Theology Week Question and Answer Article
Dr. Nyles J. Thimbleputty

Hello, yes, hello.

For 41-years I have studied numbers, letters and other kinds of symbols in the hope of better understanding our world. Years later, I discovered words and ever since then I’ve been using my mind and all of my senses to read them, write them and in a few very isolated, very terrifyingly vivid instances, taste them. I am Nyles J. Thimbleputty and you, esteemed reader, are about to be Thimbleputty in my hands…

A bit of background about me:

I was birthed in a staggeringly large, oppressively smelly barn near Chichester-on-Stratvain-on-Bard. There, in squalor, I was raised by several chickens and an old mule named Sherbet on Nyles of Navingham. His name was ridiculous, of course, being that he had never even been to Navingham. My negligent whore of a mother, from whom I slipped as she was attempting to clean herself with some old barn hay, spent very little time with me. When she wasn’t evacuating her bowels onto the chests of the most discontented members of Chichester-on-Stratvain-on-Bard, she was almost certainly voiding her bladder into the eyes and mouths of those sick bastards from Chichester-on-Bardvain or the various faculty members of the most esteemed, most exclusive school in the area, Oxford University.

After foolishly landing myself in child-prison for charges of indebtedness to a mule and consumption of one’s own chicken-parents, I set about turning my life around. I studied all of the books in the prison library and eventually discovered that chicken-speak and mule-talk are not the linguas franca I believed them to be. I earned a children’s degree in Grown-up Talk with a minor in Prison Escape Studies. At the age of 9 I became head lecturer at the child-prison. I was flying high, to be certain, until I accidentally escaped while lecturing on escape-tunnel construction. I immediately turned myself in so that justice could be done, and I was sentenced to death by Warden Jeffnut for “attempting to lead an escape as well as a blatant disregard for rules related to finishing all of one’s vegetables.”

Luckily, fate stepped in and all over warden Jeffnut’s pockmarked face. It turned out that my mother had some compromising paintings of Warden Jeffnut, posing in a children’s prison inmate uniform. While he might have thought it was cutesy at the time (having seen the photos, I can tell you that it was adorable), it was also a clear violation of the law of her Majesty the Warden Uniform Act of 1665 which states that a warden can wear the uniform of a child inmate if it looks adorable on him, but not if he’s just been shat upon by my mother, the Welsh whore. It was an obscure law, certainly, but one I came across while translating legal texts from English to mule-talk. I was set free and given back my possessions: my old blue blankey and a few pieces of astonishingly rotten but fantastically delicious chicken.

Thanks in large part to my mother’s labor (hoping to make up for my lost childhood, she slept with or puked carrots upon most of the deans, professors, janitors, hobos, tramps, trannies and children of Oxford, knowing that the photos she secretly snapped would later come in handy for my admissions essay), I was accepted into Oxford-on-Stratvain-on-Bard. I began studying how my mother, a firm believer in Catholicism and receiving money for sex, could have possibly birthed 64 children in her short, mostly recumbent 48 years. My thesis paper titled “How My Mother Fucked a Mule” won me great acclaim and recognition, but also helped put to rest a niggling which had always been in the back of my mind. The solution to the puzzle was realized while reading an ancient mule-talk manuscript in which author Po the Mule wrote of his great love affair with a human lady. My guess is that some of the creatures that my lovely mother unleashed from her birth canal had shorter, slightly less human gestation periods. This also explains all the horse faces.

At university, I immediately became the most highly regarded student in my class. I know this is because of my work-ethic (similar to that of Saint Barenstain of Alembic who, it is said by the monks of his monastery, would work for hundreds of hours a week to convert whore after whore at the nearby brothel (It was later discovered that the brothel was actually a nunnery, and Saint Barenstain, having deflowered almost one hundred nuns, should be arrested rather than sainted, but the paperwork had already gone through at the Vatican)). My success certainly did not, as some of my slightly-dimwitted classmates might have you believe, having anything to do with my mother having photographs of each and every one of my professors in astonishingly compromising positions (some lying on piles of pornographic woodcarvings, being shat upon by my mother while she tells them to anally stimulate a favorite childhood stuffed animal, something like that… so say the liars).

So, having received a “Y”, two “Number 8′s” and an ‘8===D’ on all of my exams (the equivalent of an A++ in the States), I became the preeminent scholar of theology, philosophy, psychology, numerology chicken-speak.

After showing my degrees to the editor of the local newspaper (as well as several cyanotype prints featuring said editor with my mother and one-hundred naked, fully erect homeless men) I was given a job writing the Theology Week Question and Answer Article: this one you’re reading right now!

So, with my bona-fides out of the way, let’s answer our first question, shall we?

Dr. Thimbleputty?

I have a very serious problem with my wife. She says that she will leave me if I don’t find a job soon. What can I say to her to convince her that I just need a little more time?

Rallston Thurgoodsmithe

Well, Rallston. You… why did you say my name like it was a question? Who do you think you are? There is no question that my name is Dr. Thimbleputty. Just as there is no question in my mind that you are a kind of scum, a sort of filth that I wouldn’t give the dignity of scraping you off my shoe, and I’d walk around and there would be a squishing sound and people would say, “what is that awful sound your shoe is making?” “It’s Rallston Thurgoodsmithe, real shitheel.”

You are very disrespectful and I’m intent on reporting your name to the local brothels, that one of the more syphilitic whores in my mother’s harem might bite your uncouth dick off. Learn some manners, sir.

Our next question comes from a lady of the book, Nariay Shaheed:

Dearest Dr. Thimbleputtle:

In the Hadith, the Prophet (sal-Allaahu ‘alayhe wa sallam) stipulated that I do not have to pray if the time of the month is…

Whoa, whoa, whoooa-nelly. Hold your shit-train up right there lady. You might as well push that pedal right to the floor and skid into a wall and kill yourself if you think you’re going to come in here and talk to me, a holder of numerous degrees from numerous institutions, “Dr. Thimbleputtle”. Do I look anything like that horse-toothed, swine-nosed inbred son of a whore Nyles P. Thimbleputtle? I should certainly hope not. I may be a son of a whore, but I am slightly less horse-toothed than Thimbleputtle, that inbred, horse-faced, son of a whore. Madame, my advice to you is that you get what you deserve for this slight: to rot away on your back in your nearest brothel wallowing in feculence.

Our final question is from… what? There are no more letters? Well that’s a stroke of luck, it’ll give me time to go say hello to my mother. While I’m there, perhaps I can say hello to your mother too! Didn’t you say she works at the church that is on the way to the brothel? Huzzah!

If you have life and religion questions for Dr. Nyles J. Thumblepitty, email him today at NJThimbleputty@gmail.com

Written by JON CANNON on Friday, February 26th, 2010. Follow comments to this entry through this RSS feed. You can skip to the end and leave a comment. Pinging is currently not allowed.