Sonny Palermo
May 18th, 2006, 09:03 AM
Book One
Of Poets and Madmen
1
God hates nudity.
Although they hadn’t actually discussed it, Memphis Dallas was pretty sure this was true. He based his theory on the concept of aging, its effect on the human form, and the inexplicable success of the Tommy Hilfiger line. But the most recent advancement of his hypothesis came when God punished the strippers of Las Vegas by not letting Memphis win the latest Megabucks jackpot, which totaled a mind boggling thirty-nine million dollars. To Memphis, this was the clearest proof yet.
He looked with contempt at the actual winner, a mere pup of twenty-five, who, adding insult to injury, won the jackpot at the exact same slot machine Memphis played only minutes earlier.
The “Chosen One” was a pudgy, acne-faced tourist from New Jersey. At a hastily called news conference he told a collection of reporters, casino officials, and curious onlookers, “First thing I’m going to do is call my mother. Then I’m going to call my girlfriend.”
Memphis thought the guy was a freak, a liar, or needed psychiatric help. Any normal, young, red-blooded American male couldn't have called his girlfriend - after winning thirty-nine million dollars he would be unable to remember her name, much less her phone number. Clearly this was a situation that called for trading up. As for calling his mom, well, Memphis couldn’t fault him there. He would do the same, although most likely three or four days later, when fully recovered from an initial period of debauchery.
Further proof of the Chosen One’s state of ill mental health - he claimed he was going to report to work on Monday, where he was, get this - a “Sanitation Engineer” - modern society’s politically correct of saying “garbage man.”
Every time one of these clowns won a bazillion dollars they said the same thing – "I’m still going to go to work tomorrow morning. I’m going to buy a new car, some jewelry for my wife, pay for college education’s for my children, and get a new house for my parents. And this summer, we’re all going to Disneyland!"
Bull####! Lies!
Just once Memphis wanted to hear one of them tell the truth when asked what he was going to do with the money - "Well, first off, I’m sure as hell not going to work on Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday, Thursday, Friday or any other day for that matter.
I’m sending my boss a note that says, ‘YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, SEE YA!’
I’m gonna dump my wife before she makes her move for fifty percent of my stash.
I’m gonna slip each of my kid’s twenty grand and tell ‘em, ‘have a nice life.’
Then I’m moving to a tropical island where I’m gonna crash on the beach all day while tanned, topless native bimbos fan me with huge fronds, and have cat fights over who gets to refill my margarita, even when it’s full."
At least that’s what Memphis figured they would do. It was what he would do. Then again, maybe that’s why God didn’t let him win thirty-nine million dollars. But he kept praying anyway, just in case.
Memphis didn’t know God has only three answers to prayers – “yes,” “no,” and “are you kidding me?” And the answer to his prayer was always of the third variety.
He didn’t worry that the sands in the hourglass were running out on him as time crept up to steal his youth away. In fact, he thought this a plus. He took comfort in knowing that almost every time he read about a big jackpot or lottery winner, they were, like him, over sixty-five-years old - past the age where they could really enjoy it, and with little time left to try.
Lady Luck ain’t no lady, he thought, she’s a bitch.
Memphis convinced himself he was worthy of winning the next multi-million dollar jackpot, and like most people with a gambling problem he believed it was his destiny.
He was a homeless man whose wife had died years ago, and whose children had abandoned to a life of lonely days and lonelier holidays. He spent his nights in a refrigerator-box home under a picnic table in Sunset Park. He spent his mornings walking the aisles of the casinos, searching for credits left in the slot machines by tourists too intoxicated or stupid to
notice they hadn’t finished playing all their coins before calling it a night and returning to their rooms to sleep it off. He spent his days bumming change, getting drunk, and trying to forget the mistakes of a wasted life, passed too fast.
What was left of his sad existence had become a daily ritual. Each morning, he woke with the sun and first thanked, then cursed God for letting him. He walked past the same half-conscious drug addicts and prostitutes, leftovers from the previous night, desperate for one more high or trick before they retreated to their lairs for the duration of daylight, still-thirsty vampires looking for one last victim before the sun rose to end their plight. He went two blocks to St. Jude’s Church, where he spent fifteen minutes in prayer, proposing good deeds as bargaining chips with God if He would only let this be the day Memphis hit the big jackpot so he could spend his few remaining days living in luxury. Or at least with a roof over his head and indoor plumbing.
