As Jeremy began serving his time at the Federal Penitentiary in Florence, CO. The prison was ready for a problem inmate, but no one could have been prepared for the havoc that Jeremy and his followers would wreak.
It started off simply enough. A few of the remaining members of Jeremyâs secretive cult assembled outside the prison walls. They carried signs and chanted. The protests were small, and it was easy to shoo away the crowd late in the evening. But it would not remain simple.
Four weeks into his sentence, Jeremy was allowed to have a visitor. The warden protested, but the Federal Bureau of Prisons had their hands tied. The fullest security measures were taken. Prison guards carried fully automatic rifles and posted up in the visitorsâ room.
The visitor was an unknown executive in the church. He was noticeably nervous as he approached the glass window and phone line. He took his seat and repeatedly rammed his head into the window. He was showered in bullets.
Explosives were found along the exterior wall of the prison. However, the volatile chemicals within the contraptions were rendered useless by all of the wine that had evidently been spilled. A wine truck attempted to crash through the gates of the prison, but the driver was so intoxicated, that he failed to do even that, and destroyed several prison vehicles.
Jeremyâs followers finally pooled their resources and mounted what seemed to them to be a airtight assault on the prison. They assembled outside of the prison gates and stormed in.
They were mowed down almost effortlessly by the heavily armed guards. The guards then shot Jeremy for good measure.
It seemed to all involved that this was the end of one of Americaâs most volatile and secretive cults. But there was one follower left, and he would prove a far greater foe than even Jeremy.
John cuts out the middle man and makes his own wine! New episode every #Winesday! Featuring John Barrett Written by John Barrett & Greg Goodness & Jack Waz D...
So, in early April, 2016, Jeremy could no longer hide. His sins were to be laid bare for all to see in that cool federal courtroom. The high-priced lawyers that the church had relied on for decades could no longer risk the blemish on their reputation that would stem from taking such unpopular clientele in so public a setting. All that stood between Jeremy and a sizable prison stint was a young public defender whose voice cracked audibly during opening statements.
The prosecution launched into their direct-examinations almost gleefully. Damning evidencethat the church had fought to keep confidential was now suddenly publicly available. And certainly it was bad enough for people outside of the church to have a glimpse into their operations, but the worst part from the churchâs perspective was that this evidence helped to corroborate long disputed court testimony and affidavits.There was no question this would end in a conviction, but how serious a conviction was yet to be seen.
When the jury filed off to deliberate, Jeremyâs posture collapsed. He would find no relief when they filed back in within mere minutes, almost always a sign of a guilty verdict.
The judge read each verdict individually (twelve counts in all). Guilty on each count. This was a terrible, though not unexpected, result for the church. The sentencing would be even worse, the accumulated guilty verdicts ended up netting Jeremy a total of 125 years in prison.
Upon hearing the judge issue the sentence, Jeremy darted up from his seat, exclaiming âI am the guardian of the hereafter! I carry the burden of tomorrow! I am the Vintner.â He leaped over the defenseâs table and sprinted toward the window. He took a header through the glass, landing on the ground with a thud, and dislocating his shoulder. He was pathetically wheeled back to his holding cell where a large quantity of contraband wine was discovered.
FBI agents pounded on the door of the compound. The reverberating thud stopped everyone in his or her tracks. They didnât yet know that the urgent demands of ingress were from Federal law enforcement, but no one was under any misapprehensions in the compound. The jig was most assuredly up.
With a quick darting of his eyes, Jeremy, beloved leader of the Church of the Jeremiad set his loyal clergy to work locating incriminating documents and shredding them. He coolly walked to the door and greeted the investigators. He was promptly served with a warrant and pushed out of the way by a team of surly G-men.
The administrative offices were chaotic, but the housing for the churchâs lay-parishioners was an utter catastrophe. Jeremy had re-purposed old summer camp dormitories to house almost ten times as many people as they were built for. Now these people, as many as eight hundred, were alerted to the presence of not just outsiders, but outsiders openly hostile to the church. The subsequent tumult was unnerving.
By Jeremyâs design, the churchâs theological framework was apocalyptic. His sermons were filled with vague, but imaginative descriptions of an epic final battle between the heavily armed, but robotic forces of evil and the small, but righteous crew of believers. Was this that battle? These church members could certainly be forgiven for thinking so.
And so they tore apart their living quarters in an attempt to fashion crude weapons out of the wood and metal that had been their home for the better part of a decade. It would prove a foolhardy endeavor.
