
and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His
response. And in the moments I could bring myself to
look at His face, I s aw a sorrow deeper than my own.

He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why
did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and
looked at me from across the room. He looked at me
with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that
didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face
with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over
and put His arm around me. He could have said so
many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried
with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.
Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file
and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on
each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I
could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card
from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But
there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so
alive. The name of Jesus covered mine. It was
written with His blood. He gently took the card
back. He smiled a sad smi le and began to sign the
cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did
it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I
heard Him close the last file and walk back to my
side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is
finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the
room. There was no lock on its door. There were
still cards to be written.

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens
me."-Phil. 4:13 "For God so loved the world that He
gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him
shall not perish but have eternal life." If you feel
the same way forward it to as many people as you can
so the love of Jesus will touch their lives also. My
"People I shared the gospel with" file just got
bigger, how abo ut yours?

IF THERE IS ONE EMAIL THAT I HAVE READ THAT NEEDS TO
GO AROUND THE WORLD, IT IS THIS ONE, PLEASE PASS
THIS TO EVERYONE YOU KNOW, CHRISTIAN OR NOT! "LET'S
FILL OUR OWN FILE CARD" AND MAY GOD BLESS YOU ALL!


You don't have to share this with anybody, no one
will know whether you did or not, but you will know
and so will He.

May God Bless You This Day~ ~ ~

and heed the warning, HE WILL KNOW!!!

I skimmed that and you are an asshole for making me skim it.
I'm writing that shit on your card.

i skimmed it and the funny part was the electrocution.

That sounds like something my mom would get sentimental over.
I hate that fucking guilt trip that Christains put on people.

thats exactly it. i denounced religion 12 years ago but they still send me this crap all the time. i dont feel guilty, it makes my stomach turn. it just seems so wrong.

my parents never send me stupid shit like that. they accept the fact that i don't follow christianity. also, i don't think they have my email address.

THERE'S AN INVISIBLE MAN IN THE SKY THAT SEES EVERYTHING YOU DO! AND HE HAS A LIST OF TEN THINGS HE DOES NOT WANT YOU TO DO!

There, I just jazzed up this loser's essay by replacing the word "Jesus" with "The Fonz" and "card" with "dead kid"...


Brian's Essay: The Room...

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I
found myself in the room. There were no
distinguishing features except for the one wall
covered with small dead kids. They were like
the ones in libraries that list titles by author or
subject in alphabetical order. But these files,
which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly
endless in either direction, had very different
headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the
first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls
I have liked." I opened it and began flipping
through the dead kids. I quickly shut it, shocked to
realize that I recognized the names written on each
one. And then without being told, I knew exactly
where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude
catalog system for my life. He re were written the
actions of my every moment, big and small, in a
detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder
and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within
me as I began randomly opening files and exploring
their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories;
others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I
would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was
watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked
"Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from
the mundane to the outright weird "Books I Have
Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given,"
"Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some were almost
hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at
my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I
Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered
Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be
surprised by the contents

Often there were many more dead kids than I expected.
Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by
the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it
be possible that I had the time in my years to fill
each of these thousands or even millions of dead kids?
But each dead kid confirmed this truth. Each was written
in my own handwriting. Each signed with my
signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have
watched", I realized the files grew to contain their
contents. The dead kids were packed tightly, and yet
after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of
the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the
quality of shows but more by the vast wasted time I
knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts, " I
felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file
out only an inch, not willing to test its size and
drew out a dead kid. I shuddered at its detailed
content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been
recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One
thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see
these dead kids! No one must ever see this room! I have
to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file
out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it
and burn the dead kids. But as I took it at one end and
began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge
a single dead kid. I became desperate and pulled out a
dead kid, only to find it as strong as steel when I
tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file
to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I
let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.. The title was "People I Have
Shared the Gos pel With." The handle was brighter
than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled
on its handle and a small box not more than three
inches long fell into my hands. I could count the
dead kids it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so
deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and
shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I
cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of
it all.. The rows of file shelves swirled in my
tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of
this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But
then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but The Fonz.
I watched helplessly as He began to open the files
and read the dead kids. I couldn't bear to watch His
response. And in the moments I could bring myself to
look at His face, I s aw a sorrow deeper than my own.