He’d been doing this routine for seven years now, never winning more than a couple dollars, but on the morning of December twenty-fourth, he was feeling lucky.
Memphis entered St. Jude’s as he noticed the sky suddenly grow black. The wind began to howl. Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed. He found himself alone in the church, not unusual this early in the morning. He chose the same pew he sat in everyday, slowly worked his creaking, old bones into position on the padded kneeler, made the sign of the cross, and began to pray. He was calculating the proper percentage of his winnings to propose as a donation to charity to convince God he was deserving of the next jackpot, when Memphis caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.
Above the altar was a life-sized statue of Christ on the cross.
Memphis looked up at the statue.
And the statue’s eyes opened and looked back at him.
2
Memphis: “Ahhh!”
Jesus: “Oww!”
3
As he awoke on the cross, Jesus’ first thought was where am I?
His next thought was who is that man running out the door, and why is he yelling like that?
Both thoughts were quickly forgotten as he was overcome by intense pain and, looking left, then right, saw why - his hands.
“OOWWW! Damn it, I forgot how much that hurts!”
He quickly pulled them free. He realized his mistake too late – his feet were still pinned to the cross. He fell, like a board game spinner. Upside down now, he hit his head on the ground.
“Ouch!”
He pulled his feet free, touched his wounds. They healed, and he declared, “I still got it.”
Swathed only in a small piece of cloth, he entered the vestibule behind the altar, spotted a closet, and removed a priest’s robe. Stepping back into the main cathedral, he glanced upwards and prayed for forgiveness, asking his Father to understand that he was sorry for disobeying and coming to Las Vegas. Then added, “And for stealing this robe.”
4
It was a pissed-off Jesus who decided it was time for His Second Coming.
There were:
3,342 robberies
139 rapes
8 murders
and 4 deaths from starvation.
All in only 1 minute.
Just in the U.S. alone.
The next sixty-second cycle was beginning, and it would happen all over again. Murder for money, murder for kicks. Rape. Robbery. World Hunger. Infanticide. Old diseases, new diseases. Old wars, new wars. The world was a mess, but the straw that broke the camel’s back was the O’Ryan situation. Father Peter O'Ryan, or Father “Pete O’ Phile,” as the press dubbed him, was the biggest pedophile the Church had yet discovered. Or had uncovered to be precise, since the church’s strategy on such matters was to pull a Helen Keller.
When complaints of child abuse began to come in, the Church’s primary concern was not for the children, but to avoid a pedophilia scandal that would tarnish their reputation by busting the myth of their sanctity, and, more importantly – cut into their revenue. So they moved Father
O’Ryan around like a faded, professional sports player, his value diminishing with each exchange:
St. Mary’s traded him to St. John’s, for a promising, young, up-and-coming priest, freshly transferred in from Ireland.
St. John’s traded him to St. Bonaventure’s, for two seminary students and a nun to be named later.
St. Bonnie’s traded him to Our Lady of Fatima, for ten percent of next week’s midnight mass collections, ten gallons of bottled Holy Water, and some slightly used Rosary Beads.
O’Ryan had been preying on children for years, and with his latest victim he graduated from molester to murderer. The Lord looked down upon him and was not pleased. I definitely didn’t die for these sins. And on that fateful day, Jesus decided to return, to walk amongst man once again.
But first, he had to ask permission . . .
5
Jesus found His Father in His usual surroundings, an Eden-like garden tucked away in a quiet little corner of Heaven, with a grotto modeled after Hef’s, but with furry little bunnies instead of surgically altered statuesque ones. He was lying on a hammock, slowly swaying with the gentle afternoon breeze, hovered over by grape dropping, floating cherubs. They appeared to be bored, feigning interest. When Jesus got closer, he learned why - God was telling His Creation Story. Again.