Jeremy was attempting to smooth-talk the agents when the throng burst through the rear entrance of the churchâs main office. One brave church member hoisted a jagged, broken two-by-four over his head and charged toward the agents.
Feeling understandably threatened, the agents opened fire, killing the would be assailant. It was in this brief, pregnant moment that, had cooler heads prevailed, the mob could have been subdued. But that was not to be the case. The enraged parishioners charged at the agents, who took cover and called for their SWAT back up.
In the ensuing chaos, Jeremy moved to a side exit. He slid through and made a run for the churchâs fleet of vans and mini-buses.
As the SWAT team arrived, one of the more observant agents noticed a church member fiddling with wires. He tried to signal to one of his fellow agents, but it was too late. An explosion ripped through the front of the office, bringing down a large steel beam. No one was killed, but the team of Federal agents were now trapped. They would be forced to shoot their way out.
More back up arrived to spot Jeremy get into one of the churchâs vans and speed off toward the compoundâs exit. Thinking on his feet, one agent fired a carefully aimed shot at one of the vanâs tires. The van rocked violently and turned over onto its roof. The agents rushed the overturned van.
Inside they found a bruised and bloodied Jeremy, a poorly maintained handgun, four hundred thousand dollars cash, and fifteen cases of a foul, nearly poisonous concoction that loosely resembled wine.
It has become something of a legend in the bureau, and the veracity of the claim is disputed, but every agent trapped in the compoundâs offices claim that at the precise moment of Jeremyâs capture, the church members laid down their home-made weapons and quietly surrendered.
âHoney!â your idiot husband shouts from the doorway, nervously. âHoney, I invited the boss over for dinner.â
You stupid ass, you think. Why would this idiot invite his boss to the house on such short notice? Probably because he is an idiot.
âAnd... uh, not for nothing, but Iâm up for a huge promotion.â
Great, another wrench in the increasingly wrenchful gears of your evening. âIs there anything else I should know?â
âFunny you should ask me that,â your ungrateful prick of a life-partner starts. âMy boss, well, he...â
âOut with it, Harold!â Your husbandâs name is Harold.
âWell. Heâs a drunk. If he goes more than twenty minutes without a drink, he goes into DTs.â
âWell tell him to bring booze with him. I donât have any alcohol in this house. And the wine store closes in ten minutes.â
âCan... Can we make some?â
This fucking moron. You stare at him.
âDo you have grapes,â you ask, sternly.
âNo. I have a cantaloupe and jelly though!â
You sigh and put your head in your hand, but, ever the dutiful spouse, you approach your husband. He reaches into his satchel, producing a bruised cantaloupe and half of a jar of jelly. You walk to the kitchen, and throw the ingredients in a sauce pan. He owes you, but he knows it.
As you pull the concoction off the stove, there is a knock at the door.
âJenkins!â shouts a man from the other side (your husbandâs last name is Jenkins). âJenkins itâs been fifteen minutes since my last drink. Open your fucking door!â
Your husband opens the door. âMr.--â
âDRINK!â he almost sings.
âLet me just pour a glass for you--â you start before he cuts you off.
âJust give me that damn pot!â He chugs the entire contents of the saucepan, then belches heartily. âA damn fine brew!â He falls forward onto the floor and vomits. The vomit mingles with blood that pours out his nose. He seems at peace.
John identifies wine as all greats do... by what kind of container it comes in! New episode every #Winesday! Featuring John Barrett Written by John Barrett &...
I woke up drenched in piss. I farted. âI want to drink wine,â I thought. So I drank some wine. It came in a bag. It was delicious.
John identifies wine as all greats do... by what kind of container it comes in! New episode every #Winesday! Featuring John Barrett Written by John Barrett &...
Jeremy says the Ascendancy is coming! Iâm excited! I hope they have good wine in heaven!
Who needs a cork(s-word) when you have these helpful hints?! New episode every #Winesday! Featuring John Barrett Written by John Barrett & Greg Goodness & Ja...
The avalanche was unexpected. Though that said more about us than about the avalanche. We should have expected it. We were at a cabin in the Alps. But regardless, we were caught off guard when the avalanche rumbled past the house.
âIs there any way out?â asked Jerry. Jerry was stupid. A real numbskull. But at this point, that was a good question. I got up and stood at the window.
