A friend-of-a-friend on Facebook was musing that his son was recently  somewhat evangelized by his grandmother, and now the son was concerned he actually had Jesus living in his heart.

Which brings to mind the next giant summer blockbuster:

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–Ridley Scott presents–

Alien Jesus

Watch in horror as the Baby Jesus bursts  from the chest of the unsuspecting child believer and eventually grows to kill everyone at Vacation Bible School.

“In faith, no one can hear you scream.”

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I’m not sure why I don’t have producers lined up to finance my films…

DUDE.

“Dude.”

NEW YEAR’S WAS AWESOME.  I DON’T REMEMBER A THING.

“You played Guitar Hero World Tour on the Wii.  Turns out, you’re color-blind, so you kinda sucked.”

REALLY?

“That last beer didn’t help, either.”

DUDE.

“Dude.”

The phone rang just past 1:00 this morning.  I grabbed at it, hoping to catch it in time before it woke up the Insta-Princess and our wee one.

“Hello?”

HI.

“God?”

HE-HEEE.

“God, is that you?  It’s almost 1:15, what are you doing?”

HIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII.

“God, are you–are you drunk?”

NO.  NOOOOOOOOOOooooOOOOOOOOoooOOOOoOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

MAYBE.

“Dude, you can’t be calling this late.  You’ll wake the baby.”

BUT I LOOOOVE YOU!  I L-O-V-E EVERYONE!

“That’s great–really–but I have to get to work in the morning.  Plus, like I said, there’s the baby to think about.”

I CAN ALWAYS TAKE AWAY HIS HEARING.  IT DIDN’T SEEM TO HURT MOZART.

“You mean Beethoven?”

YEAH, HIM.

“No, leave Auggy’s hearing; just don’t call so late, that’s all.”

BUT I LOVE YOU. YOU’RE MY BEST PAL, MY BUD.

“Need a ride home, huh?”

THAT JERK GANESHA HOOKED UP WITH SOME STUPID TRAMP AND LEFT ME ALONE. HE’S GOT A FRIGGIN’ ELEPHANT HEAD AND HE STILL GETS AN UNHOLY AMOUNT OF PLAY!  IS IT THE TUSKS?  THE TRUNK?  I CREATED THE FUCKING RAINBOW AND HE GETS NOOKIE!

“Well, yeah, sure, but the rainbow… it’s kinda seen as a gay thing.”

REALLY?

“Pretty much.”

OH.  THAT HELPS EXPLAIN THE BATHROOM ATTENDANT TONIGHT.

“Listen, you’re God, you don’t need a ride home.  You can just snap your holy fingers and you’re there.  What do you need me for?”

DON’T DRINK AND DIVINE, THAT’S MY MOTTO.

“Okay, where are you?”

THE HURRICANE, OVER IN WESTPORT.  LOTS OF HOTTEES TONIGHT.

“Fine, I’m on my way.”

WHAT ARE YOU DRIVING? IT SHOULD BE SOMETHING FLASHY SO THE BABES ARE IMPRESSED.

“The Civic.”

TRICKED-OUT?

“No, just the way I bought it six years ago.  Doors open the regular way, it runs quietly, and the same stereo system with which it rolled off the lot.”

GOOD TUNES?

“Bee-Gees.”

NOT GOOD ENOUGH.  BAM!  THERE, YOUR CIVIC IS NOW A MERCEDES.

“Really?  That’s awesome!  That’s frickin’ sweet!  That’s–”

HAW HAW!  JUST KIDDING!

“You’re a douche, God.”

AND PEACE BE WITH YOU.

I walked out of the gallery, puzzled, unsure of the world.  Like the previous time I’d felt this way, I turned to the one person who had always been there for me.  “God?”

GO AWAY.  I’M BUSY.

“This is important.”

BUGGER OFF.

“No, really.”

FINE, BUT I’M RANDOMLY CHOOSING WHICH OF MY MORE VOCAL FOLLOWERS GETS CAUGHT WITH HIS PANTS DOWN.  HYPOCRISY IS A SWEET, SWEET GLAZE ON TOP OF LIFE.  OH, LOOK: ANOTHER REPUBLICAN.

“Yeah, but both sides–”

AND PAUL MORRISON.

“–yep, that’ll do it.”

NOW, GET ON WITH IT.  I DON’T HAVE ALL DAY, YOU KNOW.

“But, you’re God.  You can make the day last forever.”

NOT WEDNESDAYS.  I HATE WEDNESDAYS.

“Okay.  Hey, I’m doing my best to figure out life on my own, but there are some things that I just can’t work out, no matter how much thought I put into them.”

LIKE PEANUT BUTTER CUPS?  I STILL CAN’T FIGURE OUT HOW THEY WRAP DELICIOUS CHOCOLATE AROUND SMOOTH PEANUT BUTTER.  IT’S SINFUL.

