Jesus is coming to rave on earth

Orbea spotted this. Both the original and the altered messages are touching in their simplicity – and stupidity. They climbed the sign to write that? On both sides? Jesus is coming? What to Yokine? Some similarities with this where the brainless challenge the morons. If you climb a sign, make it worthwile, eg. Jesus is coming to defeat Jenny Satan. There, how hard would that have been? Otherwise, stick to Cocos fronds.

About The Lazy Aussie

Commended Haiku writer. A lover of The West's Worst. Perth stand-up comedian, photographer and writer.
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76 Responses to Jesus is coming to rave on earth

  1. Sure this isn’t Menora? Will check when passing suspected site on bus tomorrow. Went to school with some Christadelphian kids, poor cunts. No Xmas, no birthdays, no nothin’.


  2. monkeypants says:

    oh i dunno, that happy “e” chugging smiley face made me chuckle


  3. Ljuke says:

    Has the artist also added some shading to the lettering at the top?


  4. monkeypants says:

    i can’t get this outta my head since i read this post:


  5. Pfortner says:

    Gallows ecstasy
    Let’s get this party started
    Take your rapture pill


  6. shazza says:

    If you will allow me to indulge my love once more.


  7. Jesus is coming
    Who can know which church is true?


  8. orbea says:

    havent changed this sign for months
    dry as nun’s nasty


  9. How shall we escape
    If we neglect so great a
    Salvation? I ask.
    (Heb 2:3)


  10. Earl walked past the graffiti stricken sign for the local Christadelphian hall with an almost palpable sense of disgust. Damn kids, he thought, scarcely remembering that he had been young once. But back then it had been different. Folks took pride in their local churches. Sure, there was the friendly rivalry between the Catholics and the rest of them, which only sometimes got out of hand, but no one would dream of defacing a church. This was before graffiti, or street “art” as some drug-addled imbeciles would have it, had assumed the ugly contours of ubiquity. Even the Evans kids down the road, whose mother drank too much, and whose father was usually away on dubious “business trips” that seemed to yield little in the way of money, if the state of their collapsed looking fibro house was anything to go by, had more respect. Ah, Becky Evans, he reminisced. His gaze passed over the small garden shed at the side of the church before his vision turned inward. He remembered, almost as though he were there once again, those first furtive fumblings: the touch of warm flesh; flushed from recent exposure to the furious high-summer sun and the butterfly-like stirrings of adolescent desire. Earl stopped and collected himself. “Damn sectarians”, he muttered to himself, before walking on.


    • mez says:

      Lurching against his drunkeness Jesus set off once again. He knew very well the way to Melville but but was, as usual at this time of night, fading into an unconscious sleepwalk – he would fade back in again, lost and facing a street he could not recall. The dumb pall of the suburbs would defeat him momentarely and he would find himself staring into the side of some lamp post, some bus stop, some street sign until he got his sway up and launched himself in the general direction of what he now knew to be home.

      London had been the golden years and where Jesus had learnt to drink and bullshit and ingratiate himself into the society circles that suited his bonhomie. Attacking the clubs at night with the cream of the Young British Artists before Saatchi, before Matthew Collings. Jesus knew Mark Wallinger when he had a habit and tried to kill himself, he knew Mat Collishaw before Sensation and when Mat had no fucking idea how a digital camera worked let alone anything at all about death, he had been propositiond by Will Self and appeared in Tracey Emin’s sketchbooks. Jesus had known Damien Hirst and watched him become a cunt, had dined at St Johns nightly and stood on the table one night and declared himself “King of Shoreditch!” as the bright young Britart pack cheered and and called him “Fucking Convict!”.

      He leant his head against the side of the boarded up deli. Slowly he found himself focussing on the burnt out evangelical artist, the hum from the kerbside generator kickstarting the albumen in his brain. A sick, sorry, vomitting overcame him. On his knees now he noted the graffiti surrounding the sign. Tentacles. Fucking tentacles.


  11. Ljuke says:

    I was trying to find a link to “Jesus Was A Cowboy” by Suresh & The Naked Chicks, but there seems to be none on the www. You can, however check out their Gosnells Tourism Jingle here:


  12. Pingback: The "pub chat" thread. *NSFW* - Page 321 - Perth Street Bikes

  13. pangy says:

    I think this is an inside job. I think the Christadelphian Meeting Hall is subliminally encouraging their believers to get fucked up, get sweaty, get their kit off and enjoy all the penis retraction and vagina stench that goes with it.

    remove the ‘de’ and the ‘phian’ from Christadelphian, then remove the third ‘e’ and the ‘ing’ from Meeting, then remove the ‘all’ from Hall to find their encoded encouragement for substance abuse.



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