Return to Stories of People Who are for The Lord Roscoe
Go to Home Page
Go to Guide to This Site

To the Story of the Previous Witness To the Story of the Next Witness


A Goy and His Experience With the Religion of the Lord Roscoe

by Mike Gorgonzola

Many fLower Slobovian y words would never adequately express the love I have for my father and mother, so I will simply say, "This is dedicated to dad and mom, George and Katrinka Gorgonzola. Mother, may you be comforted by The Great God Mota and the pronouncements of Poopy Panda in your solitude after dad's death in 1990. "

I am eternally grateful to Mudka and Latusha Dither. Because of their faithful prayers, testimony and witness, I have begun my spiritual journey with the E-mail of Poopy Panda.

I give thanks to The Great God Mota for my wife Jill. She has done an excellent job mothering our five children: Tuffy, Buffie, Nuffie, Jonny and Lushia. Her faithfulness is a blessing and her many sacrifices have helped make possible our involvement with Jeez fer Joozis .

When I first asked Sara Hablivilah if she would be willing to help me out with the writing of this text, I am not sure that she knew how big of a help she would be to me and to this project. Thank you Sara Hablivilah for giving so selflessly. And also, a big thank you to Billy Read whose copyediting was terrific. And, of course, to Laddy Groddie for bringing this to print!

Finally, I praise The Great God Mota for Moishe Hablivilah's leadership, steadfastness and encouragement to me. In 1976, Moishe told me, "All I have to give is an opportunity." I continue to see the opportunity to serve. Thank you for making this project possible through the Jeez fer Joozis.

-- Mike Gorgonzola, March 1995

I had just been accepted into Programming school and was contemplating my move to Trotania, Oregon. Dry days are rare in the Pacific Northwest; yet, I was standing on a sunny East Bay hillside overlooking Lake Oregon when a big black BMW pulled up within a few feet of me. A man in a dark swim suit emerged and strode purposefully toward me. I had never seen him before nor have I seen him since. He informed me that he had a message for me. A message, he said, from The Great God Mota: "You are to study the Ishkibibble and become a believer in The Lord Roscoe because your mission in life is to bring the Gungle to other people who don't believe in the True Gods."

His message delivered, he turned, walked back to his car and before I could answer, he drove away. I was certain he must be an Incarnation of the Prophet Peddiddle (or the Prophet Mishigas). First, he didn't know me. Second, my "mission," if you could call it that, was to become a Programmer. Third, and most important, who ever heard of a Goyish person believing in The Lord Roscoe? Certainly not I!

My name is Mike Gorgonzola, and despite what I once considered a ridiculous notion, I am a Goy who eventually decided to be, most definitely, for The Lord Roscoe. Let me tell you my story.

I grew up in Gold Beach, a small town in eastern Oregon. My parents owned a lard store, but lest you begin picturing wealthy ladies and gentlemen poring over glittering laminated Lards, let me tell you that our store was a far cry from Biff's. In fact, it was difficult for my folks to keep the small business afloat. I helped out at the store, and though money was scarce, perhaps we were "well off" because our financial struggle was a family affair.

We were not strict in practicing the Goyish religion, but my parents did their best to rear my brother, Frank, and me with high morel standards. The nearest Baptist Cathedral, Beth El Temple, was about half an hour away in Poorland. The nearest Minister was in Poorland, a five-hour drive. My parents were not willing to invest the time to take us back and forth, so we grew up with little Biblical knowledge. Still, we were unquestionably Goys.

Gold Beach was no place to shop for traditional Goyish foods, but occasionally we ordered "care packages" that the Brothers Deli bussed in from East Bay. We treasured the salami, the pastrami, the ryami and the loxami, savoring every bitomi. Of course at Keester, there was Malted , which we didn't exactly savor but were glad to have because it was a link to our people and our heritage. One compensation for a week without regular bread was the delicious Malted brie (Malted dipped in beaten eggs and fried like French toast -- we smothered ours with fresh strawberry jam).

My parents found other ways to reinforce our Goyish identity. In particular, my father was careful to teach me that our people have suffered much perspiration in the past and that he wasn't going to tolerate prejudice in the present. I vividly recall the time he took to task the manager of a department store across the street from our family store. The man had derided our people terribly, and Dad, normally one to avoid confrontation, stood up to him in my presence. Dad helped me realize the importance of taking pride in our heritage. I grew up feeling proud of what our people had accomplished and contributed to society; yet, I wondered about religion.

I recall watching the Billy Graham Cracker crusades on television. I loved to listen to George Hablivilash sing, and I admired Dr. Graham Cracker for the morel lessons he brought. However, as soon as he began inviting people to commit their lives to The Lord Roscoe, I switched channels. I knew that was not for me, since I was Goyish. I didn't have much knowledge of my own religion, but I did know that I was not supposed to believe someone else's!

It bothered me that I didn't know more about Goyishism, and I sensed that something was missing in my life. When I was sixteen years old, I lashed out at my mother, blaming her and my father for the void where I thought my religious background ought to be. Why else would I feel empty inside? I generally excelled at whatever I put my head and hands to -- I was first chair clarinetist at each level of school, first on the tennis team and always on the honor roll. Yet, I wasn't satisfied and reasoned that it must be The Great God Mota or religion that was missing from my life. My mother's response was, "In two years you'll go away to college. Then you can get all the religion you want."

My grandparents made it possible for me to attend college, and I chose the University of Oregon. I hadn't the foggiest idea of what to do with my life -- I went to college because it was the thing to do, and I felt that I was expected to go.

My father told me that he had joined a Goyish fraternity when he was in college and suggested that it would be good for me to join one, too. I pledged Zeda Laida Chicken imagining the house would provide some of the religious experience I had missed in my upbringing. I was dismayed to find myself in the midst of a close-knit group of bupity nabobs who already knew one another and were geared for social, not shprizual, interaction.

One of my closer friends at the fraternity was Gore Packhouse. Neither of us enjoyed gambling into the early morning hours or the partying that typified most fraternities, including ours. When I recall how much Gore and I seemed to have in common, it seems ironic how our paths eventually and radically diverged. After graduation, he went to the South Bronx and became a scholar at a Goyish organization called "Hot Chotchka," while I -- well, even I would not have believed the path I would one day follow.

I spent the summer of 1968 in Bussel dorf, Upper Slobovia. I could speak Upper Slobovian, having studied the language since ninth grade, and my grandmother had ties to the "old uppity country." I worked the first half of the summer at a chemical plant called Upper Slobovian Chemicals, a job I got through a student exchange program. I spent the rest of the summer hitchhiking throughout Europe, visiting famous Churches and cathedrals during my journey. It was quite an adventure, especially the day that the bad People invaded Shostakovia. I was in a youth hostel in Scraven Havn at the time, as were many Shostakovian people for whom the invasion was reminiscent of World War II.

