Perhaps God had been merely biding his time between the pages of McGregor’s musty copy of Bunreacht na hÉireann, emerging genie-like only after he finally wiped the cobwebs off it the day he found out how an Irish president is elected and the limited powers of the office. That painful discovery could have caused him to take the Lord’s name repeatedly, an incantation capable of calling forth the highest power, especially if the person roaring is desperately trying to sing a redemption song for the astonishingly credulous American media.
Maybe a very modern Jesus was loitering in the DMs of Azealia Banks. Hoping to bring back those who strayed from his flock, the digital deity skulked among the unsolicited nudes that the Dubliner sent the rapper, including the offertory gift shot of him weightlifting with his penis. Whatever you do to the least of my appendages, that you do unto me.
It’s not beyond the bounds that McGregor came across devotional graffiti somewhere. Like on the walls of the bathroom stall at the Miami Heat’s Kesaya Center where his encounter with a 49-year-old Wall Street executive after Game 4 of the 2023 NBA Finals remains the subject of a civil lawsuit alleging sexual battery. Presumably, Florida courts will be impressed by the defendant finding religion in the meantime. They can’t possibly think his timely conversion is about profits not prophets, more to do with carefully scripted UFC comebacks rather than holy scripture.
Justifiably famous for turning water into wine, the King of Kings might, for his next trick, make McGregor’s Forged Irish Stout not taste like pigswill. A miracle worth all the Hallelujahs. Or at least he might persuade off-licences and supermarkets that removed it from their shelves following Nikita Hand’s immense bravery to start stocking cans again. Sure, the owner may have been found guilty in a civil trial, answered no comment to over 100 questions from Gardaí, and launched a frivolous, fruitless appeal. But, crucially, that was all before he found God, conveniently located somewhere between the penthouse of the Beacon Hotel, the steps of the High Court and the octagon being built on the South Lawn of the White House.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.
Maybe a very modern Jesus was loitering in the DMs of Azealia Banks. Hoping to bring back those who strayed from his flock, the digital deity skulked among the unsolicited nudes that the Dubliner sent the rapper, including the offertory gift shot of him weightlifting with his penis. Whatever you do to the least of my appendages, that you do unto me.
It’s not beyond the bounds that McGregor came across devotional graffiti somewhere. Like on the walls of the bathroom stall at the Miami Heat’s Kesaya Center where his encounter with a 49-year-old Wall Street executive after Game 4 of the 2023 NBA Finals remains the subject of a civil lawsuit alleging sexual battery. Presumably, Florida courts will be impressed by the defendant finding religion in the meantime. They can’t possibly think his timely conversion is about profits not prophets, more to do with carefully scripted UFC comebacks rather than holy scripture.
Justifiably famous for turning water into wine, the King of Kings might, for his next trick, make McGregor’s Forged Irish Stout not taste like pigswill. A miracle worth all the Hallelujahs. Or at least he might persuade off-licences and supermarkets that removed it from their shelves following Nikita Hand’s immense bravery to start stocking cans again. Sure, the owner may have been found guilty in a civil trial, answered no comment to over 100 questions from Gardaí, and launched a frivolous, fruitless appeal. But, crucially, that was all before he found God, conveniently located somewhere between the penthouse of the Beacon Hotel, the steps of the High Court and the octagon being built on the South Lawn of the White House.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.