“No, not candy.  More like Thomas Kinkade.”

OH.

“Maybe he’s a good man, possibly even a saint, but his paintings, his life’s work, his art, they… well, they kill a little piece of my soul each time I see one.  I look into the shiny lights and instead of seeing a reassuring source of warmth, I feel all of my energy being sucked into a bright white blight, threatening to take the world with it.  I don’t get him.”

HE’S SATAN.

“Really?”

YES.  FOOLED ME, TOO.  I ALMOST PUT ONE OF HIS COTTAGE PAINTINGS ON LAYAWAY UNTIL I TOOK A CLOSER LOOK AND SAW

I SHALL DEVOUR THEE AND MAKE YON CHILDREN WAIL AND CRY AND BLEED AND TAKE MATH TESTS AND RAKE LEAVES

HIDDEN IN THE PAINT STROKES.

“That’s horrible!”

I KNOW.  MATH TESTS.  MAKES ME SHUDDER.

“But so many people think he paints in glory of you!”

LOTS OF PEOPLE TUNE INTO THE 700 CLUB, TOO.  THE WORLD AIN’T A BRIGHT PLACE.  IF PEOPLE WANT MUNDANE, IF THEY CHOOSE TO CELEBRATE MEDIOCRITY AND TO WORSHIP PAINT-BY-NUMBER , KINKADE IS THEIR GOLDEN CALF.

“But, but, can’t you do something?”

I CAN PUT MENTOS IN A DIET PEPSI BOTTLE.  IT’S AWESOME.

“No, about Kinkade!  Beelzebub!  The Lord of the Flies!”

DO?  I’VE DONE IT.  I PURCHASED STOCK IN HIS COMPANY.  WITH ALL OF THOSE POOR CHINESE KIDS HE USES IN HIS FACTORIES OVER THERE TO ‘TOUCH UP’ HIS PRINTS, THEY’RE CHURNING OUT MILLIONS EACH YEAR.  MY 401K IS MAXED OUT, AND I HAVE MORE MONEY THAN, WELL… ME.

“That’s–really?”

YEP.

“You’re still a bastard.”

YEP.

“But now you’re buying lunch.”

AMEN.

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.

“Lord?” I asked.  “Why are you following me?”

“I’M BORED.”

“Lord?” I asked.  “Why are we on a beach?  I’m pretty sure Kansas City is nowhere near an ocean.”

“I BROUGHT YOU TO A BEACH.  I THOUGHT IT WOULD BE NICE.”

“Isn’t that kidnapping?”

“WHAT?  NO, NOT REALLY–OKAY, MAYBE.  BUT I AM THY LORD AND I HAVE PRIVILEGES.”

And lo, He took out His wallet and flashed me His Almighty Express gold card.  Membership has privileges. Said so right on the back.

I looked back along the path we had just walked, and I noticed a funny thing.  Mostly, I saw two pairs of footprints, but occasionally I only saw one. This concerned me, because I noticed the one pair appeared during those times when I was sad in life or suffering from defeat.

“Lord,  I just noticed–”

“IT’S ABOUT THE FOOTPRINTS, ISN’T IT?”

“Why, yes.”

“LISTEN, THOSE ROUGH TIMES YOU WENT THROUGH?  YOUR MOM DYING, YOUR PUPPY BEING EATEN BY THAT CRAZY KID DOWN THE STREET, THE MULTIPLE LESIONS ON YOUR UVULA?”

“Yes?”

“I TOOK OFF.”

“What?”

“YEAH, YOU WERE A RIGHT BASTARD.  ALWAYS WHINING, ALWAYS CRYING, ALWAYS COMPLAINING ABOUT SOMETHING.  I COULDN’T GET ANY SLEEP.”

“Was it too much to ask for you to carry me during those rough times?”

“LET’S BE HONEST.  YOU’VE GAINED A LITTLE WEIGHT.”

“But, you’re the Lord! You can do anything!  You can create a rock even you can’t move!”

“THAT’S WHY YOU’RE REFERRED TO AS ‘THE ROCK’ AROUND MY HOUSE.”

“Okay, okay, how about there–see it?–right there, what’s with my footprints and only one footprint of yours?”

I WAS PLAYING HOPSCOTCH WITH THE HOLY GHOST.

“But that was when my dad and my girlfriend literally ate each other in a murder-suicide-steak tartare crime!  That was the single most lowest point in my life!  Couldn’t you have stopped hopping for one moment to help me out?”

“MY CHILD,” He said, holy and tender concern lighting up His eyes.  “THE HOLY GHOST BET ME DOUBLE-OR-NOTHING.”

“You’re a real dick, Lord.”

“PRAISE BE TO ME.  HERE, PULL MY FINGER.”