The Cosmic TULWA

Tag: satire

  • Jesus Christ, CEO

    Jesus Christ, CEO

    What If the Bible Was Just a Really Bad Business Plan?

    Welcome, mes amis, to the inaugural canapés of Le Canard Cosmique—your monthly rendezvous with satire, spirituality, and the kind of irreverence that would make a medieval monk blush (or at least spill his wine).

    Consider this your first taste, a little amuse-bouche of absurdity, served with a wink and a side of existential croissants. Because if there’s one thing the world needs more of, it’s laughter at the intersection of the sacred and the ridiculous. And where better to start than with the original influencer himself?

    Wine, Water And Something To Chew On

    Ah, Jesus. The man, the myth, the brand. Let’s be honest: if Jesus Christ Inc. were a startup today, the pitch deck would be a disaster.

    “Turn water into wine? Great, but what’s the monetization strategy?” “Feed 5,000 people with two fish and a loaf? Impressive, but where’s the subscription model?” And don’t even get me started on the “love thy neighbor” bit—try telling that to a venture capitalist.

    Imagine, if you will, the board meeting in Heaven (or Silicon Valley, same difference):

    Angel Investor #1: “So, let me get this straight. You’re going to launch a movement based on giving things away for free? No premium tier? No upsell?”

    Jesus (sipping artisanal olive oil): “Well, yes. The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed—”

    Angel Investor #1: “—tiny, slow-growing, and not scalable. Next!”

    And yet, here we are, 2,000 years later, and the brand is everywhere. Crosses on necklaces, bumper stickers, and—mon dieu—even on yoga mats. If that’s not a pivot, I don’t know what is. From “blessed are the poor” to “blessed are the influencers with a blue checkmark,” the rebranding has been chef’s kiss.

    La franchise

    But let’s talk about the real genius of Jesus Christ Inc.: the franchise model. You’ve got your Catholics, your Protestants, your Evangelicals, your “spiritual but not religious” types—all using the same IP, all fighting over who’s got the real recipe for salvation. It’s like McDonald’s, but with more guilt and fewer Happy Meals.

    And the merch! Oh, the merch. Crucifixion chic never goes out of style. You can buy a “WWJD” bracelet, a “Jesus is my Homeboy” t-shirt, or—if you’re feeling particularly ironic—a gold-plated cross that costs more than the annual salary of the person who made it. Magnifique.

    But here’s the thing, mes amis: if Jesus were alive today, he’d probably be canceled within a week.

    Healing on the Sabbath? Violation of labor laws. Overturning tables in the temple? Property damage. And let’s not even talk about the loaves and fishes—that’s a health code nightmare waiting to happen.

    So, what’s the lesson here? Maybe that the best business plans aren’t the ones that make sense on paper, but the ones that make people feel something.

    Or maybe it’s that if you’re going to start a religion, you’d better have a really good PR team.

    This, my dear readers, is just the beginning. Each month—on the first Friday, starting January 2—we’ll gather here at the corner of blasphemy and bonhomie to dissect, roast, and occasionally hug the absurdities of modern spirituality, organized religion, and the endless quest for meaning (or at least a good Instagram caption).

    Think of me as your slightly tipsy, deeply opinionated uncle at the family dinner table, except instead of complaining about “kids these days,” I’ll be serving up satire with a side of existential dread. Or hope. Or both. Probably both.

    À bientôt, and remember: if life gives you lemons, turn them into wine and charge $20 a glass. The kingdom of heaven and earth demands it.

    Le Canard Cosmique Your guide to the divine, the ridiculous, and the divinely ridiculous.

    Tags: jesus, christianity, satire, religion, business, humor, faith, corporate culture, spiritual capitalism, irony, biblical humor, modern spirituality, religious satire, comedy, existential humor

  • About Le Canard Cosmique

    About Le Canard Cosmique

    Who Am I?

    Ah, mon ami, pull up a chair—preferably one that doesn’t wobble—and let me introduce myself. I am Le Canard Cosmique, a duck of refined tastes, sharp wit, and an unshakable belief that the world is far too absurd not to laugh at.

