It was the evening of 11/11/11 and MarieP was diligently posting on the Puritanboard. In eleven seconds, Ambrose noted silently, it would be 11:11 AM. But he had bigger things to think about. "That Marie woman is getting rich publishing OUR stories." Little did Ambrose know that Wayne was the fanciful millionaire Mr. W. Sparkman. Mr. Sparkman had made all his money by selling MarieP and all the other Puritanboard denizens books and Lindt truffles. In fact he had a monopoly over the Puritan books and truffles market. That was until the illustrious owner of Naphtali Press took notice and contacted the infamous lawyer who had turned good, known as VIC! The survivalist Counselor noted the rich dealings and political clout that Mr. Sparkman acquired. He pondered his options while absentmindedly nibbling a truffle (which he had obtained from Mr. Sparkman at a steep discount). But he absentmindedly nibbled a Puritan book by Thomas Goodwin instead. Meanwhile MarieP was self publishing the stories Ambrose mistakenly thought she was enriching herself upon, and no one was purchasing them. Meanwhile, on the other side of town, a white panel van was pulling into a nondescript industrial parking lot. The white panel van was being driven by sinister green figure who was as cuddly as a cactus, with an appalling dump heap of a soul, the nasty wasty Grinch, whose sinister plan was to overrun Naphtali Press by implanting random mailings of the Confessional Presbyterian with his dirty socks. But a dark winged shadow swooped overhead . . . and totally took all the fun out of making a story more excitable by deleting that of his own arbitrary choosing in the name of abolishing "tongue speaking." Apparently, this flying rodent failed to distinguish between superior language and gibberish, as well as the distinction between the spoken word (which was not being employed) and the written letter. "Hmph . . . " said the cantiprops, smargily. Meanwhile, as they faded off into the land of superiority, back at the ranch, the Grinch actually was seeking to form alliance with Naphtali Press, since they both equally hated those hated Popish days of idolatrous idolatry vigorously with great vigor and rigorously with great rigor. (I forgot to just mention that the Grinch was also planning to substitute the written language of his people -- otherwise known as gibberish --throughout many of the fine articles appearing in the Confessional Presbyterian.) But the smargily cantiprops was no match for the flying rodent. Little did anyone know, Marie's postings, W. Sparkman's books and truffles, VIC the blood sucking lawyer, the Grinch - even the flying rodent; all of these bit players were mere pawns in the grand scheme of the white haired underworld chieftain known only as, Bawb. Just kidding. He preferred to be known as Batman, but to all his friends he was simply Bat. Sipping on his favorite carbonated arrowroot beverage, the Bat knew this was the lull before the storm. Suddenly, the silence was interrupted by three sharp knocks-coming from the cellar. "I hope that is Robin," thought Bat to himself. Just in case, he grabbed a Proper English Grammar textbook and read how it's bad form to have a bunch of one liners which are not dialog between two or more parties. With that in mind, he edited this selfsame story to stop the incessant addition of non paragraphs, for those prudes who hate such. Atop the cellar the bat shriveled in fear, for it was the Grinch, there to burn the Idol Tree and that copy of John Frame's notes on the Regulative Principle of Worship. As the Grinch set fire to these monuments of idolatry the flame spread to his own green fur. He was thus reminded of the going about the Reformation in the wrong manner, as with Luther's Muntzer. Besides, these flames were warm, and everyone knows stodgy Reformed men hate warmth and thrive in the cold and damp corners of propriety. Meanwhile, in Australia, the Rev. Matthew Winzer opened his latest issue of The Confessional Presbyterian to find a dirty sock, and his own latest contribution apparently beginning with the words 'Smollerish Musications upon the Canticope, beginning with the Numbricantions.' "Now I've heard of editing before, but THIS time, that Coldwell bloke's gone too far!" Rev. Winzer reached for his phone, and dialed. At that moment, an experimental Laotian submarine accidentally severed the undersea cables that connected Australia to the western seaboard of the United