Folks, a wise man once said that everybody has got to believe in something, no matter how stupid, destructive or wrong. It's one of the very few great Truths in life. It's why we have politics. It's why we have philosophy. It's why we argue. It's why we start more of our sentences with "I think…" rather than just keeping our damn fool mouths shut. It's why we spend so much time pissing and moaning whenever we get the chance. It's why we have comic books. It's why we have tacos. It's why some clever fucker decided to put cheese and gravy on French-fries.

It's why we have religion.

We all believe in something. We all have our own gods. Whether the god you worship is Christian, Eastern, Pagan, or Other, you have a god. Your religion may be organized, traditional, and named, or, it might not be so well defined. It may be that of greed, or excess, or guilt. It may simply be the nihilistic belief in the complete and total absence of any meaning whatsoever - you poor, miserable bastard. Whatever it may be, you can rest assured you have one. You have a creed, a denomination, a faith. You just might not know its name yet.

I'm lucky. I have a religion. I have a prophet. And, he's got a name. In fact, he's got a name so great you have to say it twice: Jerry Jerry.

The first time I encountered Jerry Jerry was about a hundred and fifty years ago, give or take. I was hangin' out in Europe with this morbid, brooding fellow. Damn… what was that guy's name, again? Fred… or Rick… or… ah crap, I guess it doesn't matter. We were hanging out in this little village in the German Alps, drinkin' some beer, tryin' to mack on some fraulines - though Fred/Rick didn't seem to be trying very hard. He was just sitting around and scowling with his arms crossed, mumbling something about looking into an abyss and hunting monsters. He was a shitty wingman.

I quickly scanned the pub, looking for a better drinking buddy, and happened to notice this quiet-looking guy, with wild eyes, stumble into the bar. The dude looked like he just came down from the mountains. His hair was a mess. His clothes were odd. He slapped a couple tattered Deutch Marks on the bar in exchange for two huge mugs of beer. He pounded one back immediately, and then grabbed the other and started pacing nervously around the pub. Clearly, buddy was getting ready for something.

"Was ist dieses? Hatten Sie mich bereits vergessen?" The frauline in my lap tugged playfully at the collar of my tunic, trying to retrieve my attention.

"Shhhh... meine Freundin… sprechen nicht." Shut up, woman.

"Ich entschuldige mich, meine Liebe." I'm sorry, baby. "Wer ist dieser geisteskranke Mann?" Say, who's that nutbar over there? I pointed at the frantic pacer.

"Wer? Er? Der ist Zerra Zerra! Er ist kü-kü!!"

Suddenly, the man she called Zerra Zerra jumped up onto a table, and began yelling franticly at everyone in the bar. After enduring a few seconds of the zealous shouting, people began laughing. Some pointed. I was captivated. It didn't sound like the incoherent ramblings of a madman to me. Rather, it was the sage advice of a spiritual leader. I glanced over and noticed that Fred/Rick was frantically trying to copy down everything the man was saying. I don't think he was getting it all.