He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why
did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and
looked at me from across the room. He looked at me
with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that
didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face
with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over
and put His arm around me. He could have said so
many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried
with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.
Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file
and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on
each dead kid. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I
could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the dead kid
from Him. His name shouldn't be on these dead kids. But
there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so
alive. The name of The Fonz covered mine. It was
written with His blood. He gently took the dead kid
back. He smiled a sad smi le and began to sign the
dead kids. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did
it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I
heard Him close the last file and walk back to my
side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is
finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the
room. There was no lock on its door. There were
still dead kids to be written.

"I can do all things through Christ who strengthens
me."-Phil. 4:13 "For God so loved the world that He
gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him
shall not perish but have eternal life." If you feel
the same way forward it to as many people as you can
so the love of The Fonz will touch their lives also. My
"People I shared the gospel with" file just got
bigger, how abo ut yours?

"And then Jesus and I found a file cabinet marked 'Masterbation Fantasies'. It was 5 stories tall, and dripping wet with what looked to be spent motor oil. Jesus yanked open the first rusty drawer and pulled out a card. He grimaced at the fist card, raised a curious eyebrow at the second card before shaking it off, and by the 5th card he had to sit down and ask for a glass of ginger ale."

I made a re-write of my own:

In that place between wakefulness and dreams, I
found myself in the room. There were no
distinguishing features except for the one wall
covered with small index card files. They were like
the ones in libraries that list titles by author or
subject in alphabetical order. But these files,
which stretched from floor to ceiling and seemingly
endless in either direction, had very different
headings. As I drew near the wall of files, the
first to catch my attention was one that read "Girls
I have liked." I opened it and began flipping
through the cards. I quickly shut it, shocked to
realize that I recognized the names written on each
one. And then without being told, I knew exactly
where I was.

This lifeless room with its small files was a crude
catalog system for my life. He re were written the
actions of my every moment, big and small, in a
detail my memory couldn't match. A sense of wonder
and curiosity, coupled with horror, stirred within
me as I began randomly opening files and exploring
their content. Some brought joy and sweet memories;
others a sense of shame and regret so intense that I
would look over my shoulder to see if anyone was
watching.

A file named "Friends" was next to one marked
"Friends I have betrayed." The titles ranged from
the mundane to the outright weird "Books I Have
Read," "Lies I Have Told," "Comfort I have Given,"
"Jokes I Have Laughed at." Some were almost
hilarious in their exactness: "Things I've yelled at
my brothers." Others I couldn't laugh at: "Things I
Have Done in My Anger", "Things I Have Muttered
Under My Breath at My Parents." I never ceased to be
surprised by the contents

Often there were many more cards than I expected.
Sometimes fewer than I hoped. I was overwhelmed by
the sheer volume of the life I had lived. Could it
be possible that I had the time in my years to fill
each of these thousands or even millions of cards?
But each card confirmed this truth. Each was written
in my own handwriting. Each signed with my
signature.

When I pulled out the file marked "TV Shows I have
watched", I realized the files grew to contain their
contents. The cards were packed tightly, and yet
after two or three yards, I hadn't found the end of
the file. I shut it, shamed, not so much by the
quality of shows but more by the vast wasted time I
knew that file represented.

When I came to a file marked "Lustful Thoughts, " I
felt a chill run through my body. I pulled the file
out only an inch, not willing to test its size and
drew out a card. I shuddered at its detailed
content.

I felt sick to think that such a moment had been
recorded. An almost animal rage broke on me. One
thought dominated my mind: No one must ever see
these cards! No one must ever see this room! I have
to destroy them!" In insane frenzy I yanked the file
out. Its size didn't matter now. I had to empty it
and burn the cards. But as I took it at one end and
began pounding it on the floor, I could not dislodge
a single card. I became desperate and pulled out a
card, only to find it as strong as steel when I
tried to tear it.

