Prepare thyself, he who reads this, to tremble and sob before the Wonderful Words of The Lady Madonna, as written by The Blessed Virgin Mary herself!
Now listen up bubbalas, you would think that being nailed by the Omnipotent Jehovah would have been the thrill of my life. Well I’m here to tell you, not so much. Oye. Truth be told, the whole immaculate conception experience was terribly overrated.
God’s schmeckle must be puny because I didn’t feel a thing. There was no foreplay, no fondling of the breasts, no licking my loch, no divine sweet nothings whispered in my ear, no nothing. Just schtup, schtup, schtup and “see you ’round the stable, Mary.” Typical man.
God didn’t even have the common courtesy of telling me Himself that I was knocked up. He sent one of His angels, Gladys, to break the news. I was heartbroken.
A single mother indeed! I’ll tell you something else. Although I was quite the looker in those days (good skin, long brown hair, great tits), I was only 13. That’s right, God is a sexual predator. Imagine, He could have picked any woman in the world to carry His Son, and that schmoiger chooses a 13-year-old girl. That meshugeneh God has got some chutzpah!
So 8 and a half months later, there I was, full-blown and ready to plotz, when Joseph makes me schlep all the way to Bethlehem just to be counted in some fakakta census. What, they couldn’t make an exception for one pregnant girl? Oye! That Joseph, what a schmendrick he was!
So when we get there, do you think God had any of his angels call ahead to reserve us a room? Oh no, that shmageggi let me give birth to His faygala Son in some schlocky barn full of donkey dreck. Feh!
And who does he send to meet us there? These three fershtinkiners bearing worthless gifts of frankincense, myrrh, and more myrrh. Oye gevalt. And don’t believe that dreck that one of the kings brought us gelt either. Those greedy goys didn’t even bring me any water or at least something to nosh. Now that I could’ve used!
So what was supposed to be a mitzvah ended up getting all fakakta, and all because God is such a cheap schvantz-sucker. Oye gevalt! I hate that schmuck. If it’s not too much trouble, I suggest you all stop praying to him and pray to me instead. I’m a good Jewish mother, and a much better parent than God. You want some matza-ball soup? Eat! Eat! You’re skin and bones!