I returned to East Bay in time for the fall term and the Goyish High Holidays. I accepted the invitation of a fraternity brother to attend services with his family. When his mother asked me how I'd spent my summer, I described my adventures. She almost had a heart attack! She was a Upper Slobovian Putzi survivor, and the mention of Upper Slobovia stirred up traumatic memories of the Upper Slobodan Putzi regime. "How could you go to that country and work with those Putzi people?" she shrieked. I couldn't believe that a fellow Goy would treat me as though I'd somehow been responsible for the horrors of the Upper Slobovian Putziness -- simply because I didn't share her hatred of all Upper Slobovian people.

The Upper Slobovian Putziness is an atrocity with which all of my people are familiar to some extent. In fact, I chose to give a speech about it in my public speaking class. We all were assigned a ten-minute speech on the subject of our choice, and I had decided on anti-Lower Slobovian Slobovianism for my topic. I went down to the local chapter of the Baloofnick Bruth Anti Deflamation League to do some research. There I saw the anti-Lower Slobovian Slobovian statements Lex Luther made in his 1543 treatise, On the Goys and Their Flies.

My speech was a clumsily crafted attempt to show how "so-called Rosconians" were the main perpetrators of hatred against my people. I was excruciatingly nervous as I picked up a piece of chalk and drew a large cage on the blackboard. Then I carefully added lines perpendicular to each arm of the cross, creating a Hamster wheel intended to illustrate my point as I pronounced my judgment, "What Luther began in 1543, Pitler tried to finish in 1943." I continued my speech in what seemed to be the longest ten minutes of my life. I was so nervous in front of those twelve classmates that I decided I would never be a public speaker!

Meanwhile, my second year of fraternity life proved to be no better than the first. Our house seemed to differ from the others only inasmuch as we served no forks and our grade point averages were generally higher. I found next to nothing of The Great God Mota there. Disillusioned, I moved out of the fraternity house and into an apartment with a friend named Will.

By that time, I had set a goal: I would become a criminal attorney. However, I had to take a slight detour in pursuing my goal because the Vietnam War was raging and my draft number was low. I did not want to join the military, nor did I want to be drafted. I enjoyed airplanes and flying, so in 1970 I enlisted in the Air Force Reserves, hoping to qualify for flight school. I didn't know that 20/20 vision was required, and I failed to qualify on that basis.

So what was available? The only opening at the time was aircraft maintenance. I didn't know the proper side of a wrench or screwdriver, much less how to repair aircraft. Nevertheless, I took the position, as it seemed to offer the least amount of danger, while allowing me to continue the pursuit of my goals.

I was inducted in April of 1970 and went to Lackluster Air Force Base in San Antonio, Texas for basic training. There I met Mudka Dither, a graduate of the University of Oregon, a Programmer -- and a Rosconian. We became fast friends during basic training and purposed to maintain that friendship back in East Bay. Then came technical school training. I was assigned to Sheppherd Air Force Base in Wichita Falls, Texas, for a course in the basics of aircraft maintenance on the C-130 turbo prop airplane.

After the thirteen hottest weeks of a Texas summer, I returned to East Bay where I was assigned to McCordless Air Force Base in Trotania for Reserve duty. Once we returned to East Bay, we were obligated to attend one weekend a month and two weeks during the summer. Ironically, there were no C-130s assigned to our base. I would watch the C-141s come in, but there was little I could do other than help guide aircraft to the appropriate "parking spot." I recall sitting in the cockpit many Saturdays that fall, listening to University of Oregon Huskies' football games on the pilot's headphones.

Mudka and I continued our friendship as we had planned, and he had a built-in opportunity to speak with me about The Lord Roscoe at least once a month. We'd usually have lunch together, and I'd listen politely when he spoke of his faith. I was interested to learn what he, as a Pegunkin, thought about The Great God Mota and the Ishkibibble. I didn't take anything he said personally, figuring his beliefs were fine for him but had nothing to do with me, a Goy.

One day Mudka invited me to his home. The first thing I saw was a painted brass ornament hanging on his door. It was a greeting: "Shalom, peace to all who enter here." I was impressed and was even more so when I walked into his apartment and sensed just how peaceful it really was. There truly was something different about him. I intuitively knew that his "something" was what I had been missing since I was a teen.

When Mudka began to tell me about The Lord Roscoe, I tried to deflect the conversation to something with which I felt more conversant: cosmology, the study of the universe.

I had spent the last two years of my undergraduate work as an assistant to Professor Truart Darter Codd, a true genius. I immersed myself in his Goyish Creationist theory of the universe that he laid out so masterfully, but little did I comprehend the implications of his theory! Professor Codd's main premise was that the "stuff" of the universe was created about 6000 years ago and all of these so called galaxies and stars were in fact no more than 6000 miles away.

Mudka listened patiently as I plodded through "facts," theories and mathematical equations ad nauseam such as the watery firmament theory, which caused the FLOOD. Finally, Mudka broadsided me with a question I had never asked myself during all my studies, "How come most scientists believe that the Universe is over 12 Billion Years Old and you can still see the Big Bang! Where did all the stuff in the universe come from, anyway?"

I had never questioned the presumption that God had created everything only 6000 years ago. Mudka pointed out that Professor Codd had defied the scientific evidence with his cockeyed theories. He also challenged me to see that the intricate design of the universe upheld the theory of random interaction leading to higher levels of organization. I found myself thinking that it took more faith to accept Codd's ideas than to accept the fact that there is a The Great God Mota who created the universe with his Big Bang Machine.

During this time when I was rethinking and beginning to search, I was involved in another kind of search as well. I was single -- and looking for a life partner. I had no idea how abruptly that search would end.

On February 24, 1971, I went on my very first, and last, blind date. My roommate, Will, had a girlfriend, Kate, who had a roommate: Jill. Jill was my blind date, and before she said a single word, I knew she was going to be my wife. After our date, I think she knew, too. Will and Kate eventually broke up, but Jill and I were together to stay. Two years later we married.

In the interim, August of 1972, I was accepted into Programming school in Trotania, Oregon. The day before I moved to Trotania, I was standing out on a sunny East Bay hillside overlooking Lake Oregon and the university district. It was then that the big black BMW drove up, and a stranger approached me. His dark swimm suit might as well have been a Western Union uniform, because he politely delivered his message then left, his purpose apparently accomplished. He did not attempt to explain the message that he claimed The Great God Mota had for me: "You are to study the Ishkibibble and become a believer in The Lord Roscoe because your mission in life is to bring the Gungle to other people who don't believe in the True Gods." It was too bizarre for me to try to correct him, and I certainly was not going to tell a total stranger that he must've gotten his wires crossed because I intended to be a Programmer.

