I've Got Enough Followers to Start My Own Megachurch
I've Got Enough Followers to Start My Own Megachurch
Sunday Mornings are Gonna be Fucking Lit
The assassination attempts against Donald Trump over the past two months have proven one thing: The MAGA cult has gone off the deep end. If his supporters are posting pictures of angels saving one of the most corrupt, horrible people ever to walk the planet, then they’ll believe in ANYTHING.
Including me and my new megachurch. Get your wallets ready, let’s do this shit.“Dear-lay, Bahloved. We are gathered here today to get through this thing called, ‘Life’.”
*Let’s Go Crazy by Prince starts blasting through the sound system in the 30,000-seat Spaghetti Bowl, home of Provencio Family Ministries. There’s a party going on up in this bitch. Praise be.
The congregation is going wild. They start doing the wave. The green, white, and red beachballs have been dropped from the ceiling, creating a Hungry-Hungry Hippos-esque rambunctious scene among parishioners in this house of The Lord. But wait, shit’s about to get REAL.
As Prince fades into nothingness, the entrance song is cued. Bring on the Rick Derringer song:
“I am a real American… Fight for the rights of every man… I am a real American. Fight for what’s right. FIGHT FOR YOUR LIFE!”
I strut from the back of the building to the front of the stage, wrapped in green, white, and red feathered boas around my Armani suit. Oakley shades cover these gorgeous baby blues.
I have to keep them covered, it would be sinful for all of the ladies and a fair amount of the dudes to be lusting after their favorite Italian pastor. The hair is flowing in the simulated, created wind. Suck it, Fabio.
I high-five my fans while twirling down the main aisle, throwing a few flexes toward each section of my megachurch, located deep in the heart of Texas. A couple of wind-up gestures while cupping my hand to my ear whips the crowd into a frenzy. I learned my showmanship from THE BEST, ever.
From Jesus? What? Hell no. From Hulk Hogan. I’ve studied his moves, and mannerisms, and have most of his lingo down, all the way to the Prayers, the Training, and the Vitamins.
People in this great state of Texas love that fake rasslin’ crap. Gotta give the people what they want, every Sunday morning. Praise be.
As I’m whipping the crowd into a lather, the retractable roof is opening. I jump onto the stage with both feet stomping out the Devil, raise both arms toward Heaven, reach from behind my pulpit, grab my weapon against Satan, and show it off to my flock. Cheers erupt louder than you can imagine.
My Bible? Hell no, are you kidding? No way. My AR-15. I blast some red-hot firepower toward the open roof of our Texas megachurch conveniently located in the middle of nowhere.
“PRAISE THE LORD AND PASS THE AMMUNITION, Brothers and Sisters! Who loves Jesus and firepower? Who’s ready to fill the Devil full of American-made hollow point bullets and send him back to HELLLLLLLLLLL? Can I get an AMEN? WOOOOOOOOO!”
The crowd goes wild. They love their pastor. And their God. And their guns. They want an experience every Sunday morning. They want ME, with a side of eternal salvation.
They want to feel part of a thing. Something huge. Something holy. Something Texan. Something that fires up to 400 rounds per minute, with a bump stock modification.
They eat this shit up like communion wafers every first Sunday of the month. Except that those taste like ass. We switched to Olive Garden breadsticks a couple of years back. Having an Italian-themed church has its perks.
How did this whirlwind of fame, glamour, glitz, preaching, and the promise of eternity in paradise for your cover charge/tithe of $60 (better than buying Trump’s stupid faux leather bible) every Sunday come to be? Very carefully. This was plotted and planned with systematic planning and discretion, like a televangelist and 23-year-old church secretary’s roll in the hay.
I am the son of a preacher man. After being raised in church three times a week until I reached the age of reason, I tapped out. I could no longer stand the hypocrisy and all of the missed messages the Lord’s followers seemed unable to comprehend. This was too much for a man of my character to accept.
As the years went by, I saw more and more how these megachurches rose to glory. I visited a few out of sheer morbid curiosity. I saw the types of people who attended them weekly. My poor eyes.
So many seemed to be looking for hope. Salvation. And a place to feel good about dumping 10% or more of their hard-earned income per week. This piqued my interest. If they’re bent on giving away one out of every ten dollars they earn, it might as well go to me.
I had been building a following as a popular writer for several years at this point. People loved the writing. I mean, who could blame them? It’s the shit.
People seemed to appreciate my kind-hearted, accepting approach to life, and my love for marginalized groups of people. They had a feeling that I was a friend to all good human beings on Planet Earth. Oh yes, that’s the image I portrayed. All while hating Donald Trump.
I figured I’d see if anyone would dip a toe in, and then later, fully commit to being baptized in the moist waters of their favorite Substack writer, Pastor Pro. Sure enough, the people went nuts for it. “Where do I sign up?”
Right here, on my paycheck. I couldn’t wait to get this idea off the ground and get started. Writing about being a good human being, a family man full of love and hope for our horribly lost world doesn’t pay nearly as much as owning and operating a megachurch. Let’s get this bitch started.
I figured that this wasn’t going to be easy. I had a feeling that most of my loyal followers here on Substack would never fall for my bait-and-switch. I’d have to appeal to the lowest common denominator of people I could find. A move to rural Texas was inevitable.