“So I said to the little ingrates, ‘Hey, get the hell out of My garden.’ As they slowly walked away, heads bowed in shame, I added, ‘And quit running around naked all the time! Put some clothes on for My sake! Trust Me, in about ten years you’ll thank Me for the idea. Time and gravity are not your friends.’”
Jesus cleared his throat to announce his presence. “There’s been another incident involving the Church and child abuse. Mankind is out of control. The world is overwrought by war, hunger, disease, murder, and wanton sex. It is a total wasteland. Degradation is complete. Evil reigns supreme.”
God looked disapprovingly at His Son. A rich, bass voice raged as if amplified by a thousand woofers, reverberating with shock waves that shook the ground. Jesus had heard it before - vintage James Earl Jones.
“Evil reigns supreme? A tad over dramatic, aren’t we?” God bellowed.
“Do you have to do the voice? I hate it when you do the voice. The world is a mess.
You don’t believe me, Darth? Turn on the TV.”
God nodded to two of his bare-assed, winged minions, who flew away and returned in a flash, setting up a big-screen plasma TV. He nodded and they clicked the remote.
CNN: “We have a breaking story for you tonight, the Pentagon has learned North Korea does indeed have nuclear capabilities. Blame the Republicans”.
Click.
FOX NEWS: “Oil prices reach an all-time high. Blame the Democrats.”
Click.
MSNBC: “It appears that war with Iran is imminent. An MSNBC exclusive, coming up next.”
Click.
NBC: “Third world nation children starving to death, numbers reach epic proportions, film at eleven.”
The cherubs sniffled, and wiped a tear.
Click.
Court TV: “When we come back, we will have an update for you in the Yancy Grace murder trial. We’ll show you the security tape from a cheesy, short-stay motel, where the thirty-nine year old teacher accused of murdering his wife is seen on the day before the murder, entering “The Gestapo Theme Room” with his nineteen-year-old secretary and a German Shepherd.”
The cherubs booed and hissed. God smiled at them with approval.
Click.
Comedy Central: “Tonight, we have a special about the rampant increase of priests abusing young boys.”
God and the cherubs cast downward looks of shame.
Click.
ABC: “Tonight, in an ET post surgery exclusive, we have the latest incarnation of Michael Jackson.” A close-up of Jackson’s face filled the screen and they all shrieked in fright.
God lunged for the remote and hit the power off button. “Enough! I see nothing new, good and evil have always waged war for the souls of man. Hey, ya win some, ya lose some. You gotta lighten up there, Kid. Hey, I gotta good one for ya.”
Jesus was afraid of this. More than he feared being denied permission to return to mankind there was one thing he really feared – God would try out one of his knock-knock jokes on him. And “Hey, I gotta good one for you” was the prompt for Jesus to indulge Him.
He tried avoiding it. “Sorry, I’m really pressed for time, and - ”
“No, no, this is a good one, really, I think I might finally have a sale.”
God was unbearable to listen to lately, ever since He learned Readers Digest paid fifty dollars if they used one of your jokes in their “Laughter is the Best Medicine” section. He sent them original knock-knock jokes hoping to get one published, but, so far, no luck. Because none of them were funny. Not that you could tell Him, He thought he was a hoot. Obviously, he didn’t need the fifty bucks; it was more of an ego thing. Jesus realized it was inescapable, so he played along just to get it over with. “OK, go ahead.”
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Atch.”
“Atch who?”
“I BLESS YOU!”
The cherubs laughed as if it was the funniest thing anyone ever said, while Jesus remained stone-faced.
God explained. “Achoo, get it? Like a sneeze? And when people sneeze, other people say, ‘God bless you,’ but I AM God, so I instead of saying - ”
Jesus cut him off. “I got it. When you get your fifty bucks don’t spend it all in one place.”
God did not appreciate the subtlety of sarcasm - your knock-knock type-of-guys never do. He arched an eyebrow and frowned. “Is there anything else you want to say?”