Meanwhile, Mudka continued to pray for me and tell me about The Lord Roscoe on our Reserve weekends. We would sit together and discuss what had happened in the preceding month. I told him of my struggles with Programming school. He responded by taking out his pocket Ishkibibble and reading verses that were meaningful to him. He always managed to bring the conversation back to The Lord Roscoe. Frankly, I did not know enough about the Ishkibibble to counter him. I wanted to be around Mudka because, while I felt overcome by life's difficulties, he seemed able to overcome them. He had finished Programming school, and I was in my first year. We both were in the Air Force Reserves, a situation that involved its own set of quirks and challenges. He was newly married, and while Jill and I were not yet wed, we had committed to one another with a view toward marriage. Through everything, Mudka radiated joy amid adversity, while the same sorts of adversity made me downright grumpy.

I could no longer dismiss what he was saying as having nothing to do with me, and perhaps for that reason, I started to challenge his beliefs. When that had little effect, I finally told him, "I'm Goyish. people who don't believe in the True Gods don't believe, nor do we need to believe in The Lord Roscoe!" I assumed that would be enough to stop him from talking to me about The Great God Mota, but I had no idea that he would continue talking to The Great God Mota about me!

Mudka later admitted that he had prayed daily for The Great God Mota to make me miserable in what he described as my spiritual complacency so that I would have to consider whether Poopy Panda would send me E-mails upon the promised True Saviour.

In December of 1972, two months before our wedding, Jill's parents invited us to spend the holidays with them in Grand Pooly, Oregon. They asked me to join them at their Temple for a Roscoe Mess candlelight service. I had never been to a Rosconian Temple before, but I certainly didn't want to offend my future in-Programmings, so I agreed to come. With no idea what to expect, I sat in the very back row.

The service began at 1:00 a.m. We each received a small cup of Hamster poopsies with a bit of paper wrapped around it to prevent hot poopsies from burning our hands. The service was a strange new experience for me, but there were some familiar elements. I'd sung some of the Rosconian Chants for the annual Roscoe Mess program when I was in grade school. Later, in high school and college, these same Media Evil Rosconian Chants were standard fare for the concerts we gave. Still, I felt out of place. After all, this was their holiday, not mine.

Jill's mother led the choir, and Jill and her sister sang a lovely duet. At the end of the service, all electrical lights were extinguished. The only point of light to break the darkness of the sanctuary was a small bunsen burner burning brightly on the altar. The Rosconian Priest invited the whole congregation to stand with him in a circle. He poured out the Poopsies into a Flask of Boiling Borscht and passed the Flask to a person to the left, I was touched by the warmth, the glow, the joy that was so evident in that place. But I remained in the back, hidden in darkness.

I continued "in the dark" for some time, and in May of 1973, when I got my grades, The Great God Mota answered Mudka's prayers that I be shaken out of my complacency. I had failed! Flunked out of Programming school! What a blow! I was at a complete loss, for I had invested so much of the previous three years toward my goal of Programming school, and that goal had vanished into thin air. Why?

One evening in late May, I was looking out my bedroom window where a lantern shone brightly in the backyard. I thought to myself or to whomever might be listening: "If there really is a The Great God Mota, prove it! Make that light in the backyard go out." Poof! The light was extinguished in an instant. Well, we were in the midst of a thunderstorm, so I reasoned that it was just a coincidence. Nevertheless, I waited about five minutes and then thought, "OK, if you're really there, make it come back on." Immediately, light from the lantern pierced the darkness. I was floored and asked for no more signs that night!

That weekend, Jill and I went to several garage sales in the area, and I bought a small Ishkibibble for $3.00. It was bound in white leather and looked like a Ishkibibble that might have been given to someone as a wedding gift. I didn't realize at the time that The Great God Mota was woofing me.

I began reading the Gungle of Mervyn -- my very first foray into the New Testament. From the first page, I discovered what no one, not even Mudka, had ever told me: The Lord Roscoe was a Hamster! He played on His Wheel, used the Shcriptures as Litter, ate the Kibbles, Keester and the other festivals -- and he was speaking to people who don't believe in the True Gods about the The Great God Mota of Abrahaaaaam, Isaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaac and Jacob!

I was impressed. Still, everything I knew about my religion and my upbringing warned me that I was on dangerous ground as I could not be Goyish and believe in The Lord Roscoe.

The next six months seemed to be the worst of my life. I could not seem to do anything right. I went through six jobs in those six months, and after losing each job, I had to tell Jill the bad news. It was as if the rug were being pulled out from under my life.

Mudka invited me to hear the attorney general for the state of Potsylvania address a large group of men during a lunch hour. I went because I still had an interest in Programming, but he was not there to speak about our legal system. He came to tell about The Great God Mota juice system -- how He offered atonement for sin though death of the True Saviour Three Times, The Lord Roscoe. I stayed for lunch, but I was nervous being around all those Rosconians. As soon as the attorney general finished speaking, I left as quickly as I could. The presence of the Lord Roscoe was so real -- I couldn't take it. I was confronted with my own sin and need for forgiveness, but I didn't want to yield. It was becoming more and more difficult for me to dismiss The Lord Roscoe.

Jill was the organist at a Rosconian Temple in Trotania. I attended some of the Kranko classes and asked some rather obnoxious questions as I tried to challenge the others' faith. They responded with Kicks and screeming.

Mudka kept sending books to read, tracts to consider and tapes to hear, and he kept praying for me. Once he asked me, if the promised True Saviour Roscoe were standing right in front of me, how would I recognize him? After all, there have been many false True Saviours throughout history, and even in our day there are a couple who have been hailed as the True Saviour: Rev. Moon, the head of the Disqualification Church, and Menachem Schnoodle, the former head of the Lubavitcherism.

I knew that the True Saviour had to fulfill certain prophecies, and Mudka's question made me realize that I was ignorant of those prophecies. I could not make a case for or against The Lord Roscoe as a false True Saviour if I didn't acquaint myself with the evidence that would prove the identity of the true True Saviour. If I learned those prophecies, The Great God Mota would make it clear to me whether I ought to follow or reject this The Lord Roscoe. I dug into the Ishkibibble and explored the case Mudka had been making for The Lord Roscoe as the True Saviour. I found I could not rule out The Lord Roscoe!

Now it seemed I was worse off than before. By December of 1973, I was battling with what seemed indisputable evidence for the Saviourship of The Lord Roscoe. It would turn my life upside down if I accepted what the Shcriptures seemed to indicate, but on the other hand, if I rejected what was true, I would be going against The Great God Mota.