Before putting this plan into action, I had to find my congregation. After building a sizeable following over the years, it was time to shift gears and preach my message of prosperity to my new congregation of followers. I needed to start blogging to the people who lived on the wrong side of the Mason-Dixon Line.
The sign-up process for Truth Social was far easier and more basic than I could have ever imagined. I didn’t even have to read and agree to a set of terms and conditions. I just had to choose from a number of pictures that best represented my personal beliefs.
American flag, check. LGBTQ flag, nope. Confederate Flag, check. Biden 2024, HAHA, nice try. Let’s Go Brandon flag, check. Fuck Your Feelings, Trump 2024, check. And I’m in.
Not that I actually believe in any of those ignorant, bigoted flags and the messages behind them. I can’t stand any of those things or the morons who fly them from their jacked-up trucks. But being nice doesn’t pay nearly as well as being a Deplorable.
It’s time for Pastor Pro to preach his prosperity message to the poor, unfortunate souls whose God didn’t bless them with enough brains not to follow my ruse. Jesus loves me more than these fuckwits. Time to prove it.
Gaining a massive following on Truth Social and a couple of other websites like it was far easier than building the following on Substack during the years prior. These people just eat this shit up. Like the heart attack burgers they love at Hardee’s.
I’d get ten times or more claps and reaffirming comments on my Right-Wing, Pro-GOP worshipping, Trump-loving posts. The money started pouring in faster than the racist and bigoted comments on my social media posts and articles. I started going viral on most of them. Whereas I had been earning a paid SS subscriber once or twice a week, I had MAGA dummies donating cans of Skoal to my posts by the thousands.
They loved the messages I was preaching and were quick to want to donate to the construction of the Spaghetti Bowl. I told them we’d all finally meet once our doors opened and they couldn’t wait. Everybody wanted a piece of my shit and wanted to see this for themselves.
When I asked them to share the Gospel of Pastor Pro, they mashed as hard as they could on that “Share” button. My posts received almost as much action as Jimmy Swaggart did from prostitutes in the late 80s. But without the clap.
The money started pouring in. I set the GoFundMe record for donations and was also making tons of money from my articles on various writing platforms, catering to the ‘Murica/God/Guns crowd. It was time for the construction of The Spaghetti Bowl, this pastor had to feed his flock.
It was spectacular. The retractable roof was a hell of an idea so that the weekly Sunday morning theatrics and bullets could literally go through the roof. We designed the ground level of the S.B. to also have a retractable floor, with a dirt surface for monster truck events. Suck it, Joel Osteen, you Martin Short-looking bitch.
Our target demographic, we learned through market research and study, seemed to have an affinity for big wheels, large engines, and lots of horsepower. We had enough donation money left over to purchase two of the biggest sons of bitches you’ve ever seen, as far as monster trucks go.
We had the first vehicle wrapped with Jesus on the hood, and Bible verses all around it. The second was with fire, flames, and Satan’s ugly mug on it. They do battle every Sunday, and you know who always wins. It’s set up, like that fake wrasslin’. Sorry if you thought it was real.
We kept this little detail on the down low until our grand opening. Can you imagine what the 30,000 megachurch attendees sounded like on that first Sunday? My entrance into the arena, guns blazing, and the monster truck rally between the worship portion of the service and the sermon? It was incredible.
The beer and wine sales from that first service were off the chain. Surprised? Don’t be. Liquor licenses are NOT that hard to get when you’re a man of my vision and stature.
I reminded the congregation that Jesus once turned water into wine at the wedding of Cana. And that the Lord created all things on earth, including grapes and hops. Most parishioners were eager to support our beverage sales after hearing that.
I mean, c’mon. What’s the biggest knock against church, typically? Racism and bigotry? Try again. Sexism? Eh. No Dipshit, it’s that it’s BORING.
I remember that from sitting through three of my old man’s sermons every week. Now imagine having a decent beer or wine buzz going during those sleep-inducing sermons. Can I get an “Amen” and a “WHAZZZZZZAAAAA?”
Again, this is why I wanted MY church to be different. To be an experience. To be as entertaining as a Garth Brooks concert. We’re actually in negotiations for him to lead our worship service every Sunday, can you say “GAMECHANGER”? And the thunder will roll.
Well, I have to run. I need to write my next Truth Social article, get it posted across all my social media platforms, finish this Sunday’s prosperity sermon, and shop for a much larger safe for my hidden, fireproof panic room. The old one is full of cashola, already. Tax-free, of course
It’s been nice catching up with you guys. I so miss the intelligent, caring, followers I had on Substack. I’ll do better to keep in touch. But I have to focus on where the money is. That one’s going to be in the new book of the bible I’m authoring: The Gospel of Provencio.
I need to focus on saving all of these Texan souls. Being a spiritual leader has been a lifelong dream of mine, dating back to far as when I learned how much that Franklin Graham prick was making fleecing his congregation out of millions every year. And if Trump is raising campaign funds because MAGA believes that angels are now protecting him, I can certainly get a piece of that action.
So come visit us down in Texas. Bring the wife and kids, learn some gospel, and stay for the monster trucks and guns. The VIP meet-and-greet with Garth will only be $249.99. Don’t believe in Trump, just believe in me.
© 2024 Provencio Family Ministries. All rights to your cash reserved.
It looks like they made his fingers longer.
All I ask is that the collection plate will have had a chance to go by all the other parishioners first before it gets to me.