Hey there! It’s me. Jesus. I’m back.
No, no, no, don’t get all excited. I’m not back back. Look, I know expectations are kind of up what with Passover and Easter and all that, and believe me, I think the holidays are a really cool honor. But honestly, it wasn’t exactly one of the best periods in my life, what with all the betrayals and, you know, people hammering spikes through my extremities and all. So I’d really rather you didn’t go around making such a big deal out of it every year. As if my birthday wasn’t bad enough, with me being well past the big 2000 and just about the oldest dude in Heaven. Sheesh…
So anyway, I just popped in for a couple of minutes to drop you this little
note. I’ve been keeping an eye on things down here, and I’ve noticed
a few misconceptions that need clearing up. First off, I’d just like
to thank the guys at The Pancake for giving me an open forum. I do
enjoy your little publication from on high, though to be honest, I really
only read the lists. Which brings me to the first myth I’d like to
dispel before anybody else gets hurt: Heaven's Gate kooks notwithstanding,
I do not have any preference for guys who cut off their balls.
I love each and every one of God’s creatures with equal fervor, irrespective
of whether they hack off their testicles and get their hair cut like Mr.
Spock; except for Jm J. Bullock, who grates on my nerves.
Once more, for emphasis: Do not believe 70's prog-rock group Yes. The purple spaceships are NOT coming to take you to God.
The other thing I want to mention is that my middle name does not begin with an "H". It’s Ted.
I’ve also noticed that people are pretty hung up on the whole heaven and hell thing, and understandably so; the Bible is pretty damn vague for a document you’re supposed to base your life on. No surprise, either. Matthew, Luke, John, the whole lot (excuse the pun) of ‘em, they’re great guys – Luke’s one hell of a good golfer, too – but they couldn’t write their way out of a freakin’ paper bag. So let me take this time to briefly let you know what’s up.
Heaven is pretty much just like life on Earth, except without all the dickheads. Conversely, Hell is pretty much just like life on Earth. You’d be surprised at what an effective torture it is to realize that you’ve died and yet you still seem to be in Cleveland. Forever. Heaven, on the other hand, is more like being in some really cool place like France, except all the French went away somewhere and were replaced by a group of friendly, non-smelly people. You may have been expecting something a little different, but picture, just for a second, what life would be like on Earth without fear of death, without people who mean you ill will, and without the French. Sound pretty good? I thought so. I mean, who wants to sit on clouds and fart around with little harps all day?
Not that there aren’t some drawbacks. For starters, it’s damn near impossible to get a decent pair of sandals. They started going out of vogue around 10 B.M. (Before Me), and the way it worked out was that all of the good sandal-makers died before I did, so they weren’t forgiven. We did get the Birkenstock guy up here a while ago, but the dude won’t make sandals anymore. Says the horror of seeing a bunch of dumb, adolescent pseudo-hippies waddling along in the fruits of his labor isn’t something he cares to repeat. So Limbo and Hell are chock full o’ airy, comfortable footwear; meanwhile, I, Christ Messiah, King of the Jews, am slappin’ around Heaven in plastic flip flops.
As you can imagine, this does not go a long way toward impressing the chicks.
Yup, the other bummer about Heaven is that it’s still really hard to get
laid. A lot of people show up here expecting the hereafter to be
like an eternal scene from Caligula. Hard as it is to believe, though,
a non-stop orgy is not everybody’s idea of a good time; and it’s their
Heaven too. To make matters worse, women can afford to be more
choosy, as Heaven’s entry requirements have already screened out all the
assholes. Don’t be too concerned about it. You have forever
to work on your technique, so the odds are in your favor that you’ll eventually
get to fuck everyone here. Even that huge broad from the Mamas and
the Papas, if you so desire (stop making that face – she’s actually quite
a ride).
Of course, that doesn’t help out a whole lot when you’re still at the bar at 3 AM, all the girls have already taken off with some other deity or angel or cherub (those fat little guys are hung like walrus tusks), and the only person left to talk to is the Holy Spirit. He tends bar up here. Don’t get me wrong, the H.S. is an interesting guy and all, but for me it’s kinda like talking to myself.