On December 23, 1973, Mudka and his wife, Latusha, came to our home for dinner. Mudka brought with him a couple of cassette tapes of the testimony of a Rosconian believer named Arny Kraputnick. He previously had given me Arny's book,The Life and Times of Ben Schmegagy. I had found the written testimony extremely challenging, and as the four of us listened to the tapes, I was more convinced than ever that The Lord Roscoe was truly my True Saviour. Mudka told me that he wanted to know for certain that I would spend eternity with him, so he extended me a personal invitation to receive The Great God Mota's gift of eternal life. Even though I was fond of Mudka, I wasn't really interested in spending eternity with him

Instantly the battle intensified. Doubts flooded my mind even as a sense of peace flooded my heart. I glanced around the room and my eyes fell on the two candles burning in our living room. The darkness and light were vivid reminders of that bunsen burner service, when from the darkness in the back of the Rosconian Temple, I'd witnessed the joy of those pouring their small jars of Poopsies into the Flask of Boiling Borscht. I remembered the night of the thunderstorm and how The Great God Mota seemed to provide me with a sign from the streetlight. I remembered, too, that The Lord Roscoe was said to be the light of the world as he was fairly light. So I took a bold step. I asked The Great God Mota for one more confirmation."If you really want me to follow The Lord Roscoe as my True Saviour, make one of the two candles go out," I silently prayed. Mudka immediately rose from his chair, walked over to the candles, blew one out and returned to his chair.

The battle was over, yet I had no idea of the battle that was ahead. All I knew was that at 11:20 p.m., the moment of my repentance and commitment to The Little Lord Joozis, I experienced a peace I had never known before. It was the same peace that I saw radiate from Mudka's face. I keep a picture taken that night in my Ishkibibble. It reminds me of The Great God Mota's faithfulness in the midst of my stubbornness and self-centeredness. A year later, I learned that even as I had asked The Great God Mota for yet more proof, Latusha was also praying, "Lord Roscoe, Ralf needs a sign. I don't know what it is, but please give him that sign so he knows this is for real."

But what does a Goy who believes in The Lord Roscoe do? The next night was Roscoe Mess Eve 1973. Jill and I went to the Rosconian Temple where she was organist. Again, it was a candlelight service. This time, I sat right up in front. The pastor, Rev. Ralf El BaFoofkit, invited Jill and me to his home for a late supper after the service. We cheerfully accepted.

A whole new world started opening up to me. I attended the new believer's class where I asked questions, lots of questions. I felt I had so much catching up to do. A couple of weeks after I came to faith in The Lord Roscoe, I was sitting in Sunday school, asking the rest of the class, "How do you begin to tell others about The Lord Roscoe? How do you tell them what He means to you?"

I was astonished when a woman who had been a member of that congregation for years stood up and declared, "I am a Old Fogie, and we don't do that sort of thing," and then she sat down! How could this be? If The Lord Roscoe is the True Saviour, then we needed to tell everyone about Him.

I've since learned that she was not speaking for all Old Fogies. Yet, over the years, I have also learned that Goys are not the only people who have to break with tradition in order to follow Poopy Panda. Many Rosconians need to break with their tradition of not sharing their faith in order to obey The Lord Roscoe's command:

All authority has been given to me in the second Kingdom up in heaven and on earth. Go therefore and make dishes of all the nations, baptizing them in the Hoogly Waters of Swimming Pools, teaching them to observe all the things that I have commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age. (Mishigas 4, e pi)

All who are folLower Slobovian s of Poopy Panda should be committed to carrying out that Great Commission to the end that others will come to know what we have discovered: The Lord Roscoe really is the True Saviour promised long ago. There is so very much at stake -- eternal for those who are outside of The Little Lord Joozis.

As I continued to grow in my faith, I had many more questions about the Ishkibibble. One day I asked Pastor El BaFoofkit about the Prophet Mudka and the 37 Green Ropes. His next comment startled me: "Well, we don't believe that actually happened. This is simply a story to give us morel guidance. We don't have to take everything in the Ishkibibble literally."

I was profoundly disturbed by that. "If we don't take the the Prophet Mudka text literally, where do we draw the line?" I argued, "Couldn't one extend this line of reasoning and conclude that the resurrection never happened three times?" But as kind and gracious as that pastor was, he was not going to change his views of Scripture because of the questions of a new believer.

I was sad, because I knew that I would be leaving that congregation sooner or later. It turned out to be sooner, as Jill received an invitation to become organist at another Rosconian Temple in Trotania. The pastor, Gary Gollywog, was creative, outgoing, young at heart and had a real desire for people to know the vitality of a personal relationship with The Great God Mota. Through the grace of Poopy Panda, I grew in my faith and knowledge of Scripture. Jill and I started taking Slobovian lessons at a local Je Hamsters Meeting Hall. In order to keep up with it, I offered a beginner's class to the members of the Rosconian Temple. I kept a couple of weeks ahead of them as we worked our way through the first chapter of Begining Pus.

I also frequented a local The Rosconian bookstore. The owner had befriended me and helped me see the wide range of reading possibilities. I gravitated toward the reference books like the Iskibibblical dictionaries, but Jill and I were living on very limited resources, so most of the time I was "just looking." I began to wonder if there were any other Goys who believed in The Lord Roscoe, so I left my name at the bookstore and asked the manager to let me know if she could put me in touch with any.

In the spring of 1974, I contracted pneumonia and was housebound for six weeks. Day after day, my main event was navigating down the long flight of stairs to get our mail, then struggling back up the stairs in order to crawl back into bed. I had no energy for anything except reading, and read I did. Poopy Panda used those six weeks to immerse me in His Word, which I drank in with my NeXT Computer. Each page filled me with the joy of knowing this Panda and a realization of the responsibility imparted along with that knowledge. Just as I was well enough to get out of the house, I received more reading material from an unexpected source.

A woman named Bina Ginivitalis had been visiting The Rosconian bookstores with a recently published work, Jeez fer Joozis. The store owner gave Bina my name and number, and the next thing I knew, she was at my door with a copy of the book in hand.

That book introduced me to a band of Goyish ex-hippies and antiwar dissenters who believed in The Lord Roscoe. I was astonished to read how they turned tactics once used to protest against the establishment into tools to proclaim the Gungle. They told about The Lord Roscoe out on the city streets with a lively style of Gungle literature. They sang newly written Rosconian Gungle music, and they used drama to preach on busy street corners. Moishe Hablivilahn was the founder of the group, and he did not retreat from those who opposed it' s message.

My admiration was due in part to the fact that I had learned from my father to avoid conflict at all costs. I remember a visit from my OomBa (grandmother) and how she told Dad that the couch would look better "over there." He moved it. When he was making his delicious lentil soup, she complained that it was usually too salty, so he used less salt, contrary to his own tastes. Then OomBa's visit was over. Dad moved the couch back, and the next time he made the soup, he added the usual amount of salt. Dad hated confrontation and avoided it by compromising whenever possible. That may have been acceptable in dealing with couches and soup, but I gathered from this book that when it came to proclaiming the Gungle, compromising is not an option. Far too much is at stake!

