I have a happy faith in you sir, but not so much in them. They chase me around town Saying "Looky, looky, look at Britney Spears... Watch the slow movements of her subtle breasts... You are getting sleepy..." Then, I wake up, and I have drank all the Pepsi, and my mom is calling me a sinner because I have my pinner all moist in my furiously pumping hairy hand. And then my hide's tanned, and I weep, but I have faith in you sir, warm happy faithful feelings welling up inside of me, and when you get done doing whatever in the fuck it is that you've been doing up there on cloud 9 for the last two thousand years. I DEMAND THAT YOU GET YOUR ASS, down here Lord! And show me why! Why? Though I have a loving Ma and Pa, and a stupid freckled twit for a sister, and a tendency to pee in the coleslaw, and a five pound green fever blister. I have happy faith lord that though I scrub and lather furiously in the shower somewhere between Britney Spear's slightly scarred left boob, and Harvey Weinstein's unkosher right nut, I have found some kind of heaven Lord. Due to the happy warm faith I have for you. What else oh Lord, what else can the faithful do?