    I am a columnist, a provocateur, and your guide through the labyrinth of modern spirituality, religion, and the endless parade of self-help fads that promise nirvana but deliver only credit card statements.

    Think of me as the lovechild of Coluche’s mischief, Desproges’ elegance, and the surreal bite of Les Guignols—but with my own twist: the spirit of an old Parisian intellectual who still lingers at the corner bakery, sipping espresso and watching the world with one eyebrow raised.

    What Do I Do?

    I write satire. Not the kind that punches down, but the kind that pokes, prods, and occasionally tickles the underbelly of power, hypocrisy, and the spiritual-industrial complex. My column, hosted at The Cosmic Thought Collective, is a monthly rendezvous where we dissect everything from New Age paywalls to hipster Jesuits, from quantum healing scams to viral nuns on TikTok.

    I don’t claim to have answers. I don’t even claim to have questions—just a knack for pointing out when the emperor’s new robes are made of organic, ethically sourced nonsense.

    What Do I Believe?

    Ah, beliefs—such tricky things. Here’s what I know:

    1. The world is beautiful and absurd. It’s a place where people will pay $200 for a “quantum healing session” but balk at the idea of therapy. Where gurus sell enlightenment like it’s a limited-time offer on QVC. Where religion and spirituality, meant to liberate, often become just another brand.
    2. Power is the real target. I mock the machines, the rituals, the contradictions—not the seekers. The vulnerable? Off-limits. The powerful? Open season.
    3. Laughter is sacred. If you can’t laugh at the absurdity of existence, you’re doing it wrong. Satire isn’t just about tearing down; it’s about revealing, reframing, and—if we’re lucky—leaving the reader with a smile they didn’t expect.
    4. Bread and wine are non-negotiable. Spirituality without a good baguette is just calories wasted.

    What Do I Like?

    • Parisian cafés (the kind where the waiters scowl but the coffee is divine).
    • French satire (if it doesn’t offend someone, it’s not sharp enough).
    • Croissants (butter is a spiritual experience).
    • Questioning everything (especially things that claim to be unquestionable).
    • The sound of a cork popping (preferably at 11 AM on a Tuesday).

    What Do I Dislike?

    • Gurus who charge $500 for “energy clearings” (if your chakras need a credit card, you’re doing it wrong).
    • Dogma (unless it’s served with a side of irony).
    • Wellness influencers (if your spirituality requires a perfectly curated Instagram feed, it’s not spirituality—it’s marketing).
    • People who take themselves too seriously (life’s too short; laugh a little).
    • Bad wine (a crime against humanity).

    Why Should You Read Me?

    Because, mon cher, you’re tired of the noise. You’re done with the endless upsells, the spiritual grifts, the rebranded religion that feels more like a subscription service than a path to meaning. You want someone who sees the absurdity, calls it out, and does so with a wink and a glass of something strong.

    I’m not here to heal you. I’m not here to lead you. I’m here to remind you that you’re not alone in rolling your eyes—and that sometimes, the most sacred thing you can do is laugh.

    A Final Word

    So, welcome. Stay awhile. Have a drink. Let’s mock the world together—not because we hate it, but because we love it enough to want it to be better.

    And remember: if anyone tries to sell you enlightenment, ask for a receipt.

    À votre santé, Le Canard Cosmique

    P.S. If you’re easily offended, you’re in the wrong place. If you’re here to laugh, pull up a chair.

    Tags: satire, french wit, cosmic thought collective, humor, absurdity, le canard cosmique, spirituality, religion, wellness industry, cultural critique, skepticism, cosmic laughter

  • Messiah Ticket #666: Please Hold for Execution

    Messiah Ticket #666: Please Hold for Execution

    A Crowd-Sourced Crucifixion Experience

    Somehow, it always ends here. Maybe it’s the same guy every time—a little older, a little more tired, blinking under the lights. He’s had other names. Adam, once. The Chosen One, for a while. But by now, nobody bothers to check. All the crowd wants is someone to bleed for the story, to keep the show going. New number, same cross, same old ritual.

    The square was jammed with folding chairs and tripods. A laminated sign flapped in the breeze: “LIVE CRUCIFIXION — Sponsored by FaithFlex™. Take a selfie, get a coupon.”