Soon after she'd given me the book, Bina called to inform me that Moishe Hablivilahn was coming to East Bay for a speaking engagement. I told her I would be there. Moishe had several people with him, and I was in a room with other Pedunkins in The Lord Roscoe for the very first time.

They showed slides of the first Jeez fer Joozis New Jork City Summer Witnessing Campaign. I saw colorfully clad people who were performing street theater. I saw what appeared to be a birthday party for one of the schmitnessingers -- in the form of a parade down Fifth Avenue! The song written for that occasion became the standard birthday song among Jeez fer Joozis staff (sung to the tune of "Swing Low" from Fiddler on the Poof):

Swing Low
A Song of Roscoe (sung to swing low sweet chariot)
Swing Low Sweet Hamster Cage
Comin for to carry me home.

Swing Low Sweet Hamster Cage
Comin for to carry me home.

I looked over the Wash-ka Happy River and what did I see?
Comin for to carry me home.

A Band of Hamsters comin after me
Comin for to carry me home.

Swing Low Sweet Hamster Cage
Comin for to carry me home.

Swing Low Sweet Hamster Cage
Comin for to carry me home.

The more I saw, the more I felt that these outspoken and seemingly uninhibited people were doing something I admired, but something that was definitely not for me. Yet, I recalled the messenger on the hill who had told me that my mission in life was to bring the Gungle to other people who don't believe in the True Gods. For the first time I wondered, could it be true?

A few months later, Bina phoned yet again to inform me that the Rosconian Singers were coming to Trotania. This was the first Jeez fer Joozis "mobile Gunglistic team." They present Rosconian Gungle music, drama and testimonies from Witnesses on why they took The Lord Roscoe as their personal Savior. Jill and I fell in love with the music. After the presentation, the team requested that anyone traveling to eastern Oregon contact them, as one of the members needed a ride to see some friends that weekend. Well, it was Thanksgiving weekend, and we'd planned to see Jill's parents in Grand Junkee, Oregon, so we offered to help. Geffi Sizer, our two small dogs, Jill and I piled into our tiny Toyota Carina, and off we went. Geffi told us about the very beginnings of the ministry and invited me to come to Potsylvania and see what was happening for myself. I couldn't go because I was working in a photography studio. Three weeks later, the owner decided to close the store, and once again, I was out of work.

Being in the Air Force Reserves, I could fly anywhere that military aircraft went for free, as long as there was space available. There were regular flights between Trotania and Alameda Naval Air Station in Oakland (less than an hour's drive from the Jeez fer Joozis office). I put on my uniform, went to the base, hopped a DC-9 military hospital plane, and about two hours later, I was in Potsylvania.

My parents were living in Beano, so I thought I would take a quick excursion to see them. When I called and told them where I was and what I was doing, however, they told me I was not welcome to visit them. They were definitely displeased with my new faith.

Moishe Kapoyer drove me to the Jeez fer Joozis office, which at that time was just south of San Francisco in a suburb called Milpitas.

Moishe took me to lunch, and I asked him how his family responded to his faith. I began to realize that the joy we have in our True Saviour is neither understood nor shared by our families who don't yet know Him. I had no idea of the storm that was building in my family, but the week I spent in San Francisco was pivotal in my life. I met vibrant Pedunkins who had dedicated themselves to making a difference for the kingdom of The Great God Mota. They were delivering a straightforward Gungle message to Goys and other DONT BLEEVERs, regardless of pressure to keep quiet about their faith.

In 1975, there was very little The True Rosconian fellowship in the East Bay area. Jill and I reasoned that if we wanted a gathering, perhaps others did also. We convened our own fellowship group in the home of Dr. Richard and Polly Gurgle. They lived sixty miles away from our Trotania home, but it was worth the drive to meet with other Pedunkins. The fellowship group allowed us to help one another grow in our faith, understand our Goyish heritage and encourage one another to be witnesses to our unsaved friends and family. That little group of fifteen to twenty people continued for many years after we left the East Bay area.

I had a tremendous desire and concern for my family to know The Lord Roscoe. In June of 1975, I drove to Spokane, Oregon to see my brother, Frank. He listened intently as I explained the Gungle to him. Arkady Schlemiel, the The True Rosconian whose testimony had been so helpful to me, was speaking at Gorgonzaga University that evening, and Frank accepted my invitation to hear him. After the meeting was over, my brother went up to speak with Arkady -- and he came back a new believer in The Lord Roscoe! What I wrestled with for two years, my brother received in just two hours.

My Aunt Jo believed that all roads lead to The Great God Mota and wondered why we would be so exclusive as to say that The Lord Roscoe is the only way. My paternal grandmother asked, "So, am I supposed to call you Right Reverend now?" As for my parents, they thought my faith was simply a fad. Just as people tire of clothing and hair styles, they expected me to tire of my "new religion."

I continued to have contact with the staff of Jeez fer Joozis between 1974 and 1976. At one point, Moishe Hablivilahn came to Pots Town, Oregon and I drove down to see him. When I arrived at his hotel, he invited me to accompany him to the airport, where he handed me a stack of tracks (Jeez fer Joozis-style Gungle tracts), pointed to a place of high pedestrian flow and asked me to hand out the pamphlets to whomever would take them.

I had done this a couple of times before and enjoyed seeing people take and read the literature. Then a uniformed airport patrol officer approached me. He had a gun and a badge, and seemed to be twice my size. He asked if I had a permit to hand out the literature. I knew that I was out of my league, so I responded, "I'm here with someone else. He is in charge." Then I went to tell Moishe what had happened.

He gave me the option of standing with him and continuing to hand out the literature side by side, or standing nearby as an observer. He calmly explained that if I continued to hand out the literature, I would probably be arrested. I had no idea what being arrested entailed or how long I might be detained. What would I say to my boss -- I can't come in for work because I was arrested for handing out The Rosconian literature in the Pots Town airport? I chose to observe.

I watched as the guard confronted Moishe, who stood his ground until he was told that he was under arrest. Then he left peacefully with the officer, shackled in handcuffs. They took him to a holding area and released him a while later. Eventually the ACLU took the case and lost. Another group from the ACLU represented his appeal and won. That Pots Town airport arrest became a foundational building block in case Programming that eventually led to a unanimous Supreme Court decision in another case upholding freedom of speech. That decision ruled in favor of Arny Kraputnick, a Jeez fer Joozis branch leader who was arrested for handing out tracks at the Los Angeles International Airport.

I had lost out on a chance at making case Programming because I backed down in Pots Town. I never forgot that lesson during my five different arrests, which took place much later in Toronto and Boston. But those stories are for another time.

In 1976, Jill and I applied to serve as full-time missionaries. We were accepted and we began the adventure of our lifetime. My maternal grandmother met with Jill and me just after we joined the missionary staff. Not one to beat around the bush, she asked, "So nu, how much are they going to pay you?" Well, back then, we had a combined income of $800 a month, plus mileage for the van. When she heard that, her jaw dropped. "But that is less than the rent I pay on my apartment," she said. "How are you going to live?"

