Funny, the “from” box says it comes from an annoying coworker. From the un-Mormonized version of this one, which just showed up in my work email. Fucking GLURGE. Can you please leave me the hell (heh) out of your salvation? I’m sitting here with a reply addressed to all 16 coworkers you sent this shit to, consisting of just that link to Snopes, but I’m not going to send it. Because it wouldn’t do any goddamned good, you’ll just keep sending this crap. I should never have told you I went to the same Catholic school you’re sending your kids to. Or I should have told you they turned me into a condom-wearing gay satanist. You wouldn’t want anything to do with me then. I mean, you’re nice and all, but Jesus Christ, you make me want to start making up athiest glurge to send to you (“and the child died under the garage door. And became food for worms. Just like your children will. Because there is no god.”) Deep breath. I’m not even mad anymore. just tired of this crap. I’ll just go delete it (sorry, my very special angel) and get back to peacefully existing with my angel-lovin’ god-fearin’ glurge-sendin’ coworkers.
I just want to say that I love the idea of atheist glurge.
Atheist glurge is a fucking fantastic idea. I wish I wasn’t at work so I could spend some time making some.
Send her a friendly note that she’s using office email for personal use and that you’d hate to see her get into trouble over something like this.
Perhaps it’ll be a subtle but effective way of telling her to knock this shit off.
RE: Athiest Glurge
Hmm… could you start talking about upholding the family pride of your ancestors, going back to your pre-Adamite unicellular ones? Respect for the sacrifices made by one’s ancestors is not precisely theistic, after all.
I don’t think you can really glurgify atheist (or even agnostic) concepts. Glurge requires a certain fervor, a tenacity, that encourages you to believe in something.
Now Satanic glurge…. That is another story.
*
Dear Friends and coworkers,
The following story is entirely true! It was covered by a reporter for the NY Times, but the Times never allowed the story to be published!
Cairo, 1994: Many people know of the gnostic gospels, also commonly referred to as the Dead Sea scrolls, but very little has been disclosed about a pair of these gnostic gospels that surfaced near Cairo early in 1994. These gospels are told in the voice of a previously unknown profit, Elan, and tell the story of Elan meeting Lucifer just after his temptation of Christ during his 40 days in the desert.
Lucifer warns that God has played a cruel trick on his chosen people. Jesus is to die, but since he knows he is God’s son, his torment is far less than that experienced by true mortals. Moreover, Jesus is destined for heaven, while most of God’s people end as wandering souls in Sheol. Lucifer’s ‘temptation’ of Christ was an entreaty for him to experience his death as a true man, and visit the pain and confusion of Sheol with him.
July, 2002: Baltimore MD: John Bigsby, a history teacher at Grover Cleveland Highschool near Baltimore’s harbor district reviewed a copy of the Gospel of Elan during a trip to Egypt in 2001. John was greatly affected by the story, and during a time of personal turmoil, decided to turn to Lucifer for help. These are the words he used: “Lucifer, misunderstood angel, please intercede on my behalf.” The next day, John not only won a 5MM lottery and scored with an especially hot student, but the principal who had planned on firing him at the end of the term was run over by a cement truck, the cement permanently burying his flattened corpse!
You must pass this message along to 10 people in your address book within 30 minutes of reading it. If you do, and you say the words of John Bigsby, you too shall be rewarded beyond your wildest dreams!!! *
I had a friend who kept sending me email proselytizing Wiccan(ism?) to me. Over and over, and he knew I was Christian. I finally told him, look I leave you alone about your religion and expect the same respect. I can start sending you all kinds of Christian email or glurge, or you can quit trying to convert me. Your choice. The emails stopped. Maybe you can just tell her that.
Heh. Reverse Glurge.
Father’s eyes
A teenager lived alone with his father, and the two of them had a very special relationship. Even though the son was always on the bench, his Father was always in the stands cheering. He never missed a game.
This young boy was still the smallest of his class when he entered high school. But his father continued to encourage him but also made it very clear that he did not have to play football if he didn’t want to. But the young man lovedfootball and decided to hang in there. He was determined to try his best at every practice, and perhaps he’d get to play when he became a senior.
All through high school he never missed a practice nor a game, but remained a bench warmer all four years. His faithful father was always in the stands, always with words of encouragement for him. When the young man went to college, he decided to try out for the football team as a “walk-on.” Everyone was sure he could never make the cut, but he did. The coach admitted that he kept him on the roster because he always puts his heart and soul into every practice and, at the same time, provided the other members with the spirit and hustle they badly needed.
The news that he had survived the cut thrilled him so much that he rushed to the nearest phone and called his father. His father shared his excitement and was sent season tickets for all the college games. This persistent young athlete never missed practice during his four years at college, but he never got to play in the game.
It was the end of his senior football season, and as he trotted onto the practice field shortly before the big playoff game, the coach met him with a Telegram. The young man read the telegram and became deathly silent. Swallowing hard, he mumbled to the coach, “My father died this morning. Will it be all right if I miss practice today?” The coach put his arm gently around his shoulder and said, “Take the rest of the week off, son. And don’t even plan to come to the game on Saturday.”
Saturday arrived, and the game was not going well. In the third quarter, when the team was ten points behind, a silent young man quietly slipped into the empty locker room and put on his football gear. As he ran onto the sidelines, the coach and his players were astounded to see their faithful teammate.
“Coach, please let me play. I’ve just got to play today,” said the young man.
The coach pretended not to hear him. There was no way he wanted his worst player in this close playoff game. But the young man persisted, and finally, feeling sorry for the kid, the coach gave in. “All right,” he said. “You can go in.” Before long, the coach, the players and everyone in the stands could not believe their eyes. This little unknown, who had never played before was doing everything right.
