Jesus Wants to Keep Birthday Small This Year

avior of millions Jesus Christ told friends and loved ones this year he would rather keep his birthday low-key rather than make a big deal out of it.

“I mean, I’m not embarrassed about turning 2031 or anything this year. Nothing like that,” stated our Lord, “but you know, I’m just not in the mood to have everybody get together for this huge thing. I just want to celebrate in a small way, you know? A small dinner or something.”

Some report Jesus has been feeling a little Christmas depression, as bills mount and all the stress of visiting relatives and millions of friends asking favors adds up. Jesus initially wanted to spend his birthday in the Bahamas, but the trip fell through as God laid a guilt trip on him about spending time with His only son.

“Of course I want to spend time with my dad,” said Jesus, “it’s just that I thought I could do something a little crazy and out there for my birthday this year. Just hang with some friends on the beach, go wild, turn the whole ocean into wine if I wanted. Now I got this thing with dad hanging over me. Like I needed that.”

All in all, stated Christ, it hasn’t been a bad year for him.

“Yeah, I was outraged about the terrorism and such, but I have to admit a small part of me was like, ‘Whew! Glad they’re not using my name at all.’ I’m still waiting for some anti-abortion nutjob to start blowing up places or killing people. It’s like, “Thanks, really, but all you needed to get me was a K-Mart sweater or something, jerk.’”

When asked if he planned on returning any time soon for Judgment Day, Jesus rolled his eyes and shook his head furiously.

“That’s the last thing I need to worry about at this point. I’ve had enough pains in the ass lately without worrying about that craziness toward the end of the year. Don’t be in such a rush. When it happens, it happens. I just hope I get a little time off before then.”

At press time, though Jesus was unaware, friend Judas was organizing a small get-together at Chi-Chi’s with many of Jesus friends, where they would all enjoy a supper.

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In all the other hubbub since the year began, I may have forgotten to mention my old bassist roommate Lee returned. He arrived shortly after Christmas, when his plan to storm Tokyo with techno rock failed miserably. It's okay, though, because he has started a Christian rock band. It makes sense, if you think about it, since he believed he died in the car accident years ago and is now reincarnated as a street preacher.

Surely you don't expect me to mention every minute detail that happens in my life, so sorry if some of this stuff comes as a surprise. I had originally planned this column, in fact, to be an update of how the X-M radio purchase was going when Camembert suggested I write about Lee to my "loyal reader." Camembert thinks that's funny. Ever since he started dating Girl Elvis he thinks he's a hoot, there's no other word for it.

Back to the Lee story, good people. Lee is back, yes, and he believes he's a street preacher, out to promote the gospel, yes, all this is true. And as I said, he's started a Christian rock band which operates out of my basement. I'm obviously too busy trying to make my A.M. radio station profitable to consider all of this too seriously, but apparently it makes Lee happy.

I wish I could say Lee has been easier to live with since coming back, but it's not the case. You may recall old Lee was something of a pain in the posterior, constantly making fun of me, never paying his portion of the rent, and spending most of the day high. It's more of the same now, except he has sworn off drugs, he's too polite for everybody's taste, and he's convinced we're all damned to hell for our behavior. Same ol' Lee, except for he's mostly different.

It may hardly be worth mentioning, I can no longer tell, but Lee has developed an unhealthy fascination with TV's Scott Baio as well. Ever since finding out he was a kind gentlemen with conservative politics, Lee has thought him quite a role model to adopt. And of course, for Lee, that kind of thing naturally leads to obsession and death threats, the usual circumstance in life where you become convinced you're the celebrity and the celebrity himself is an impostor taking your place—we've all been there, I tell Lee, but just because Carroll O'Connor won't take your calls doesn't mean it's your mission mandated by God to kill him. Lighten up, fella, I tell him.

In one ear and out the other, with new Lee. Old Lee at least would have lit himself some doobage and "chilled" for a while, realized he was perhaps getting ramped up about something silly. But new Lee wants to move forward with the "kill Chachi" plan immediately. Honestly, Lee, nobody has time for all this nonsense. I've got X-M radio options to consider, those take up more than half my week alone. Then there's running the radio station, not to mention the five minutes it takes me to write my commune columns for the next two months. If you're jumping out of the closet and dry-clicking your gun every ten minutes, shouting, "Now who's in charge, Charles?" a man will never get anything done.

My first instinct is to ask Lee to move out, but you know as well as I do, I'm not capable of that kind of cruelty. Except for to Camembert. Maybe Girl Elvis can be persuaded to do it for us, she's never thought much of him, I can tell that much. She's already threatened to call the police on him, but I tell her his band's cover of "In the Ghetto" may be bad, but it's hardly illegal. Heck, kids, at this point I might even kill Scott Baio myself just to get on with the world. I don't have time for another caper at this point, I'm stretched way too thin.

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It's been a long time since my work has seen the light of day. I managed to salvage the remains of this column from some of my old notes. Thank God I no longer carve my notes right into my skin, as skin deteriorates even faster than old celluloid porno films.

I finally got around to reading that book I bought last year. The experience was much more enjoyable than I'd been told it would be. I hate to ruin the book for anyone who hasn't read it, but it really was a shock to find out the tiger was a toy the whole time. That's right—the filthy little brat was lying to the reader the whole time. In the end, I liked it, but it does leave me dubious about reading that book I've been eyeing with the bald kid and his plane-flying dog.

If you could play any instrument in the world like a master, which instrument would you play? I would lay high odds you didn't say steel drum just now. But someone out there must be saying it. I don't see where all the steel drummers are coming from.

Where's that fourth Lord of the Rings movie we were promised? Let that be a lesson, Hollywood: Big-budget epics with funny characters and incredible special effects just aren't the American audience's cup of tea.

They say as many as 60% of the country's citizens are downloading movies illegally from the internet. Well, I'm not one of them, I assure you. Computers only want you to use them so they can fingerprint you and eventually replace you, and I'll have no part of that. No matter how tempting it is to see that Borat film without paying for it.

I just found out today that Cheez-Its are, in fact, cheese crackers, not tiny squares of real cheddar cheese put through some sort of ancient process to petrify them. Months of my life wasted on misapplied research! It's the Apple Jacks year all over again. Quit ending all your letters with that "Yours Truly" bullshit. You know you're not mine and if you keep pulling crap like that, you never will be.

Have you noticed heating ducts are never as big in real buildings as they are in movie buildings? I can't help but think it's a terrorist's dream. Any self-respecting undercover cop goes to hide in one, can't fit, and blam! Osama wins. I hope you people at the Small Duct Ltd. company are real fucking happy now.

You absolutely cannot fit a fully stretched-out body in most freezers. I wonder if the freezer manufacturers even considered this demographic when they designed the darned things. We're not all murderers, you know. Some of us are respected members of the work force who simply don't have time to run a found dead body down to the morgue at the drop of a hat.

Hum any song to yourself right now. Go ahead. I'll bet you one thousand dollars it's the theme to "Mr. Belvedere." And if it's not, I dare you to go ahead and prove it. You'll never get money out of me, stranger.

I've never seen a professional baseball player catch a ball in his mouth. What exactly are we paying these guys for? I can see any Sam Dandy anywhere catch a ball with his hands.

I would say the sixth best thing about being in a wheelchair is you don't fall when you walk on ice. Sure, you might slide a little bit, but chances are you're not going to land on your back. And of course, the seventh best thing is you don't bump your head on low doorways. You can probably figure the rest out yourself.

The next time you see a large glass window, jump through. You only live once, and glass just thinks it's so great.

No more today. My wastebasket is empty and the skin has all flaked away so I can't read my old notes.

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