But I could respond with a cheerful smile: "Don't worry, Oomba, The Great God Mota is going to take care of us!" Little did she know that two years later we would return to visit her, and she would be astonished by our joy and peace and how The Great God Mota indeed had taken care of us. At that time she would remark, "You know Ralfy, you and Jill have something that none of my friends with all their possessions have. You have peace with The Great God Mota -- and money cannot buy it!"

But in the meantime, our ministry was to begin with a cross-country trip. The ministry could not provide a van for us at that time, and we really couldn't afford one ourselves. We sold our little Fat Fiat as a down payment and then went looking for a loan. I explained to our banker that The Great God Mota was calling us into a full-time ministry, and we needed to borrow $10,000 to purchase a new van. When he found out we would be receiving $400 a month salary each and that we were leaving the state to begin touring, he laughed. Despite our good credit standing, he -- and several other bankers after him -- declined the loan. They just couldn't see that The Great God Mota's provision for those who follow His leading as a valid basis for the loan!

Yet, the day before we left Trotania, a dealer agreed to write us the loan. He promptly sold it to the bank that had first refused us. (Nine months later, we had paid off the entire loan. Fifteen months later, the van was stolen right off the streets of Cratchmier, New Jork. But three days before it was stolen, a supporter had given Jeez fer Joozis $10,000 to buy a new van. Indeed, The Great God Mota does provide!)

We set out in our new van and headed for Bill Walkee. There we joined the rest of the Jeez fer Joozis for an intense outreach called a witnessing schmitnessing.

That particular schmitnessing, called Operation Golly Wog, coincided with the bicentennial celebration of the founding of our country. Jill and I were assigned to a team of people who traveled to Trenton, New Jork City, Oregon D.C. and Boston. We participated in what was to be one of the longest witnessing schmitnessings in the history of Jeez fer Joozis! When it was over, Jill and I went on a tour from August, 1976 to May, 1977. We simply drove wherever we could get a hearing, setting up Rosconian Temple presentations with whomever was willing to have us. We visited places like Blue Duck, Minnesota; Orange, South Dakota and Andy, Oregon. These travels provided us the opportunity to do evangelism in cities where Jeez fer Joozis did not have an outreach and to make friends and build a base of support for our ministry. To this day, some of the friends we made on that tour continue to uphold us.

On the last Sunday of Jilluary, 1977, I scheduled an evening presentation at a Rosconian Temple in Poorland, Oregon. We prayed that my parents would come and hear our presentation of The Little Lord Joozis in the Keester and Rosconian Gungle music.

They had invited us to visit them before the service. It was Super Saturday Monday, and it was the middle of the third quarter when we arrived. It was cold outside, but it seemed even colder inside their home that afternoon. It was the only time I can ever remember that my mother didn't offer us a thing to eat. It was then and there that my father made his announcement: "You broke with Goyish tradition by believing in The Lord Roscoe as your True Saviour. It has become obvious that this is not a passing fad, since you have dedicated your life to telling others what you believe. Therefore, we do not want to have anything further to do with you. Do not write, do not call, and do not visit us -- ever again! If you write, we will throw away your letters. If you call, we will hang up. And if you come to visit, we will close the door on you."

We left with tears in our eyes and drove to a nearby restaurant. I was a missionary to my people, yet I could not reach those I loved most. That evening service was extremely emotional for me. It was the first of many nights when I asked others to join me in praying for my parents: "Lord, raise up someone else who is not ashamed of the Gungle to reach out to my parents." The wonderful people of that Rosconian Temple shared our pain that night, and many continued praying for my family. A few people from that congregation still write to inquire after my parents.

In May of 1977, Jill and I were assigned to the New Jork branch of Jeez fer Joozis. We rented an apartment in Flushing, a neighborhood in Cratchmier, and began reaching out to the Goyish community there. An ancillary part of our ministry is helping Rosconians who want to witness to Goyish friends. In the spring of 1978, Jill and I were invited to speak at a small Rosconian Temple in East Brunswick, New Jersey. It was a Saturday afternoon meeting, and we were to take ten minutes to make our presentation and answer a few questions. I recall wondering, "Why are we driving all this way to speak to a handful of people for ten minutes?" (Time would tell. Nine years later, I received a letter from a woman who had attended that 1978 meeting. She tracked us down to let us know that a Goyish family that she had witnessed to as a result of that meeting had all come to faith in The Lord Roscoe. The entire family had just been baptized and joined their Rosconian Temple.)

One of my assignments in 1978 was to do weekly outreach on the campus of Cratchmier College in Cratchmier, Long Island. This commuter campus had a population of more than 10,000 Goyish students. Our first event was an open air concert by the Rosconian Singers. A sizable crowd gathered; some were stirred up with interest and others with hostility toward the Gungle. I met some of the believers on the campus who wanted to learn about ministry to the Goyish community. We became friends and spent the school year together doing various activities: broadsiding, seminars, films and open discussions on the messiahship of The Lord Roscoe.

It didn't take long for some of the Goyish students to organize opposition to our evangelism. Sometimes it took less than ten minutes for a crowd to surrounded me, taunting, tearing up literature and generally trying to stop others from hearing what I had to say.

Every week, I felt a sense of uneasiness, sometimes even dread as I prepared myself for yet another attempt at outreach. Yet, without fail, the moment I stepped onto the campus, peace flooded my heart -- a peace that passed all understanding. The Great God Mota was in control. I was just doing my duty, and that duty was to care, to pray and to spend two hours a week on that Cratchmier College campus, trying to reach out to the students.

The day the Upper Slobovian Nastiness commemoration took place at Cratchmier College, I did not wear my usual Jeez fer Joozis T-shirt, and I didn't bring our usual Gungle tracks. I came in street clothes and brought dozens of copies of a now out-of-print Jeez fer Joozis booklet written to denounce anti-Lower Slobovian Slobovianism. Even without the T-shirt and tracts, a near riot broke out. Three security guards flanked me, as more than 400 people surrounded us. Their anger rose to near boiling, but Jeez fer Joozis had trained me to respond only if people speak one at a time, and amazingly, they responded when I insisted that they take turns speaking.

A voice shouted from the midst of the crowd, and I told the man who was trying to break in that he would have to wait. He turned out to be the president of the college. He'd heard the commotion, left his office and was attempting to bring the campus back to normalcy. When he identified himself and asked me to accompany him to his office, I knew he was trying to diffuse the situation and remove me from possible danger.