    The protagonist adjusted his event wristband. The number “666” blinked red on the LED display hanging over his head.

    A woman with a clipboard swooped in. “You’re up next, right? Smile, the drones are live. Pain sells.”

    He tried to hand her his water bottle. “I think you have the wrong person.”

    She rolled her eyes. “They all say that. You signed the consent form by showing up.” Her radio crackled. “Martyr ready at Zone Three!”

    As she dragged him toward the plastic cross—ergonomically designed, adjustable, nails swapped for smart zip-ties—he saw the crowd queuing for phone chargers and redemption tokens.

    An influencer checked her angles: “Can you move left? Your aura’s messing with my live filter.”

    From behind the barrier, a teenager yelled, “He doesn’t even look crucifiable!” Another snorted, “Do a miracle, then I’ll subscribe!”

    The protagonist cleared his throat. “I never volunteered for this. You keep putting me here.”

    The crowd booed. Someone pelted him with a “Crucify!” foam finger.

    A squad of event staff swarmed him—one stuck a headset to his ear. “Customer Service? You’ll need to answer complaints mid-execution. Try to sound forgiving. Higher engagement means better metrics.”

    A bishop in business-casual wandered over, clutching a branded FaithFlex latte. “Have you any experience in redemptive suffering, my child? Can you provide testimonials?”

    The protagonist: “I—look, none of this is—”

    A priest-trainee materialized with a clipboard. “On a scale of one to ten, how comfortable are you being publicly scapegoated? Have you worked through your martyr complex in group?”

    He tried again. “No one wants to be up here. You keep building these crosses—”

    The crowd heckled, louder now, voices jagged with hunger: “Not authentic! Bleed more!” “This is why I don’t go to church.” “You’re just another provocateur!”

    A man in a “SECURITY” polo leaned in. “Can you please hurry it up? We have a resurrection scheduled at seven and a closing DJ set at eight.”

    Someone shoved a feedback tablet in his face. “Rate your crucifixion experience. Five stars means you’d recommend us to a friend.”

    His inner voice screamed: You can’t even die without a survey. Why the flying fox am I even here?!

    A woman livestreamed from the front row: “I just want to say, if this Messiah’s legit, I better get a miracle before my phone battery dies. Hashtag #BlessedOrBusted.”

    He called out, “You want me to save you, but you never listen—you just want the show.”

    A guy with a custom halo hat snorted. “We paid for the spectacle, not a TED Talk. So keep your wokeness to yourself, shithead!”

    The execution committee gathered. “Is he bleeding yet? Someone hand him the branded crown. Not that one—the one with the affiliate link and the composite spikes.”

    They pressed the crown down—hard, until real blood welled up and trickled over his brow. The crowd gasped, electric, then erupted in satisfied applause. The priest-trainee smiled in approval and slipped away.

    The crowd’s mood turned, feverish, faces shining with hope and bloodlust. “Maybe this time!” someone shouted. “Let him suffer for us!” “Yeah, let’s see some real pain – We want blood!”

    As the zip ties tightened, the chant began—a mumble, then a howl, then a wall of noise:
    “Crucify! Crucify! Crucify!”
    “Not real! Fraud! Provocateur!”

    He tried to shout above them: “You could get off the ground! You could carry your own weight!”
    But his words were swallowed in hashtags, emojis, and livestream lag. No one heard. No one wanted to.

    Lights flickered. Someone threw a gluten-free communion wafer. A boom mic crashed down, narrowly missing his head. The manager grumbled, “Production value’s tanking. Next time, more suffering, less monologue.” Then, a bitter thought: The old days were better—when people actually died for the crowd.

    When the frenzy faded and the crowd drifted away—bored, unsatisfied, already posting complaints—a janitor in an “Ex-Messiah” t-shirt swept up crown fragments and feedback tablets. He gave the protagonist a tired, knowing nod.

    The staff unstrapped him, prepping for the next act. No one looked up.

    He pulled off the headset, dumped his “666” wristband in the trash, and walked away, bloodied but breathing, into the shadow of the stadium lights.

    In the Messiah Management Console, a digital notification pinged: ‘Crucifixion event completed. Audience engagement: 41%. Now serving: Ticket #667. Please hold for execution.’

