I hate having unannounced out of town guests. I mean, it’s just rude. Forget about the fact that I have to hustle and put on pants, what if I had something important planned...like, I dunno - purging my dog’s anal gland?
Last night the driveway alarm sounded, the security lights came on, the automated Claymore mine system armed, and my spidey sense started to tingle, the latter only happening when religionists have breached the Camel Ranch compound perimeter.
Being the closest one to it, Mrs. Hump heaved me the Marlin 1898 12 gauge pump I keep loaded over the side door. I racked one of the 00 buck shot shells into the chamber and waited. Seconds later there was a knock at the back door.
“Who the hell is it?” I barked. It’s my normal greeting to unexpected night intruders.
“Don’t you mean ‘Who the heaven is it?’ my son?” was the soft spoken reply in an accent reminiscent of a cross between Yassar Arafat and a Hassidic rabbi from
Leveling my shotgun about waist high, I swung the door open. There stood the scruffiest looking, bearded, snaggle toothed, slightly emaciated, schlub I’ve ever seen outside of a Walmart.
“Hi I’m Jesus.”
“I don’t need my lawn mowed, I do it myself...besides it’s late. ”
“No, not THAT kind of Jesus the ORIGINAL one; you know, JESUS! Can I come in?”
“Lemme see some ID.”
He cautiously reached into his cheap crumpled Sears suit jacket and fumbled around for his wallet... eventually producing a New Hampshire driver’s license which he held up at arms length for me to read.
I read it out loud : “Jesus Christ, AKA Son of God, AKA Prince of Peace, AKA Jebus; AKA Jeezus H. Fuckin’ Christ; DOB: approx. 4 BCE.; Current address: Men’s Shelter, Manchester, NH; Corrective lenses required, motorcycle certified.”
I compared the photo to the specter standing before me, looking back and forth between the two just to be sure. Yup..it was him...or Him.
“Ok, com’on in, but keep those hands where I can see them, don’t drip any blood on the floor, and let’s make this quick... The X-Factor comes on in ten minutes. ” I noticed some nasty infected holes in his hands. I assumed he had them in his feet too, but since he was wearing a pair of Nikes I wasn't concerned. I showed him to the kitchen and had him sit down at the table. If he was carrying fleas, the last thing I needed was an infestation in the living room carpeting.
“I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here, I mean what with your being a freethinker, an anti-theist activist, and something of a hump to people who believe in me.”
I surmised that the stench of cheap sweet wine on his breath was Manischewitz Concord Grape, vintage of last Tuesday. The crumbs of matzo in his beard did not exactly endorse the old “cleanliness is next to godliness” bromide.
“Yeah, you might say that. Get on with it, Captain Obvious.”
“Well, I’m here to apologize for all the crap my followers did over the centuries and still do. All the problems they caused and still cause.”
“Uh huh..go on”
“And the fact that they eschew education, deny scientific reality, make up fake history, treat women like chattel, are so damn gullible, support Romney who’s a real douche, and despise homosexuals. You know I’m a little light in the sandals my self.” That last phrase was accompanied by an embarrassed smile that made me a little uncomfortable.
“Ok, fine. So what are you going to do about it? When are you going to divulge to your sheeple that you and those other two guys You also call You, are Paul's total fabrication at worst; or a composite figure drawn from pagan gods, Cynic preachers, and 1st century Jewish nationalist professors of independence from Rome at best? ”
“Oh ... I couldn't do that. Much like Tinkerbell from Peter Pan (one of my personal favorite god-like myths, by the way), unless people believe in me I would totally disappear. It would be tantamount to suicide for me to out myself. And according to my myth, I already did the suicide thing once. If I did it again it would look, well... like a cry for attention.”
“AND SO....?” I was growing impatient. I already missed the first five minutes of X-Factor. “You’re here to apologize and that’s it? You came all the way from
“No No... I came to thank you for what you’re doing. I mean just look at me! You see any halo? No! Any beams of light emanating from my being? No! I had to fricken walk here, don’t even have my Mercedes C class anymore...repossessed. Hey, this is a $40 suit, ‘buy one, get the shirt and tie free.’ No more Brooks Brothers, no more Barney’s NY, no more hand sewn Italian shoes. I came to tell you to keep up the good work. Your exposing me as a myth and invention is having its effect, and it’s long over due. Won't belong before my whole crappy story is laid to rest. Me along with it.”
I was struck by two emotions: the first was an inclination to lower the shotgun, as this guy was obviously no longer a threat. The other was one of enormous pride.
“Hey, thanks, I appreciate that! I mean, I knew I was making a difference, but I didn’t realize I was ALL THAT, ya know? I mean, that I was single-handedly responsible for your gradual demise and ultimate consignment to the shit can of dead man-gods and fables.”
“Uh ... oh. Yeah. Well, truth be told, I’m making the rounds to all thinking people with the drive and will to speak out. You’re like number 835,701. Hey, you wouldn't happen to have a spare ham sandwich would ya?”