The opposing team could not stop him. He ran, he passed, blocked and tackled like a star. His team began to triumph. The score was soon tied.
In the closing seconds of the game, the kid intercepted a pass and started for the endzone. Just seconds before he could cross the yardline for the winning touchdown, his foot slipped and he fell. Members of the opposing team piled onto him and the football slipped from his fingers and was recovered by the opposing running back, who returned it 98 yards for a touchdown. The fans broke loose. throwing trash and food at him. His teammates walked over him to the locker room, and spit on him on their way by.
Finally, after the stands had emptied and the team had showered and left the locker room, the coach noticed that the young man was sitting quietly in the corner all alone. The coach came to him and said,
“You fucking asshole. There’s a reason I never let you play, you know. You suck.”
He looked at the coach, with tears in his eyes, and said. “Well, you knew my dad died, but did you know that my dad was blind?” The young man swallowed hard and forced a smile, “Dad came to all my games, but today was the first time he could see me play, and…I really fucked it up. I hate myself.”
SO REMEMBER RIGHT NOW:
Nobody is very proud of you.
Nobody is thinking of you.
Nobody is caring about you.
Nobody misses you.
Nobody wants to talk to you.
Nobody wants to be with you.
Nobody hopes you are not in trouble.
Nobody is thankful for the support you have provided.
Nobody wants to hold your hand.
Nobody hopes everything turns out all right.
Nobody wants you to be happy.
Nobody thinks you ARE a gift.
Nobody admires your strength.
Nobody can’t wait to see you.
Nobody loves you for who you are.
Nobody treasures your spirit.
Nobody is glad that you are their friend.
Nobody wants to get to know you better.
Nobody wants to be near you.
Nobody wants you to know they are there for you.
Nobody would do anything for you.
Nobody wants to share their dreams with you.
Nobody is alive because of you.
Nobody needs your support.
Nobody will cry when they read this.
Nobody needs you to have faith in them.
Nobody trusts you.
Nobody hears a song that reminds them of you
Get fucked.
Beautiful, just beautiful! Uvula Donor I want to worship you. I want to stalk you. I want to boil your pet bunny on the top of your kitchen stove.
Just. Beautiful!
Heh, beautiful! 
Waverly, loved yours too. Heloise and Quicksilver, thanks for the sensible advice. It’s just easier for me to rant than to confront someone, hell, I’m even shy on this messageboard. (Woohoo! Six posts!) But I will definitely use one of those if the glurge continues. OtakuLoki, very interesting idea. People nowdays don’t have enough respect for their pre-Adamite unicellular ancestors. Anyone got more reverse glurge? More chicken soup for the atheist’s lack of a soul?
Egrulg?
Father’s eyes was beautiful, btw. It touched me right … urrrp! Never mind, that was gas. 
Ya know, there are times when the above rings far truer than does any “real” glurge. Hell, I think every one of those is applicable to me right now!
Heap no praise upon me, for all I did was edit a piece of shit that someone sent my wife last week.
Hey, Finch, I’m thinking of you! At least, right now.
There. I’m done. 
Edit or no, it was still a work of art.
Here’s another:
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a republican employee and wasn’t sure I wanted one. I wasn’t sure how my customers would react to Stevie. He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of a conservative. I wasn’t worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don’t generally care who buses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade. The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded “truckstop germ;” the pairs of white shirted businessmen on expense accounts who think every truckstop waitress wants to be flirted with.
I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks. I shouldn’t have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my trucker regulars had adopted him as their official truckstop mascot. After that, I really didn’t care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was convincing him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty. Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus the dishes and glasses onto the cart and meticulously wipe the table with a practiced flourish of his rag. If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truckstop. Their social worker, which stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was the probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home.
That’s why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work. He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that republicans often had heart problems at an early age so this wasn’t unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months. A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery and doing fine. Frannie, my head waitress, let out a war whoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news. Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of the 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table. Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look. He grinned.
“OK, Frannie, what was that all about?” he asked. “We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay.” “I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was the surgery about?”
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie’s surgery, then sighed. “Yeah, I’m glad he is going to be ok,” she said, “but I don’t know how he and his mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they’re barely getting by as it is.”
Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn’t had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn’t want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do. After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand a funny look on her face.
“What’s up?” I asked. “I didn’t get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off,” she said, “This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup.” She handed the napkin to me, and three twenty dollar bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed “Something For Stevie”. “Pony Pete asked me what that was all about,” she said, “so I told him about Stevie and his mom and everything, and Pete and Tony looked at each other and they ended up giving me this.” She handed me another paper napkin that had “Something For Stevie” scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply “truckers.”
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work. His placement worker said he’s been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn’t matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work, met them in the parking lot, and invited them both in to celebrate his day back. Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn’t stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
“Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast,” I said. I took him and his mother by their arms. “Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me.” I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room. “First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this f-ing mess,” I said. I tried to sound stern. Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then got down to work.
All and all, I raked in about $10,000 from the truckers, staff, and regulars who still believe to this day that I slipped the money to Stevie and his mother. Well, I did, sort of. I paid for his breakfast from the stash! Cheapest damn help I ever hired!
Your glurge has served it’s purpose well. I was crying by the end.
Regarding the kid crushed by the garage door glurge, you should send her this link on garage door safety. It would do a hell of a lot more good in the world than sending people stories about “birdies.”
Surely some of the more talented Dopers could write some pro-Cthulhu glurge.
Why should we exert ourselves when this is available on the Web?
Thanks to gobear for posting the link where I could find again.