2b or not 2b, lol

As I mentioned in a previous post, I really don’t like “The Message” by Eugene H. Peterson. I will probably type up an exhaustive list of reasons why in a subsequent post, but for now it is sufficient to say that I hold it in the same regard as I do the current History Channel (sans aliens): technically correct, but completely missing the point.

Recently, while roaming around in the local bookstore with a friend, I found that aside from the “Remix” version of “The Message,” there is a new one: the “Text” version. Now while I have a fairly curious streak, I have read “Remix” and a “Text” version elicits too many cringe worthy ideas that I could not bring myself to open it and find out if, indeed, the Sermon on the Mount now contained any ROFLs. If it had, I certainly would have thrown the volume in my had across the room and then sought out a pot of ashes I could sit in.

Regardless, I took a picture of the spine of the book and put it on Facebook asking “What does this even mean!?” I got a few responses, one asking me if this was some kind of remix of “Remix.” To wit, I responded, “I wouldn’t touch Remix with rubber gloves. Someday, I’m going to hunt down Mr. Peterson and beat him with the collective works of Shakespeare.” A few hours later, as I laid down to sleep, this came back to bite me. A thought popped into my head and I hurriedly got up, went to the computer and wrote the following.

And so, I present to you my latest satire of “The Message.”


2b or not 2b, lol,

or if Shakespeare’s Hamlet Act III Scene 1 appeared in the “The Message // Remix” version of the Bible.

By Ben Craton

Should I kill myself or not, that’s whats bugging me:
Is it better for me to sit here and suffer
All these problems that keep coming up,
Or should I stand up against them
And hope they don’t come back: Dying would be easier
There’d be no more waking up to
All this heart-ache and the pile of crap
I’ve got to put up with? I really,
Really wish I could. If I were dead, I could rest
Maybe even dream; yeah, but there’s the problem,
I mean, what is on the other side
When I’m dead makes me rethink the whole thing. There’s the respect
That makes things worse the longer I live:
Who would seriously put up with all that,
The bad guys’ evil, the boasting of some jerk,
The feeling of being rejected, the lack of justice,
The rudeness of those in charge, and the dissing
That the normal guys have to take,
When they would rather stab themselves
With rusty scissors? Who would work so hard,
To bother with such a tiring life,
Unless he was scared of what might happen after they die,
No one knows what is there, ’cause no one
Has ever come back to life, it hurts my head thinking about it,
And makes us want to keep on keeping on,
Instead of wanting to die so easily.
Basically, we’re all just a bunch of cowards,
So now the whole idea, like,
Seems idiotic, now that I think about it,
Any kind of suicidal thoughts I might have had,
After all this are just retarded,
And I will not do it. Awww,
Shit, it’s Ophelia! Girl, You gotta pray for me,
For all the sins I’ve done.


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