Jesus pleaded his case. “Take the Middle East. I’d call it the beginning of civilization but there is nothing civil about it. The oldest inhabitants of the planet and they still can’t get it right. They’ve been killing each other since day one. I suggest it is time to act as related in the ancient scriptures. The sands in the hourglass run low, it is one before midnight in the garden that was once good but is now evil. It is time for the Rapture,” Jesus said, “time to bring home the servants of God and punish the wicked. It is time Father, for Armageddon.”
“No, God said. “I am not ready to end it all yet.”
“Maybe another flood then?”
“Been there, done that.”
“Fire?”
“Too Satan.”
“Meteor?”
“Too Jurassic.”
“World War III?
“Boooring.”
“Then send me back to be your cleansing sword of righteousness. Let me remove some of the really rotten apples. I’ll start with the lawyers.”
“No,” God said.
“How about I go back for just one day, to remind them they need to live Christian lives.”
“No.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to do something soon or they’re going to nuke themselves anyway. It’ll be a shame Father, but You may have to scrap this experiment too, just like the dinosaurs.”
“Ah, yes, the dinosaurs. That was a pretty cool one, eh?”
“Yeah, until they started eating each other,” Jesus reminded him.
God, not one who liked to be reminded of His mistakes, shot His Son a menacing glare. “I sent a wall of water three hundred feet high to crash down on California, a tsunami the likes of which had never been seen before. I opened the earth in South America and Japan with quakes.
I doubled the number of hurricanes this season, and completely wiped out one of the most famous cities in the United States. There is not a single continent that has not suffered my wrath
in some way, shape or form. My feelings have been made known, my anger unleashed. We will give them time now to read and heed the signs. If not, then maybe it will be time to begin the Rapture.”
“Yes, you have done all that,” Jesus said. “And still, they do not see, they do not hear.”
“Perhaps you have a point, My Son. Maybe we should have a conference on this. Bring St. Peter to Me, and summon Death also,” God commanded.
The cherubs played “odd finger out,” to see who had to carry out the unpleasant task of retrieving the Grim Reaper.
6
God said to St. Peter, “I want the latest report on soul distribution, My Son thinks mankind is a lost cause.”
He looked it over. “Hmmm, it’s been a fifty-fifty split since the Creation. Satan got Cain, I got Abel. One for him, one for Me, and so forth throughout the ages. Now what’s this? Over the last fifty years he’s out-pulling me, ten to one? Reaper, why wasn’t I informed?”
“Haven’t you noticed you’ve lost twenty straight ‘Annual Afterlife Softball Classics’ to Hades?” Death asked.
God frowned and looked to St. Peter. “Any new arrivals coming who can play?”
St. Peter looked to Death, who said, “I have Pete Rose scheduled to have a massive coronary rooting on his horse down the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby.”
God was elated. “Pete Rose, baseball’s all time leading hitter? Great! That should help us, no?”
The Grim Reaper shook his head. “Pete Rose? Up here? Puh-leeze.”
“You mean he’s . . .”
Death cast a downward glance and shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry.”
Impatient with their irrelevant monologue, Jesus spoke up.
“If you don’t mind, could we forget about the stupid game and get back to the subject – mankind is out of control and it is time to act.”
God moved to defend his creation. “What about my musicians, my writers, my film makers? Surely there is still much beauty in the world.”
“Music? Have you heard what passes as music these days? Rap rules the airwaves and nothing is original anymore. Video killed the radio star then MTV helped kill music altogether. And film? There’s nothing new there either. They just did “King Kong” for the eleventh time. All Hollywood knows how to do is make feature film remakes of failed TV shows. Right now they’re in pre-production for a big screen remake of “My Mother the Car,” starring Jim Carrey as Dave Crabtree and Jerry Van Dyke as his father.”
God looked up in horror at this latest revelation. “Stop! Say it is not so!”
Jesus nodded his head in the affirmative.
Disappointed and defeated, God sank lower into his hammock, until His head disappeared and just His voice was heard, filled with disbelief. “It appears my poets are outnumbered by my madmen. What have I wrought?”
Jesus repeated his request. “So, can I return to try and restore some faith among the God-less?”
“No, I need to think on this matter for a while. But not now, I am too depressed.”
