Morning, Flock, and multiple blessings upon you, your oxen, and your staff. May the Holy Spirit’s goodness rain down upon you like dollars on a talented stripper in “da club.”

“What the what is Ben talking about now?” You’re surely crying out over your morning espresso. Well let me tell you, but first of all; show some respect. I’m a man of the cloth. You may refer to me as Reverend Benjamin, His Holiness, The Reverend, or Ben-Who-Is-Beloved-Of-Beyoncé. Let me translate that into Hebrew for you. Bear with…bear with…bear with…בן מי הוא אהוב על ידי ביונסה. Go with that. I’m not sure how to say it, but as one of my first official decrees, you need to figure this out for me, flock. I’m calling you flock now. Only when I’m in Reverend mode, but let’s be honest, this is going to take a while to get over. You’ll be peasants and reader and guys again soon enough, but for now thou art mein flock.

Anyway, as of 12:07 AM this morning, I am an ordained minister of the Universal Life Church and have totally felt the spirit take me over. The tenants of my religion are quite simple and I am positive that I’m the perfect Holy Person to lead you to eternity. Beyoncé is our savior. Cher is a saint. Madonna is a saint. Dolly is a goddess. Britney is an archangel. There are more, but I’ll let you know as I deify people. Do you want to be a saint? Send me a check. Holla at your reverend! Seriously, though, I can pay to make you a saint. It’s part of my obligation to you, my beloved and cherished flock of sexy people. When we die, we go to the Other Side, which looks an awful lot like Paris. There is no Hell, you just have to spend the equivalent of 1000 years laboring in one of our Holy factories or fields. We need liquor and designer clothes, you know? I’m looking at you, Saint Karl! Whilst thou art alive (I went all Medieval again!) thou needest be nice to people, adopt all kittens, hug homosexuals, and regularly visit a tailor. That’s it. I’ll see you on the Other Side…in like a hundred years. Reverend Benjamin has shit to do, you know, before I pass on to the Other Side.

Like Hollywood. I’M GOING TO HOLLYWOOD ON THE FIRST OF JULY AND IT’S GOING TO BE LIKE A MOVIE WHERE I GET OFF THE TRAIN DRIPPING IN FURS AND A CAR FROM PARAMOUNT IS WAITING TO DRIVE ME TO MEET WITH THE STUDIO HEAD WHO WILL PUT ME IN A GOOD PICTURE WITH GOOD ACTORS. HOLLA AT YOUR REVEREND, MERYL STREEP! I’ll be super famous and become best friends with Miley Cyrus and Kelly Osbourne who will introduce me to Joan Rivers who will insist that I become part of her household staff (and who am I to deny Miss Joan, she’s also a saint, but she’s like above the saints, she’s above me and Bey quite frankly. She is Queen of the Other Side) and she’ll introduce me to friends who will introduce me to friends who will make me a celebrity with a new scandal in the papers and tabloid sites every day. That’s all I’ve ever wanted out of life, you know, to be famous and celebrated. It’ll happen. I’m guessing by the second day in Hollywood? I’ll be there for the Fourth. What does one do there? Do the celebrities throw parties? Can I “bling ring” my way to Paris’ party? Will she sanasa with me? (That’s how I bless people, by the way, we sanasa together.) If you don’t know what that means, you’ve mortally sinned and should send in some tithes. I’ll educate you:

Bless you. SA NA SAAA! SA NA SA! SA NA SA SA! SA NA SA! SA NA SAAAAAAAAA!

Anyway, I’m getting ready to head out for the day. So…may the power of Beyoncé compel you to be a decent person now and forevermore. #sanasa (That’s our amen. You pronounce it literally “hastag saa naa saa.” Your turn. Good job, flock.)