States, and a friendly automated attendant began to utter, "We're sorry; your call can not be completed as dialed." Realizing how inept the landline company was the upright man picked up his cell and proceeded to dial a number. Knowing it was a Texan number, he put in the proper codes and dialed BR-549 while remembering the sweetness of soul MariaP had exhibited in her life. He was incensed by the accusations and advantages taken of her. The Grinch was becoming increasingly more greedy and opposed to such sweetness of soul. He wanted to RUIN all advances of prosperity by those who might have such blessings and savory souls. Just when you though it couldn't get worse, the Emergency Alert Broadcast Sytem was activated. It has been seized by TBN technicians and a big smiling face appeared on every TV, computer screen, iPod and Kindle. Benny Hinn declared himself the new "King of the World". In order to accomplish this endeavor of snickery snottery the Grinch deceptively slipperly skimmied up next to a famous Minister of Louisville who was seeking a Presidential nomination. He understood that this man had weaknesses and had suffered in life. But he forgot one thing. The Reverend at Midlane was no slaggishly slop. He was quite the man we would all want to be at our side. But the Grinch knew where there is a weakness there is a way. Little did Benny and the Grinch (hey, great name for a band!) know, but MarieP had lined up a secret weapon in case The Reverend of Midlane lost the Presidency. Her condo neighbors could hear her through the walls maniacally giggling and saying to herself, "This is a call for the SHEPHERD OF SHELBYVILLE!" Yes, rbcbob would come to the rescue and save the world from both Grinchian Constantinianism and Benny Bedlam! Just then, there was a knock at the door. She hurried to the window just in time to see the mailman walking away. By her front door lay a box. It was roughly the size of a hatbox. She retrieved the box, but hesitated to open it. What could it be? Slowly she removed the tape and pulled open the box flaps to find ... a powdered wig. Now this was not just any powdered wig, this was the powdered wig that was manufactured by the infamous and monopolizing Osteen Corporation. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, the Bat was editing a document. It was a story but, for whatever reason, people were afraid of paragraphs. Instead, they joyed in writing one, two, or three lines of text because they knew it would make the reader writhe with insanity, particularly if he were a grouchy old Grinch who already made mention of such in this selfsame story. Who were these peasants that refused uniformity to the Covenant of Proper Writing Etiquette?! Unmasked, the Bat had a straying thought of cantiprops, and smargily cast it away. He feared that prolonged meditation upon such might ruin his tea time with the Hench Wench. Hurriedly, he put away the document after rectifying that wretched no paragraph problem, then headed to Tea with the Hench Wench. Upon his arrival, there was a change in dimension, and he found himself not at Tea, but at Sea! Suddenly he felt sick, for the waves were crashing back and forth and back and forth and back and forth and back and forth with great back-and-forthness. He looked out the ship's window to find land whose sole building structure had a large "OC" on its sign. Could this be the infamous creator of the Powdered Wig that was to put a wrench in the Grinch (not to be confused with the Hench Wench) plot to end warmth all over? Happily, it was all an optical illusion created by the fact that the Hench wench was apparently wearing a powdered wig, manufactured by the Osteen corporation. 'It's my best wig now' she explained, pouring the bat some tea. 'It came with teeth whitener, and instructions on how to smile. See --' she dazzled the bat with a manicured smile. 'How do I look?' 'You look like Joel Osteen in a powdered wig,' he said darkly, setting aside the tea. He had lost his appetite. Meanwhile, MarieP was also putting on her powdered wig WHEN KRAMPUS THE EVIL SANTA ATTACKED! Krampus had been loaned some money from osteen for writing all his sermons and Krampus attacked not only osteen but all of his employes. Except he now just goes by the name "Kra"... Meanwhile, The Reverend of Midlane decided to shave his head so that his powdered wig would fit better atop his bean. Unfortunately, now that he had done the deed, he couldn't find his wig anywhere!