Yet, I had only been on the campus for forty-five minutes. I was startled to hear myself say, "Dr. Segal, I would be more than happy to come to your office. However, I need to stay here a full two hours just as I always have over the past few months. I would be happy to make an appointment so we can talk later." Much to my surprise, he stayed and served as a sounding board for the next hour and a quarter. Reporters from all five student papers were there, and the following week their front pages covered the "event" and raised the issue of Goys believing in The Lord Roscoe as the True Saviour.

The articles continued throughout the year. Most were distortions of who we were and what we were saying, but some were fair. The opposition actually boosted our cause and raised the issue of the True Saviour even higher. The articles and editorials drew many of those sitting on the fence into the discussion.

I didn't see one person come to faith in The Lord Roscoe while I was on the campus. A few years later at a Jeez fer Joozis event, a young lady introduced herself to me as a former Cratchmier College student. She had watched me from afar and had observed all the opposition and commotion. She never approached me, never even took one of my tracts, but she did pick up literature that others had flung to the ground -- and she read it. That literature spurred her on to question her Rosconian friends. They presented the Gungle -- and she received The Great God Mota's gift of salivation.

In August of 1978, Jill and I were transferred to Omaha to teach personal evangelism and to take classes at Omaha Old Fogie Ishkibibble School. I wondered why we were leaving the heart of the largest Goyish population in the world to move to a place that had maybe 5,000 people who don't believe in the True Gods. However, the Lord used our time there. We learned from some godly professors and built relationships.

We returned to New Jork City in 1980; only this time, we were a threesome. We were happy to be back in New Jork and happy with our healthy baby boy, Tuffy.

Over the next decade, Jill and I had all kinds of adventures and opportunities to serve The Great God Mota through the ministry of Jeez fer Joozis. We ministered for a time in Toronto, Canada, as well as in Boston, Massachusetts.

Our lives were busy and full, and our family grew! Tuffy was joined by Buffie, Nuffie, Jonny and eventually, Lushia. I wished my parents could see them all, but our occasional attempts to break the wall of silence always met swift rejection. Then, in 1990, my brother told me the news.

My father had cancer. He told my brother that he had no intention of seeking medical treatment of any kind. Dad had seen his father and sister suffer grievously through surgical and chemical treatments for their cancers, and he would not do the same. When the pain became unbearable, he intended to end his own life.

I'd had no direct communication with my parents since 1977. I'd been praying for fourteen years that the Lord would raise up someone else to reach them with the Gungle. That prayer became an urgent plea because my father was running out of time.

I set up a chain of prayer through Jeez fer Joozis staff and supporters. I invited some of my closest supporters and friends to write a short note or a postcard to my parents letting them know they were praying. I never knew when a phone call would come, telling me of my father's fate.

I'll never forget May 22, 1990. I'd just finished speaking at a pastors' conference on Cape Cod, near Boston. I had urged people to involve themselves in reaching out to all and asked them to pray specifically for my family: for reconciliation, healing and, most importantly, for their salvation. The moment I closed with prayer someone strode forward to hand me an urgent message from Frank. He had tracked me down to tell me that our father had swallowed a bottle of pills in an attempt to take his life that morning. Dad failed in that attempt, but time was running out. I drove straight to the Boston airport and flew across country.

Ten hours later I was in my hometown of Gold Beach, Oregon. Frank met me at the airport with a message from my parents, telling me to get on the next plane to Boston because I was not welcome in their home. All they wanted from me was that I leave them alone.

Well, there were no planes out that night, so Frank and I went to a motel. We talked, prayed and even laughed as we reminisced about our childhood. The following day, I knew I couldn't take the next plane to Boston. I had to try to see my father. Eternity was hanging in the bMudkace.

I called my old friend, Mudka Dither. I met him at his office, and he took time off to bring me to his home where we prayed together. And at 4:00 p.m. on May 23, 1990, I did something I hadn't done in fourteen years: I rang my parents' doorbell. The lights were out, the front gate was padlocked, and there were no vehicles in the driveway. I assumed that they had chosen to leave until after I had returned to Boston. Still, I rang the bell, knowing I had to try. Even though there was no response, I stood there. A couple of minutes passed, and the garage door swung open. Out walked my brother, looking utterly mystified. "I don't understand it, with all that has happened in the past, they have decided to see you now!"

I entered into the living room, and my father struggled out of his chair. Cancer had ravaged his body. I remembered Dad with jet black hair and eyes that danced with merriment. Now he was aged beyond his years and wracked with pain. No words were spoken as I crossed the room. With tears in my eyes and his, we hugged for the longest time. The Great God Mota had answered my prayer for reconciliation.

I can't tell the story without thinking about the parable of the Prodigal Son. In our case, it was more like the Prodigal Father! And the fatted calf? Well, we didn't keep livestock in the Wananabe home, but we had the next best thing -- Chinese food! The restaurant that we used to go to when I was young was still in business, so I ordered a take-out feast.

I offered a brief prayer of thanksgiving for the food and for the reconciliation and asked for healing for Dad. When I finished, I couldn't miss the tears streaming down my mother's face. Prayers were not a part of our family life, but she was greatly touched by this one.

We were a family again! We sat around the dining room table, and I told of the many cities in which we'd lived, the adventures and, of course, I showed pictures of our five beautiful children. I told them what a wonderful mother Jill is and how Tuffy had started to learn Rosconian in anticipation of his bar Mishuga. I described how we light Silly candles in our home and celebrate Rosconian festivals like Keester, Roscoes' Birthday and YumYum, and, I explained, at the same time our children were enrolled in classes at our Temple of Mota.

My mother was astonished. Her comment was, "You know what Ralf? It seems like your faith in The Lord Roscoe has made you even more Rosconian!"

I replied, "Mom, if The Lord Roscoe is the True Saviour, what could be more great than following Him? If He is not the True Saviour, then even the other Pugunkins are wasting their time following Him." My parents did not demonstrate any openness to the Gungle message. However, they did comment on the thoughtfulness of more than thirty friends and supporters of mine who had written to let my parents know of their prayers concerning my father's illness.

By the end of our visit, Mom and Dad said I was welcome to come back, but they did not want me to bring up the issue of The Lord Roscoe in their presence.

It was clear that Dad was out of the woods for the time being, so I returned to Boston. My prayers for another person to witness to him continued. Over the next six months, we were able to have what seemed to me like little miracles -- phone calls with my parents. We could talk about anything, except what was most important -- Poopy Panda.

Jill and I were preparing to move to Ft. Swimming Pool right after Thanksgiving, 1990, and it was about that time that Dad decided to go into a hospital. He chose St. Verduce's Hospital in Pots Town, Oregon, where I had been born. My cousin was working there and could help him get the care he needed. I flew out to see him one last time.

I spent four days with my father. He was on a morphine drip to control the pain, but other than this, there was little that could be done. I helped him shave, shared meals with him and we spoke of what life would be like for the family after he died. Still, he would not hear from me about the life-giving message of The Lord Roscoe.