Defeated and utterly helpless, I returned the file
to its slot. Leaning my forehead against the wall, I
let out a long, self-pitying sigh.

And then I saw it.. The title was "People I Have
Shared the Gos pel With." The handle was brighter
than those around it, newer, almost unused. I pulled
on its handle and a small box not more than three
inches long fell into my hands. I could count the
cards it contained on one hand.

And then the tears came. I began to weep. Sobs so
deep that they hurt. They started in my stomach and
shook through me. I fell on my knees and cried. I
cried out of shame, from the overwhelming shame of
it all.. The rows of file shelves swirled in my
tear-filled eyes. No one must ever, ever know of
this room. I must lock it up and hide the key. But
then as I pushed away the tears, I saw Him.

No, please not Him. Not here. Oh, anyone but Marty Janetty.
I watched helplessly as He began to open the files
and read the cards. I couldn't bear to watch His
response. And in the moments I could bring myself to
look at His face, I s aw a sorrow deeper than my own.

He seemed to intuitively go to the worst boxes. Why
did He have to read every one? Finally He turned and
looked at me from across the room. He looked at me
with pity in His eyes. But this was a pity that
didn't anger me. I dropped my head, covered my face
with my hands and began to cry again. He walked over
and put His arm around me. He could have said so
many things. But He didn't say a word. He just cried
with me.

Then He got up and walked back to the wall of files.
Starting at one end of the room, He took out a file
and, one by one, began to sign His name over mine on
each card. "No!" I shouted rushing to Him. All I
could find to say was "No, no," as I pulled the card
from Him. His name shouldn't be on these cards. But
there it was, written in red so rich, so dark, so
alive. The name of Marty Janetty covered mine. It was
written with His blood. He gently took the card
back. He smiled a sad smi le and began to sign the
cards. I don't think I'll ever understand how He did
it so quickly, but the next instant it seemed I
heard Him close the last file and walk back to my
side.

He placed His hand on my shoulder and said, "It is
finished." I stood up, and He led me out of the
room. There was no lock on its door. There were
still cards to be written.

"I can do all things through Marty Janetty who strengthens
me."-Shawn Michaels. 4:13 "For God so loved the world that He
gave His only son, that whoever believes in Him
shall not perish but have eternal life." If you feel
the same way forward it to as many people as you can
so the love of Marty Janetty will touch their lives also. My
"People I shared the gospel with" file just got
bigger, how abo ut yours?

xmikex said:

dude that is fucking hilarious.

HAHA an hour after I posted that the night tech at my work came down with a sudden "illness" and left meaning I have to stay till 9:30 tonight.

The Lord works in mysterious ways. And most of them involve cheapshots at me.

Glory be to the Rockers.

gay

xmikex said:

it was a sad day when marty was thrown through brutus' glass window

i love my parents for supporting my lack of religion/worship, especially my dad who would prefer to mow the lawn than go to church. that's saying something.

i love menstrual sweatpants disco even more for his version of the story.

and i love xmikex the most for helping me to realize that marty janetty is jesus. let ted debiase be with you.

tHIS MADE MY NIGHT ABSOULTLY FUCKING HILLARIOUS, i LIKE THAT "GOD" CARED SO MUCH ABOUT HIM tHAT HE HAD TO KILL HIM

MarkFuckingRichards said:

my dad used to refer to the tabernacle as the "holy microwave" IN CHURCH during the communion ceremony, and do nothing but make fun of the mass. it would always piss off my mom.

My dad always enjoys a good pedophile priest joke.

xmikex said:

hahahahaha! your dad is the greatest man to ever walk this earth. when my sister was like 3 or 4 years old, whenever she was in a church she'd disrupt the mass by dancing in front of the priest. kinda fucking creepy.