Where the Fuck's Jesus? the commune's St Augustus would appreciate a courtesy call
Monday, Jul. 16, 2001
As you may have heard from the local townsfolk, or from those smartalec kids who hang
out in front of the TruValue over on fifth and Wayne, I’ve dedicated my life to a search
for Jesus. For years I have searched far and wide, from the highest peaks to the deepest
valleys, deep under the polar icecap and at the bottom of the mariana trench. I’ve
looked in closets, I’ve looked under rugs, picnic tables and once even inside the girls'
dressing room at a Foxy Boxing match. I’ve scoured the bus stops, the zoos and the
trendy bars of our fair land and all of my searching has left me with but one
question: Where the fuck’s Jesus?
I mean, maybe I heard wrong, but he did say he was coming back, didn’t he? I seem to
remember something along those lines, maybe it was "Save my seat dude, I gotta whiz!"
or maybe it was something a bit more poetic, but I was left with the distinct impression
that he’d be draggin’ his sorry ass back here sooner or later. And I’m about out of
places to look.
Over the years there have been times when I thought I’d found him, but impostor Jesusi
they were, every last one of them. Bogus Jesusitos. I was fairly sure I’d found him back
in 1984 but then that guy ended up smoking all of my weed and sleeping with my sister,
so I had to throw him out. I know, I know, whatever you do unto the least of my brothers,
yadda yadda yadda. Well, in that case, Jesus got a Birkenstock crammed halfway up his ass
that day.
And don't even get me started about latino guys named Jesus. I fell for that one a few
dozen times too many and even spent most of the late 80's running guns down in Panama
with Jesus and his brother Chuy. He may not have been a member of the holy trinity, but
lord knows the real Jesus never saw that kind of money curing lepers and the blind and
all that noise.
Probably my worst near-Jesus experience was when I thought I’d found him back in ’79, but
it turned out the guy was really the Phoenix Kindergarten Killer, that guy who was
abducting all the little kids and filling Tylenol bottles with their teeth, then
sneaking the bottles back onto the shelves at K-Mart. I very nearly had to do some jail
time over that one, when the police discovered that he was making muppet dolls out of
their corpses and putting on a live-action variety show in my basement. Hell, I just
thought the savior had some strange friends, y'know? I mean, who questions the son of
God, anyway? You want to end up out in a cornfield with your head on a jack-in-the-box
or something?
I’m sad to say, it looks like my latest potential Jesus is turning out to be a big
disappointment as well. No corpse-puppets or anything (so far) but all he seems to do
is lay on the couch and watch Happy Days. I also think he’s been chowing down on my
Chips Ahoy while I’m at work, so unless he starts turning water to wine some time soon
I’m going to have to ask him if he can stay with his sister.
Frankly, I’m getting a little tired of this shit. If Jesus was going to take this goddamn
long, he could have at least phoned ahead to tell us not to wait up. Personally, I’m
petitioning my church to change their daily prayer from "Our lord in heaven who art
merciful and kind" to "Dude! You fucking fall in or something?" I suggest you do the
same.
Milestones
the commune's scratch 'n sniff look at last year's office potluck
Opportunities
Pants a Capitalist
Free Virus Baggies
Take a Kitten, Please
the commune book selections
the commune's Bear in Rearview
the commune's Big Book of Duke
Faces of the commune
the commune 100: Leaders and Revolutionaries
the commune 100: Traitors and Noodledicks
FAQ Shwartz |
Site Map's Somewhere in the Glovebox |
Search In Vain |
Contract Ick
Privacy Police |
Terms of Gary Busey |
Reprints & Persimmons |
Press Eject Now
When's God Gonna Quit Bustin' My Balls?
One thing I gotta hand it to God, that guy’s one hard-workin SOB! He ain’t laid off bustin my balls for 34 years, and just when I think he’s takin a break, my collie upchucks a canna Manwich onto my new Camaro’s suede seats.