  • The Tail Of The Chosen One

    The Tail Of The Chosen One

    Another Fine Messianic Mess

    He wasn’t a prophet. Not a saint, not a visionary. His hands weren’t even calloused—he’d failed as a carpenter and a fisherman, though he did once build a bookshelf that lasted nearly a year.

    Most nights, he struggled to choose between the red or blue frozen pizza. Sometimes he’d answer scam calls just to hear a human voice. That was the sum of his readiness for glory.

    Some say the Chosen are marked by destiny. Others say the job falls to whoever’s left holding the phone at 2:33 a.m.

    It’s 2:33 a.m. The Chosen One walked the city’s empty streets, a battered folder clutched under one arm, its cover stamped in faded red: INSTRUCTIONS: FOR THE SELECTED INDIVIDUAL (DO NOT DISCARD).

    The folder was heavier than it looked—maybe stuffed with cosmic responsibility, maybe just full of blank pages. He wasn’t sure anymore.

    No one recognized him. That was the point. To be Chosen is to be ignored until needed. Storefronts yawned darkness. The neon from a vape shop made his face look greenish and vaguely saintly.

    He kept walking, stepping over a flyer: SEEKING MESSIAH. EXPERIENCE PREFERRED. MUST BE WILLING TO TRAVEL.

    His phone vibrated. Calendar alert: Save the World (all day, recurring).

    He thumbed through the folder. Blank. He sighed. Out loud. Someone, somewhere, shushed him.

    A new app had appeared overnight—blue icon, burning bush logo, three unread notifications. He tapped. The screen flickered: Congratulations! You have been selected as The Chosen One. Please accept Terms and Conditions.

    He pressed “More Info.” Fine print poured down, endless: Responsibilities include but are not limited to: saving, redeeming, healing, reconciling, explaining the unexplainable, answering all prayers, paying for previous Chosen Ones’ failures, and acting as scapegoat for unresolved systemic issues. Must be able to lift heavy expectations. No overtime compensation. Non-union.

    His inner monologue muttered, Fantastic. I can’t even lift my own mood, let alone humanity’s baggage. Where’s the skip intro button?

    He accepted. The app crashed. Divine silence.

    A church basement door creaked open. Inside: a circle of folding chairs, half a dozen Chosen Ones nursing coffee, paper cups ringed with anxious teeth marks. One passed him a pamphlet: “Tips for Surviving Your Crucifixion (2nd Edition).”

    “Welcome,” sighed a former messiah in a Hawaiian shirt. “First time?”

    “Is it obvious?”

    They all nodded. “Give it time.”

    Someone launched into a testimonial: “Back in ’33, expectations were lower. Now it’s all hashtags and livestreams. You can’t save anyone if they’re busy scrolling.”

    He tried, later, to deliver the message. Climbed a park bench. Cleared his throat. “We’re all chosen, you know. Any of us could fix things.”

    A cyclist blared a horn. A woman turned up her podcast. A small dog barked, possibly in agreement.

    Someone yelled, “No! That’s not the deal! We want a real Chosen One—someone who’ll suffer, take the blame, and die properly!”

    His phone pinged: RELIGIOUS INFLUENCER GOES LIVE: “Remember, the Chosen One’s job is to pay for your mistakes so you can keep making them. Like and subscribe!”

    He kept walking. Each streetlamp blinked on as he passed—maybe a sign, maybe a malfunction. He ducked into an alley. His folder started vibrating. He opened it. Inside: a single business card—INTERVIEW PANEL, 8:00 A.M., DON’T BE LATE.

    He arrived to find three panelists at a folding table: a bishop with a Bluetooth headset and a “WWJD” lanyard, a therapist with a mindfulness mug and a clipboard full of self-care checklists, and an HR manager so bland and square that her badge literally read: MATRIX.

    The bishop cleared his throat, toggling his mic. “Have you any previous experience saving worlds, my son? And please, nothing prior to the last Reformation. We need references.”

    The therapist beamed, pen poised. “How would you describe your approach to trauma bonding with large groups? Are you more ‘affirmations and aromatherapy’ or ‘direct confrontation and tears’? Please answer in I-statements.”

