HI. BEDE HERE. I’ve taken over Greg Olear’s weekly screed—we get it, dude; you don’t like Romney because he’s rich; stop talk talk talking that blah blah blah—because something really incredible happened a few weeks back that I’ve been dying to talk about. Well, not dying, because I’m already dead! I died in The Year of Our Lord 735.
That’s right, bitches. I’m Saint Bede. Monk of Jarrow, Biblical scholar, first English historian. Feast day 25th of May. Sounds pretty cool, right, having a feast day? Well, feast on this: you know how sultry pop star Ke$ha came clean about sexing a ghost? The ghost was me!
That’s right, motherfuckers! Kesh and I put the $ in $ex.
I know what you’re thinking: why, of all (dead) people, would a 25-year-old hottie choose the Venerable Bede to meet in the back with the Jack and the jukebox? And the answer is, because I reeeeally wanted to pound her like an 808 drum, and none of the other ghosties wanted to come to her.
Before you cast the first stone, please bear in mind that I missed out on all this hot-and-heavy stuff during my time on earth. Took the vow of chastity and stuck to it like glue. Didn’t even beat the bishop, if you follow. Fifty years of nocturnal emissions. Venerable Bede? More like Horny-as-Fuck Bede. Lives of the Saints? Please. I didn’t have a life!
I could do this all day, but you get the gyst.
And here on the astral plane, let me tell you, I get teased about it all the time. Like, I live in the same cloud condo as Rasputin. He positively guffaws every time he sees me. “It’s Bede the Dweeb! Thought God actually gave a crap about the sex lives of every individual on earth. What a loser!”
Because She doesn’t care. God, I mean. She’s waaaaay too busy with her fantasy football league to worry about whether Dick stuck it into Jane. Now, Jesus, he does care. Unfortunately, Jesus is not, as it turns out, the Son of God. Matter of fact, they’re not even related. So all that praying I did to him, and all that keeping my body pure for his benefit? Total waste.
Don’t get me wrong—JC is a stand-up guy. The best co-op board president we’ve ever had, and makes a mean plate of hummus. But even he cracks a smile when Larry Levenson or Messalina make their “Look, it’s the 1,338-year-old virgin” joke.
And it’s not like I can rectify the situation up here. We don’t have corporeal forms, which means ghost-on-ghost is sort of like crossing flashlight beams. No friction whatsoever. At best, it’s what you see at the planetarium laser show while they play “Sheep”. So when the opportunity came with Kesh, I hopped on it. And her.
Let me go on the record as saying, I’ve always been a big Kesha Rose Sebert fan. Killer tracks, killer videos, and there’s something about her voice that really does it for me. Plus, at the end of “Your Love Is My Drug,” when she says, “I like your beard”? Pretty sure she was talking about me. I even enjoyed her New Year’s Eve performance a few years back—performance art at its finest. Admittedly, I don’t really understand why she uses the dollar sign—is it some Ayn Rand/objectivist/Paul Ryan thing?—but hey, whatever works.
Her latest album, Warrior, which drops on December 4, is a masterpiece. And I’m not just saying that because I inspired it (“Die Young”? Sure, because she wants to see me again, duh). You should pre-order that shit right now.
Also, she’s totally fucking hot. She’s got this half naïve-little-kid, half jaded-trashy-slutbag thing going on that spins my head right round right round. I know Kesh didn’t even make the Maxim “Hot 100″ and that two-bit bimbo Katy Perry is ranked fourth, but as should be abundantly clear from the fact that a significant percentage of you earth-dwellers gets violent when other people make fun of your bullshit conceptions of God and the afterlife—it’s a YouTube clip of a shitty movie, habib! Settle down!—you the living don’t know dick from dildo. Really, you’re dopes. Seriously, folks: a ranked list of the 100 hottest females on the planet that does not have Kate Upton among the top third is a fucking joke.
(I do enjoy that list, though. If they had Maxim in 8th century Northumbria, it would have changed the course of my life. And the history of publishing. You think I would have wasted time composing my Historia ecclesiastica gentis Anglorum when I could gawk at JWOWW’s tits all day?).
But I’m getting off topic: the mind-blowing love Kesh and I made.
This is how it went down: she’s in her bed, which is this awesome four-poster deal with leopard skin sheets—real leopard skin; not just a pattern on cotton—and she’s wearing nothing but her cowboy boots and some nipple clamps (just before tackling a number of Kabbala studies of the ethereal plane, she’d read half of Fifty Shades of Grey), and she’s writhing on the bed like a bacchante, and there are these weird day-glo markings on her face, and I think maybe she’s on LSD, and she summons me. I mean, she summons me. Because what I forgot to mention—and what makes my inveterate chastity so ironic—is that Kesh would never kick me to the curb because I do, in fact, look like Mick Jagger. (And not at all like that painting on my Wiki page; un-tag me, would ya?)
You might be wondering how a ghost can achieve penetration. I’m not at liberty to divulge my trade secrets, but let’s just say that when Kesh was all, “I want you inside me,” I could give her exactly what she asked for. Plus, because I have no sense of smell, the fact that she wears cowboy boots without socks everyday didn’t bother me the way it did those shrimp-dicked ass-munches from 3OH!3.
So, yeah. It was fantastic. We went for maybe an hour and a half. We would have gone longer, but she was making so much noise that the police shut us down
police shut us down down
po po shut us
Kesh and I, we were made for each other. I am living in the ethereal world, and she is my material girl.
Now if you could do me a solid and send this along to the good people at Penthouse Forum. Another fine publication I really wished existed when I was alive.