eports from the afterlife indicate the Reverend Jerry Falwell, who died last Tuesday after smelling one of his own farts, has indeed gone on to meet his maker, validating his lifetime of religious conviction. The reverend was, however, shocked and dismayed to discover this creator is, in fact, a large, friendly purple creature with a head ornament shaped like an inverted triangle, rather than the cloud-surfing white dude Falwell had been expecting.

Upon spying the return of his beloved son, whom God had not seen in over 73 years, the deity shouted an excited greeting of “Eh-Oh, Falwell!� before attempting to embrace the reverend, who recoiled in horror.

Eyewitness accounts indicate a stunned Falwell then began to shout Bible verse and incoherent, mouth-foaming nonsense. God immediately became frightened and confused, scurrying away while shouting “Run away! Run away!� Only after Falwell left could God be coaxed out for snack time.

Meanwhile on Earth, medical examiners attributed Falwell’s death to the reverend taking the holy vessel God had given him and crapping it all up with fatty foods and prescription medication.

One of America’s best-known religious figures, Falwell was famous for his amazingly untarnished record for being on the historically wrong side of every issue he ever addressed over the course of his long career. From segregation to civil rights, women’s rights, gay rights, and the rights of anyone who wasn’t exactly like Jerry Falwell, the reverend demonstrated an almost eerie ability to choose stances that would make him look ridiculously backward to future generations.

Falwell also set the bar unthinkably high with the sheer number of absurd public statements he made, and then later retracted, during his years as a spokesperson for America’s evangelical Christians. Decrying Archbishop Desmond Tutu as a phony, claiming that 9/11 was caused by feminists and lesbians, stating that AIDS was God’s punishment against homosexuals, questioning the sincerity of Martin Luther King, Jr., and claiming that the Teletubby Tinky Winky was gay because he had an inverted triangle on his head, carried a purse and was purple, all signs of homosexuality in the reverend’s feverish, confused nightmares.

In 1994, Falwell released a videotape called The Clinton Chronicles: An Investigation into the Alleged Criminal Activities of Bill Clinton, which inaugurated the “crockumentary� genre of filmmaking. Among other things, the film accused the president of smuggling cocaine, murdering journalists who got too close to the story, and being the devil. The film was voted 1994’s Worst Episode of Unsolved Mysteries.

Afterlife pundits suggest it may take years for Falwell to accept the truth of his origin, preferring in the meantime to blame his plight on the machinations of liberal angels or a Jewish afterlife conspiracy. Experts stress, however, that God will not hold Falwell’s convictions against him, and when the reverend is ready, he will know where to find God, sitting in the grass, playing and looking at bugs and stuff.

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This week's Nedmiller Column is excerpted from "Spastic Diaper: The Ned Nedmiller Story" by Rolando Burf. Continued from last week.

And it might still be that way today if it weren't for one Nedriff Nipplebelt Nedmiller. When Ned heard of the buffalo problem, he locked himself in his laboratory, pronouncing that he would not appear again until he had the solution. Neighbors wondered at the strange noises coming from Ned's lab at all hours of the day and night: the singing of saws, the burping of crows and the vague smell of a swimming pool on fire. Someone called for a constable when a rumor circulated that Ned was melting down school children into paraffin wax, but just as the fuzz was about to knock on Ned's door, the man himself flung open his doors and announced to the world that their problems were over.

The device that Ned presented to the world looked like a cross between a smallish piano and a largish dentistry utensil, on wheels. It had a crank on one side and a flared cone on the other. And on top there was a mannequin head wearing a hat. On the side, hand-lettered in on it's black surface in black paint (or so he told the people), it said "Ned Nedmiller's Framjambulous Laughing Machine".

Refusing the spectators' pleas for a demonstration, Ned hopped aboard the Laughing Machine and rode it west, toward the Plains. It was a four-week journey, but thanks to the help of a flock of pelicans, and Ned's invention of a land-sail, it only took him a month and a half. He arrived to find the Chinamen, sitting about and scratching their heads, as a stoic buffalo stood, motionless, at the eastern termination of the Walking Rail.

Without saying a word, Ned positioned his Laughing Machine in front of the buffalo, wet his thumb to check wind direction, and gave the crank a furious crank. Laughter of every size and denomination, every type and at all points along the spectrum of sanity, poured forth from the laughing machine's cone. Chortles, titters, guffaws and even silent shaking filled the air. Three times the laughter produced by a fart in Congress spilled out of the Laughing Machine. Laughter so contagious that all of the Chinamen began to laugh along, and those who had yet to drop their tools and daydream now dropped their tools and doubled over in laughter.

The buffalo first looked at Ned (who nodded) in a confused fashion for a moment before it began to laugh. For those who have never heard a buffalo laugh, I suggest climbing inside an industrial textiles washing machine, starting up the cycle, and then letting loose the warthogs you've been hiding in your pants. Then you'll have bigger fish to fry than wondering what a buffalo sounds like when it laughs.