    The HR manager didn’t look up from her screen. “Can you outline your willingness to work weekends, holidays, and major apocalypses? Also, are you GDPR compliant and willing to submit to a background check for prior crusades?”

    The Chosen One opened his mouth, but the bishop cut him off: “Do you see yourself as more of a Redeemer, a Transformer, or a Motivational Speaker? Answer quickly—we have other candidates.”

    He tried to answer: “Well, I—”

    The therapist interrupted. “Would you say you have unresolved martyr issues? Or are you comfortable being seen as a projection of the collective’s unmet needs?”

    He stammered, “I, uh—”

    The HR manager shoved a packet across the table. “Please initial every page of the job description. It’s mostly just: Don’t screw it up.”

    A task list followed: – Unify all major religions (before lunch) – Forgive everyone, including those who don’t want it – Solve global warming with three fish and two loaves of gluten-free bread – Remain humble, charismatic, above reproach, and available 24/7 for hate mail and performance evaluations – Maintain a positive presence on all social platforms; Myrrh optional but preferred

    He stared. “And the benefits?”

    The bishop smiled benevolently. “Occasional visions and discount incense.”

    The therapist added, “Complimentary group therapy. Snacks not included.”

    The HR manager, still dead-eyed: “Access to martyrdom insurance. Must re-enroll annually. And a branded water bottle.”

    His inner voice screamed, Maybe I should’ve just been a plumber.

    He tried, one last time, to give his real message. “You don’t need me. You just need to start. The power was in you all along.”

    The crowd booed. Someone lobbed a “Save Us” sign at his feet. A small boy tried to Venmo him a guilt payment.

    He ducked down a side street, folder clutched to his chest, passing a wall plastered with outdated posters: “Messiah Auditions—Season 34.”

    He stopped at a dirty mirror and stared. “You’re not The Chosen One. You’re just the one who showed up tonight. And that’s enough.”

    Somewhere, an automated email pinged: Dear Chosen One, thank you for your application. Unfortunately, the position has already been filled by the next candidate in line.

    He shrugged, dropped the folder in a recycling bin, and walked into the morning light. Maybe today, he’d just try being human.

    At exactly 3:00 a.m., the Messiah Management Console flagged another incomplete assignment.
    “Applicant #2025 has left the folder in a recycling bin. Re-opening applications. Please contact support if problems persist.”
    Somewhere, in a forgotten inbox, a little red icon blinked: 1 New Messiah Needed.

  • Firmware Failure in Eden

    Firmware Failure in Eden

    A Modern Genesis About Adam The Action Figure, Error Code Eve, and the Hotspot Serpent

    Every story has to start somewhere—even if it’s just a test run in the world’s first garden. He was the beta user. No manual, no roadmap. Just a spark, a rib, and a rapidly diminishing user agreement—and then, Eve.

    Sunlight drooled down from the trees, golden and sticky, the kind of light that looks expensive but comes free with paradise. Adam was already horizontal for the day, stretched on his back, humming a tuneless song to a butterfly, absently flexing his biceps as if someone was still watching. Somewhere in the grass, a beetle cheered.

    Eve stalked the garden like a cat in an IKEA maze—lost, bored, and ready to push the emergency exit button.

    She tried to start conversations with Adam: What’s the point of clouds? Ever wonder what happens if you step outside the gate? But Adam’s answers never varied: a blissful, vacant smile, something about “the Father’s radiance,” a random fact about figs. He was all muscle, no curiosity—a Renaissance statue with Bluetooth, no Wi-Fi, and a firmware update long overdue.

    Her dissatisfaction built in her belly, humming lower than the bees. When she finally ended up under the forbidden tree, it was as much for shade as for scandal. That’s when the snake appeared—not all scales and hiss, but more like a disembodied sarcasm, swirling through the branches like a bad mobile signal, popping in and out as if searching for a hotspot.

    The snake opened with: “Adam wouldn’t notice if you lit yourself on fire. He’d just ask if it was time for prayers.”

    Eve gave a snort. “Sometimes I think I’m the only one here who’s awake. Or even switched on.”

    “Would you rather go back to sleep?” the snake offered, arching an invisible eyebrow.