The point is, even in Heaven, the opposite sex is plenty hard to figure out. For instance, Buddha and I were hangin’ out at a bar the other afternoon having a couple of martinis and catching the satellite feed of some Saved By the Bell reruns. I was telling Buddha, "That Elizabeth Berkeley sure acts the prude,. but I bet she’d be a saucy little tart if you got her in the right environment." Buddha turns to me and says, "A duck's legs, though short, cannot be lengthened without discomfort to the duck; A crane's legs, though long, cannot be shortened without discomfort to the crane." He’s always saying shit like that. Fat kook.
So I go make a couple of calls, and the next thing you know: "Showgirls". Suddenly Paul Verhoeven is going to hell (sorry, Paul, but you were 2/3 of the way there after the cheesy ending to Total Recall) because of me, which pissed Dad off to no end. I finally had to tell him, "Yo, G, chill. You and I are the same entity, so it’s at least partly your fault." Then we said, "Oh, yeah," and we patted us on the head. The Holy Spirit looked on disapprovingly but really couldn’t say much, as he’s us also.
You know, this is a bit of a tangent, but according to Christianity, isn’t suicide one of the greatest sins one can commit? Well, if you think about it, Pop sent me down to Earth to be killed in order to save the souls of humanity, but He’s me, so didn’t He essentially commit suicide? Yeah, yeah, I know the Christians are supposed to be my homies, but their logic is a might confused. ‘course that’s not enough to get them sent to hell. Actually, most of them are going to hell because they’re intolerant, self-righteous turds. And what’s with "He’s Got the Whole World in His Hands"? I mean, what kind of a sick joke is that? That’s like writing a song in honor of Stephen Hawking and calling it, "He’s a Dancin’ Machine". Jesus…
Yeah, I said "Jesus". I can do that because I’m Jesus. That doesn’t mean you should do it. It probably won’t keep you out of Heaven or anything, but it’s just really uncool when there are legitimate prayers trying to get through. How would you like it if you were hanging from a tall building by your pinky, but Batman couldn’t come rescue you because some clumsy ass dropped a hammer on his foot and thought that was a valid enough reason to set off the bat signal?
But I digress…
Where was I? Oh, yeah, womenfolk... I go to make a couple of calls, and when I get back, Buddha is chatting up these two ladies. I get back to the bar just in time to hear him turn to the girl on his right and say, "If you rub the Little Buddha, I betcha you’ll get lucky." And boom, they leave together. So I turn to the other one, fix her with my Messianic gaze, and smirk, "Hey, baby. How’d you like to drink of my blood and taste of my flesh?" And boom, she too runs out the door and hops in Buddha’s truck.
So what’s the deal? My lines certainly aren’t
any cheesier than any other major religious figure’s. Here’s some
of the rest of my repertoire:
I usually have to resort to some of the old Jesus magic
to attract any attention. You know, I’ll turn a little water into
Amstel Light. "Magically" link somebody’s seemingly-solid halo through
both of my hands. The usual routine.
Hopefully, some of the Generation X’ers will bite it soon, as the grizzled-prophet-with-a-goatee
look is pretty hep with that crowd. It’s almost gotten to the point
where I want to shave off the facial hair and go with a more modern, Yuppie
look. Except, y’know, the beard is holy, and I feel kind of weird
just throwing it out with tomorrow’s garbage. Makes masturbating
sort of a bittersweet experience, too.
Okay, fine, so it’s out. Jesus masturbates. I am the son of man, aren’t I? It may have been 2000 years since I was alive, but guys still had testicles back then. And if you had two hot, moist, fleshy, approximately-penis-sized holes through your palms, you’d damn well use ‘em, too. Hey, don’t lie to me, man. I’m Jesus. I know what you’re thinking. And don’t think I didn’t see you last Saturday with that plastic Super Bunghole Buddy® you bought from the Adam & Eve Catalog and the tub of Cool Whip, because I did. And frankly, I was impressed.
I’ve run out of space, and all I’ve done is bad-mouth a bunch of people and bitch about my lack of sex life. But then, this is a Pancake article, and I didn’t want to confuse anybody with a change in content. So look, my whole point is this: don’t spend your life sweating over what’s sin and what’s not sin, or whether you should believe in me or a bunch of comet-riding aliens. Just be cool to each other and be cool to yourselves. We’ll sort it all out when you get here. Oh, and if you’re planning to die some time soon, please, bring a couple extra pair of Birkenstocks.
Peace.