The buffalo laughed and laughed until finally it collapsed onto it's side and shook with buffalo laughter. Ned promptly shut off his laughing machine and when the Chinamen had recovered, they went about their merry task, building their Walking Rail all the way to New England. Ned accompanied them the rest of the way, providing laughing machine support whenever they came across buffalo, brown bears or hillbillies.

When they finally arrived in New York, Ned and the Chinamen were given a tickertape parade, and a recording contract with Capitol Records. In a show of gratitude, the Mayor of New York gave them all complimentary tickets for the maiden voyage of the first luxury liner built entirely by the blind, the Titanic.

The problem was, the Titanic was sailing to New York, not from it, so Ned and the Chinamen quickly hitched a ride on a grand blimp called the "Hindenberg 2: NO SMOKING" all the way over to England, where they were just in time to ride the Titanic back to New York.

Ned and the Titanic were like peas in a pod, and he entertained the guests and crew day and night with his inflatable pacemaker and a metal box that he claimed to contain Spain. He was voted "Best Grandmother" on the Titanic and was given a commemorative kick in the head. Unfortunately, these blissful days were not to last.

Out of nowhere the "biggest skeeter this side of the Rio Grande" latched onto the ship and started "jimmyin' open the fuselage with his tremendous skeeter-beak". Ned knew that time was short and heroism was in high demand, so he leapt into the fray with only a freakishly large Q-tip and a loincloth on his side. When all was said and done, "them skeeter" had been swabbed into submission and nine months later Ned would unexpectedly give birth to a small Laotian boy named Ring-rong, who would go to work in the diamond mines, and was years later buried under a landslide of engagement rings. Unfortunately for all aboard though, at that moment some joker pulled the plug on the Atlantic and "them Titanic" went down the drain, never to be seen again. Ned survived only by holing up in the belly of a whale named Tim, who later washed up on the shores of Costa Rica, proving his long-standing claim that he was allergic to Danes.

Over a hundred years later, the Walking Rails are still the mode of trans-continental transport preferred by most 10 year-old runaways. None of this would be possible without Nedrum Nightynight Nedmiller, and it's truly time that the city of Pasadena, California erects a gigantic knee brace in his name.

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I'm certainly glad people have come back around to pop music once again—it was too long and too often I would find myself in a bar, with friends, defending the merits of artists like the New Kids on the Block, or Debbie Gibson. True, those stars have faded into sweet yesteryear, but at least pop music remains strong. Stronger than ever, one might say.

Yes, for those who would denounce Hilary Duff as a second-tier Taylor Dane, let me, for one, confess my enthusiastic glee for today's pop star. They are more engaging, more attractive, and I dare say, even more enduring than the pop stars of days gone by. This year marks Britney Spears' seventh as a top-of-the-charts entertainer. Does that sound like a flash in the pan to you? I think not.

Still, the press coverage of the modern pop star leaves something to be desired. Yes, Rolling Stone may put Britney on their cover, and People may tell us she owns a nightclub and is moving into the foray of films. But what about the music? How is it we so easily forget it's the songs that made us love her, not her beautiful features and her body. Why are more magazines and television interviewers not asking her where she gets her ideas? I want to know where those songs come from. I, for one, want to know what goes through her mind when she sings "I'm Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman." I'm always reminded of the Bob Marley classic "No Woman, No Cry" when I hear those aching notes she sings. For that matter, how does she choose those songs she interprets? Why is it she knew, instinctively, her version of the much-covered Stones hit "(I Can't Get No) Satisfaction" would stand out as a hit, and not fade into music history as a forgotten note?

Of course, some would challenge, quite fairly, that most modern pop-stars are overproduced; the studioesque sheen is too thick to hear the tremendous textures of their voices and the individual instruments. I agree, and yet I disagree. I can't turn down a good Jessica Simpson album, no matter how slick and manufactured it initially sounds to me. But to some extent, I'm with you—the only way to hear these pop performers is live. Oh, the glory! To be sitting front row at an N*Sync concert, to hear those fluid notes sail over the audience, it's as close to heaven on earth as we get in this life.

Not that I can afford concert tickets these days, for what TicketMaster charges. So mostly I just pick up bootlegs. I have a few I've recorded myself, but like most bootleg collectors, I receive more by trading those already in my possession. Not that I'm adverse to buying them outright, even if it goes against the spirit of the true pop music bootleg collector. Just last week I traded two separate Aaron Carter bootlegs I own (one at the Hard Rock Café, London, the other at the Fillmore) and a Spice Girls at Budokan just so I could get a tape of demos and outtakes from Lindsay Lohan's debut album. Did I get ripped-off? I don't think of it like that. I have my copies, and the sound quality is quite spectacular on them, but what is most important is that I avail myself to the most recent pop phenomenon available, and Lindsay Lohan is it right now. As an actress and a singer (a regular double-threat), I firmly believe Lohan will be the most popular breakout media star since Jennifer Love-Hewitt.

And I needn't tell you, it makes me embarrassed to be a pop fan when you see something like the Ashlee Simpson "Saturday Night Live" scandal from a few months back. I'm sure she was sincere in her excuse for it, but it did make all of us Ashlee Simpson fans look quite the fool.

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