âIt looks like weâre completely buried,â I said. The snow had piled up past the top of the window. It had to have been at least eight feet.
âThank God none of us were out there!â Sophie interjects. Sophie was a rule follower. But in a situation like this, rules breakdown. She could sense that, and she was nervous.
âAlright, letâs assess this situation.â I had to assume command here. No one else was going to have the stomach for it. âAverage response time to one of these things is, what? An hour?â
âHopefully a little better than that!â Sophie practically gasped.
âAlright, hopefully.â A pause.
âUnless the Ranger station is out too.â Fucking Jerry.
âAlright. Well we have enough food to last us...â I did some quick calculations, thinking about what we were given in our rations, the math didnât look good. âOkay, weâve got food for two days. If we limit ourselves to the bare minimum, we can go for five to seven.â
âI already feel so hungry!â Jesus Christ, Jerry.
âLook the Rangers will be here in an hour. Itâll take... I donât know, an hour or two to dig down to us? We donât need to worry too much right now!â
But Jerry was already in the refrigerator.
âYou motherfucker!â Sophie never cursed. We had been trapped for less than ten minutes, and they were already starting to break.
âEveryone, we need to calm the hell down right now.â This was a useless thing for me to say.
âI canât calm down man! Weâre trapped!â Jerry had already started eating half of his food rations.
âYouâre a goddamned idiot, Jerry.â Sophie approached him, threateningly.
âGuys. Try and keep it together.â I looked around for any sort of an olive branch. The only thing around was a bottle of wine that some previous occupants of this tiny ski cabin had left behind. âHere, guys, letâs just open this and relax. Itâs just a matter of time!â They stared tensely at each other, but backed down.
I walked over to the kitchen and began opening drawers. âDo these pricks not have a corkscrew?â
âYou donât need a corkscrew to open a bottle of wine,â Jerry huffed impatiently at me. He grabbed the wine bottle and removed his shoe. âYou just gotta do this!â
He put the bottle in his shoe and began slamming it against the wall. He grunted and groaned for about ten seconds before stammering âI think itâs working. I think I see the cork moving.â
âThis is going to waste our oxygen!â shouted Sophie.
I refrained from reminding her that all this yelling was worse for the oxygen. We werenât going to run out of oxygen.
âLet me try something,â she said, grabbing the bottle from Jerry.
She approached the closet and rifled through the hangers. She pulled out a wire one and began untwisting it, and bending it into a narrower hook.
âYou just cram this past the cork...â she grunted while trying to push the wire hanger down into the glass bottle. She relented after nearly a minute of intense struggle.
âFuck this.â Jerry opened a drawer and produced a hammer. He walked over and grabbed the bottle. âWeâll do this the easy way.â
Jerry walked over to the sink. He held the bottle over the drain, and came down with the hammer, hard. The wine went everywhere.
âWell good job asshole. Now we donât even have wine.â Sophie did not get the expected response. We both walked over to Jerry.
âJerry, buddy, whatâs the matter?â I asked. I placed my hand over his shoulder and turned his body towards me. He was limp. An errant piece of broken glass has cut through his jugular vein and was shooting blood onto the kitchen tile. Sophie screamed.
âIf only we knew how to open wine without a corkscrew!â she intoned, miserably. âIf only we knew!â
Should you serve swiss with your Sauvignon? John cuts the cheese! New episode every #Winesday! Featuring John Barrett Written by John Barrett & Greg Goodness...
The boss calls in a panic. âJenkins!â he shouts (your name is Jenkins). âWeâve got to close this Pilkington account immediately! They need to buy 40 tons of screws and Worthingtonâs Screw Concern is going to sell it to them!â (You work for Worthingtonâs Screw Concern). âWe have a reservation at Chez Magnifique at 7 tonight! Wine them and dine them, then sell them a whole shitload of screws!â
This is it! This is your big chance to make your mark on the screw game. Youâll be salesman of the year easily. And schmoozing at a dinner is your entire game. You got this!
You arrive at Chez Magnifique and take a seat by the entrance as the Pilkington contingent arrives. You share handshakes, chuckles, and hearty pats on the back. The Maitre dâ shows you to your table.
Menus are handed out, but Mr. Pilkington is eager to get to the matter at hand. His face grows serious. âLetâs talk screws, Jenkins. I need a lot of screws.â
You keep your composure. A slight smile remains on your lips. âMr. Pilkington, I am prepared to sell you a lot of screws, but first...â
A waiter has approached the table. âCan I interest the table in some wine?â
Cold sweat.
