Here he is, the perfect churchman.
For two years now, the approximate length of our existence, The Daily Cherub has received countless emails, letters, telegrams, telegraphs, screaming clowns, open-heart surgeries, and murders — all vigorously proclaiming that we need to invent the perfect churchman. They have been harsh, sometimes threatening.
“Lest you build the perfect churchman, Cherubs, be assured that your credibility will always be in question,” one dirty old coot sent to us via carrier wolverine last winter. “Your existence is pointless otherwise.”
Ouch.
“Either build the perfect churchman for my Baptist Church or I will have you put in a wooden crate and strewn down a mountain,” some turd named Brangus brashly sung to us at the local Memorial Day parade.
Finally, Kyle J. Howard yelped real loud and squeaky from a podium near our large, beautiful, totally non-fake offices last month: “Ya’ either build the perfect robot churchman for my delicately formed, racially diverse church or I’ll ingest an excessive amount of sodium this month, resulting in increased blood pressure because it holds excess fluid in my body, and that creates an added burden on the heart. Too much sodium will increase my risk of stroke, heart failure, osteoporosis, stomach cancer and kidney disease.”
Well, we heard the complaints, and here he is.
His name is Crenchinald and he thinks a lot about whether the toilets are clean enough. He will not really talk about the carpet stains in the foyer, and is very diligent to place his money into the offering plate, though it is not real money at all and likely tainted with a cocaine-like substance.
Crenchinald always keeps his candle lit during the Christmas Eve service — sometimes too lit, in fact– and when he speaks, his coffee breath isn’t power enough to make you question your salvation. He is polite to the elderly and rude to the teens, and made mostly of metal.
Our favorite Crenchinald features are his terrific sense of smell, his knowledge of both essential and non-essential oils, and his hair and teeth. He stays wide-awake during most sermons and is run on 60-ish gallons of gasoline every Sunday.
Do not cross him, and maintain a strong handshake with him or he will become the Alpha of the congregation and take over the whole shebang.
Purchase him in the gift shop for sixty easy payments $8,995.99 and we’ll throw in some cool old shoes we found underneath our totally real offices.
You’re welcome.