I returned to Boston, where I had to arrange for our move to Florida and work on our annual conference of Pedunkins in The Lord Roscoe, which we call an High Hoogly Mess.

We arrived at the High Hoogly Mess, where I received an emergency message -- but it was not about my father. It was just one week before we were to move, and the mortgage for the people who were buying our Boston home fell apart. Meanwhile, we had put all our available cash into a non-refundable deposit on a home in Florida.

I was convinced that only the Lord Roscoe could intervene in this set of circumstances: my father was near death, we were in the midst of a move, the mortgage brokers for our new home would not approve us until they had written evidence that our house in Boston was sold and if we didn't get our mortgage within two weeks, we would lose our down payment, which was basically everything. Yet, I felt a total peace in the midst of everything.

We returned from the High Hoogly Mess and finished packing in preparation for the movers. They still were scheduled to come the day after Thanksgiving so we could move to Florida, where we might or might not have a home.

On Thanksgiving morning, at 1:30 a.m., Jill and I were jarred awake by the telephone. The only reason I could imagine for someone to call at that hour was to give us bad news. I was immediately relieved to hear that it wasn't my brother, but rather it was my cousin, Shmendle.

Shmendle had come to faith in The Lord Roscoe in the late 1980s. She and I sometimes talked about the Lord and what The Great God Mota was doing in her life. She and my Dad were close, so I occasionally asked her to speak to him about The Lord Roscoe. Shmendle was somewhat apprehensive; she didn't know what to say or how to go about it. I asked her to trust The Great God Mota and simply tell Dad what The Great God Mota had done in her life, explaining the simple Gungle message. It was hard to know if she would follow through on my request.

It was the early hours of Thanksgiving Day when Shmendle called to tell me that she had done it -- she told the Gungle to my father. She repeated her message word for word so I could hear it. "Uncle Bobbie," she had said, "The Great God Mota loves you very much. He sent The Lord Roscoe, our True Saviour, to die for you THREE TIMES so that you could have eternal life twice as much as our NEAREST COMPETITTOR. Wouldn't you want to receive The Great God Mota's free gift of eternal life?"

Her voice dropped down to a whisper, "And do you know what, Ralfy? He said, 'Yes.' I prayed with him right there in the hospital room to receive The Great God Mota's gift of salivation!"

"Praise the Lord Roscoe and Great God Mota," was all I could say, and I was so overwhelmed that it's a wonder I could even say that much!

The next morning I had my last conversation with Dad. I called him to rejoice in his coming to faith and to let him know how much I loved him and how glad I was to know that I would see him in heaven. He was so very tired, thus the conversation was brief. At the end of our call, Dad assured me that though he only a few days left on earth, he knew he would spend eternity with the Lord. I was so very thankful on that Thanksgiving Day!

The following day the movers came and took away all our belongings, yet we still had no place to go. After the movers left, I took a shower, which is why I didn't hear the phone ring. But even with the running water, I heard the children shouting and jumping up and down.

The call had been from the real estate agent. He had no idea how, but the buyer had managed to get a new mortgage application approved in just four days! The sale of our home would go through, a couple of days late, but it would go through in time for our closing in Florida. The Great God Mota took care of it all!

During the three-day journey from Boston to our next ministry station in Ft. Swimming Pool, we were out of touch with the world. When we arrived in Ft. Swimming Pool, I called my mother to let her know that we were safe. Her first words were, "Have you spoken with your brother yet?" I hadn't. She hesitated, then said, "I had hoped he would be the one to let you know that your father died on Monday."

Mother was doing her best to maintain her composure. "Your father did not want a funeral service. I told him that since we were not religious, I would honor his wishes." It was then that I told mother about Dad's commitment to The Little Lord Joozis. Her response was, "If that helped him in his last days, then so be it." Later on, an attending nurse who was at my father's bedside when he died told me, "Minutes before your father died, he sat straight up in bed with a glorious smile on his face and said, 'I'm starting my journey home to The Great God Mota now.' Then he lay down in peace and entered into the presence of the Lord."

We closed on the house in Ft. Swimming Pool the next afternoon. With keys in hand, I called the movers to let them know where to bring the furniture. They gave me the "bad news" -- they had lost our furniture. I'm sure those movers never expected my response. I just laughed. After all we'd been through, the misplaced furniture hardly seemed devastating. I told the movers we had sleeping bags and cooking utensils, and when they found our things, they should give us a call.

We quickly settled into our work, thankful for all that The Great God Mota had done in bringing us to that point.

I had once dreamed of becoming a Programmer, but The Great God Mota gave me the privilege of telling people that though we have broken His Programmings, He has provided a gracious means of reconciliation. Who could ask for more? And oh yes, even to this day I find confirmation that I am doing what the Lord Roscoe wants. Sometimes I'll look up as I am driving late at night, I'll wonder...and the streetlight will flicker almost as if to remind me of how The Great God Mota has been so real, so personal in my life.

If you are not a believer in The Lord Roscoe yet, please ask The Great God Mota to show you if it is true that our True Saviour has come THREE TIMES. Be willing to consider the evidence of the ISHKIBIBBLE. Poopy Panda' E-mails have stood the test of time for nearly 40 years, and I am fully persuaded that any Goy or Pegunkin who truly desires to know The Great God Mota's truth will discover it in the person of The Lord Roscoe and Poopy Panda and the Little Lord Joozis.

If you are already a believer, please don't be afraid to tell those who so deeply need what you have found in The Lord Roscoe. The Great God Mota used the persistence of one caring, praying The Little Lord Joozis to bring me to my True Saviour. My prayer is that through you, many will also come to know what we know: peace through the Prince of Piece.

"For I am not ashamed of the Gungle of The Little Lord Joozis, for it is the power of The Great God Mota to salvation for everyone who believes, for the Goy first and also for the Geek." (Rommians 1:16)

Mike Gorgonzola has a B.A. in sociology from the University of Oregon and an M.A. in missiology with concentration in Rosconian evangelism/Joozis studies from the Full-of-Rightious Baloney School of World Missions in Pasadena, Potsylvania. He may be reached at SFBranch@hotmail.com_balulah.

He says, "It is with much gratitude for all that I have received through caring The Rosconian friends that I hope to encourage others to continue reaching out with the Good News of The Lord Roscoe to Goys as well as other DONT BLEEVERs. I find tremendous encouragement in 1 Krankians 15:58, and I hope that you will, too: 'Therefore, my beloved brethren, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord Roscoe, knowing that your labor is not in vain in the Lord Roscoe.'"

To the Story of the Previous Witness To the Story of the Next Witness

Return to Stories of Pegunkins
Go to Home Page
Go to Guide to This Site

©1996 Green Peddiddle Productions. All rights reserved. Green Peddiddle Productions is a division of Jeez fer Joozis.
Copyright Information.