âHey Jenkins, pick out a good wine for us,â says one of Pilkingtonâs cronies.
A lump forms in your throat and you try to swallow it away. You pick up the wine list. Your nerves are apparent.
âUmmm... Weâll take a bottle of...â You scan the list. Itâs as if it is printed in another language. A language with an entirely different alphabet. You stammer for a moment and finally blurt out, âWhite Zin.â
The table erupts into laughter. Even the waiter who has been well trained not to laugh at novice wine-drinkers chuckles a bit.
âWhite Zin?â Pilkington manages to get out between laughs. âAre you fucking serious? Youâre trying to order me a bottle of white zinfandel? Are you a child? A simple child who was kicked in the head by a horse early in his development?â The laughs increase in volume. âYouâre a fucking idiot. I refuse to buy screws from an idiot child! Come gentlemen, letâs leave this idiot child to his White Zin and private misery.â
The next day at the office, Mr. Worthington calls you in.
âJenkins!â He shouts. âYou are a moron. Only a moron would order white Zinfandel at a business dinner!â
âIâm sorry sir. I didnât know.â
âItâs abundantly fucking obvious that you didnât know. You have two choices, Jenkins. You can clear out your desk and kick rocks back to whatever filthy swamp you crawled out of.â He pauses. âOr you can buy 40 tons of screws yourself.â
Youâre ruined. You donât have the money for 80,000 pounds of screws. But you canât give up this job. âThere has to be another way, sir.â
âMaybe there is, Jenkins. Maybe there is.â Worthington rubs his chin.
You didnât expect your week would end with you dressed in black, carrying a high-powered rifle, and hiding in the bushes of Worthingtonâs ex-wifeâs new boyfriendâs house. Yet here you are. He seems so far away, sitting at his dining room table, but through the scope, he feels much closer. The whole affair becomes much more intimate.
The new lover  exchanges a smiling glance with the ex-Mrs. Worthington. They look happy. You draw back the bolt, to bring a bullet into the rifleâs chamber. This didnât have to happen, you think. And youâre correct. If you had only watched Wine-0-Wine with John. But by failing to click the link, you traced this bulletâs trajectory long before you pulled the trigger.
Should you serve swiss with your Sauvignon? John cuts the cheese! New episode every #Winesday! Featuring John Barrett Written by John Barrett & Greg Goodness...
John lives in a âfood desert,â as do, Iâm sure, most of you filthy mouth-breathers. So he has all the tricks to throwing a fancy wine and cheese party without all of the fancy cheese! Check out some of his patented #WineTipsâą and try them yourself!
John tackles the difference between Red and White wine! New episode every #Winesday! Featuring John Barrett Written by John Barrett and Greg Goodness Directo...
Do you need advice about wine from a guy who knows a thing or two about the subject? Because literally thatâs as much as this guy knows about wine.
by John Barrett - We are less than two months from the Iowa Caucus. In the ramp up to primary season, it's important for voters to make informed decisions about the candidates. So here, presented for your edification, is the DEFINITIVE ranking of the presidential candidates' gamertags!
In case you are inclined to vote by coolness of Gamertag. Or if you want to play some Xbox Live with the Candidates
by John Barrett - At this point, it's well known that there is a large-scale and multi-front war being waged against Christmas. This is no longer in dispute. But many dispute the claims that Christmas's enemies are escalating the already intense conflict. Here is some of the evidence we have acquired to refute that.
The War on Christmas is in full swing. Donât let the media obfuscate this FACT!
Presented below is the official policy statement from the Glenn Danzig Presidential Campaign on Foreign Policy.
From ISIS, to growing tensions in Southeast Asia, to increased hostility in South Asia, to border disputes in Eastern Europe, and even beyond, there is no question that we live in a violent world. It has to be a top priority for any serious presidential candidate to protect the lives and welfare of the citizens of the United States, and the world at large.
As president, I will pursue diplomatic solutions until all options have been explored and utilized. Only when there is no recourse left, will I turn to war. But make no mistake! If a foreign power threatens the lives and security of my citizens, I will collect their skulls and put them on my wall.
It is important for us to continue to nurture good diplomatic relations across the entire world. But leaders who want to bang heads with me will soon be shown what itâs like.
In summation, I vow to keep Americans safe. So come on to the violent world with me.
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