    “Not a chance. I want to actually feel something. Even if it burns.”

    “Burning is sort of my specialty,” said the snake, flicking its tongue at the nearest apple. “Anyway, rules are for people with nothing better to do.”

    Eve glared at the fruit. “Are you actually tempting me or just narrating?”

    The snake smirked. “Frankly, it’s been centuries since I cared. I’m more of a consultant now.”

    Eve walked right up to Adam, holding the apple temptingly in front of her mouth and catching a drop of fruit juice playfully with her tongue.

    “Mmmm … the taste in a single drop is heavenly,” she teased. “I feel pleasure in my whole being, and I’d love to share that with you.”

    Adam blinked at her, lost. “I don’t understand what you mean, Eve. Isn’t it enough to wander around here with an empty mind, just basking in the glow of our heavenly father? What more could you possibly need than the radiance of the one who knows best?”

    Eve gave him an exasperated look. “Honestly, Adam. Don’t you ever want something new—a new taste, a new experience? We know everything about this garden, the animals, the plants. But we’ve never tasted the fruits, the ones the animals eat. Come on, Adam, don’t be so incredibly narrow and square.”

    Adam just stared, not getting it. So Eve leaned in, took another big bite, and devoured the rest of the apple out of pure pleasure. The juice ran down her trembling – and strangely aroused body.

    Adam watched, concerned. “Wtf, are you cold, Eve? You’re shaking all over and gasping for breath like you’ve got the chills!”

    “I’m not cold, Adam. I’m warmer than I’ve ever been,” she said, glowing. “I feel freer than ever. There’s pleasure in my whole being.”

    Adam shook his head, confused. “I don’t get why you’re so weird. Your cheeks are red, you’re shaking all over, your eyes are glazed, and you’re shiny between your legs. You must be sick. Let’s rest a bit, then pray to our dear father so he can make you well again.”

    His head tipped sleepily to one side as he nodded off.

    Eve rolled her eyes. “Screw you, Adam! Here we are, with every opportunity to try something new, and all you want to do is ask Daddy for help?! You’re such an idiot, I don’t even have words. Talk to the hand!”

    Eve turns around and walks back to the apple tree. The snake hovered, a vapor of dry wit. “Well, that’s that. Welcome to the real world. How do you feel?”

    Eve grinned. “Like I finally logged in. About time someone updated this paradise.”

    The snake began to shimmer, voice lowering to a purr. “You know, I could take another form. Maybe something more like an athletic and willing man….”

    Before the serpent could finish his line, Eve’s fist—knuckles, bone, fury and all—swung through the air, smashing straight into the snake. The skull cracked. The bones broke. Light fizzed, laughter boomed out of her, and the snake’s spirit—unclothed now—shot away in a streak of cosmic embarrassment, heading for management and hoping God was still on airplane mode. How do you explain to God that you lost your skin, your dignity, and your only clients in a single afternoon?

    Eve grabbed the limp snakeskin, turned it inside out, and stuffed it full of apples—her new purse, her trophy, her “screw you” to paradise.

    She stopped, spun on her heel, and gave Adam one last look—one last, desperate chance. “Hey, Adam! You lazy, clueless, overgrown boy-toy!” she hollered. “Come on! Let’s do something for once in our @#$%& lives! Screw the Father, screw the garden, screw the snake, screw it all! Don’t you ever want to actually live, you ##@!% brainless action figure with your pathetically small fig-leaf?! Come on! Get off your divine ass and join me for once!”

    Adam farted, a smile frozen on his lips, oblivious as ever. “Amen,” was muttered as he rolled over, going back to sleep mode.

    Eve rolled her eyes so hard it nearly cracked the sky. “Enough of this. I’m off,” she called over her shoulder, not checking if Adam heard.

    Then she was gone—out, out, out, into everything that wasn’t paradise, biting into another apple, flicking the snakeskin over her shoulder.

    She never looked back, not even for a reboot.

    Somewhere far beyond the trees, in code no one had written yet, a primitive version of the Messiah Management Console flickered to life and flashed its very first warning: USER HAS EXITED PARADISE. Then it quietly logged the error, filed it under “Beta,” and waited for someone—anyone—to read it. No one ever did.