Needing to cheer up, God switched back to FOX. “Death, tell me, what do we have planned for “The Simpsons” creator, Matt Groening?”
Of Poets and Madmen
1
God hates nudity.
Although they hadn’t actually discussed it, Memphis Dallas was pretty sure this was true. He based his theory on the concept of aging, its effect on the human form, and the inexplicable success of the Tommy Hilfiger line. But the most recent advancement of his hypothesis came when God punished the strippers of Las Vegas by not letting Memphis win the latest Megabucks jackpot, which totaled a mind boggling thirty-nine million dollars. To Memphis, this was the clearest proof yet.
He looked with contempt at the actual winner, a mere pup of twenty-five, who, adding insult to injury, won the jackpot at the exact same slot machine Memphis played only minutes earlier.
The “Chosen One” was a pudgy, acne-faced tourist from New Jersey. At a hastily called news conference he told a collection of reporters, casino officials, and curious onlookers, “First thing I’m going to do is call my mother. Then I’m going to call my girlfriend.”
Memphis thought the guy was a freak, a liar, or needed psychiatric help. Any normal, young, red-blooded American male couldn't have called his girlfriend - after winning thirty-nine million dollars he would be unable to remember her name, much less her phone number. Clearly this was a situation that called for trading up. As for calling his mom, well, Memphis couldn’t fault him there. He would do the same, although most likely three or four days later, when fully recovered from an initial period of debauchery.
Further proof of the Chosen One’s state of ill mental health - he claimed he was going to report to work on Monday, where he was, get this - a “Sanitation Engineer” - modern society’s politically correct of saying “garbage man.”
Every time one of these clowns won a bazillion dollars they said the same thing – "I’m still going to go to work tomorrow morning. I’m going to buy a new car, some jewelry for my wife, pay for college education’s for my children, and get a new house for my parents. And this summer, we’re all going to Disneyland!"
Bull####! Lies!
Just once Memphis wanted to hear one of them tell the truth when asked what he was going to do with the money - "Well, first off, I’m sure as hell not going to work on Monday. Or Tuesday. Or Wednesday, Thursday, Friday or any other day for that matter.
I’m sending my boss a note that says, ‘YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE, SEE YA!’
I’m gonna dump my wife before she makes her move for fifty percent of my stash.
I’m gonna slip each of my kid’s twenty grand and tell ‘em, ‘have a nice life.’
Then I’m moving to a tropical island where I’m gonna crash on the beach all day while tanned, topless native bimbos fan me with huge fronds, and have cat fights over who gets to refill my margarita, even when it’s full."
At least that’s what Memphis figured they would do. It was what he would do. Then again, maybe that’s why God didn’t let him win thirty-nine million dollars. But he kept praying anyway, just in case.
Memphis didn’t know God has only three answers to prayers – “yes,” “no,” and “are you kidding me?” And the answer to his prayer was always of the third variety.
He didn’t worry that the sands in the hourglass were running out on him as time crept up to steal his youth away. In fact, he thought this a plus. He took comfort in knowing that almost every time he read about a big jackpot or lottery winner, they were, like him, over sixty-five-years old - past the age where they could really enjoy it, and with little time left to try.
Lady Luck ain’t no lady, he thought, she’s a bitch.
Memphis convinced himself he was worthy of winning the next multi-million dollar jackpot, and like most people with a gambling problem he believed it was his destiny.
He was a homeless man whose wife had died years ago, and whose children had abandoned to a life of lonely days and lonelier holidays. He spent his nights in a refrigerator-box home under a picnic table in Sunset Park. He spent his mornings walking the aisles of the casinos, searching for credits left in the slot machines by tourists too intoxicated or stupid to
notice they hadn’t finished playing all their coins before calling it a night and returning to their rooms to sleep it off. He spent his days bumming change, getting drunk, and trying to forget the mistakes of a wasted life, passed too fast.
What was left of his sad existence had become a daily ritual. Each morning, he woke with the sun and first thanked, then cursed God for letting him. He walked past the same half-conscious drug addicts and prostitutes, leftovers from the previous night, desperate for one more high or trick before they retreated to their lairs for the duration of daylight, still-thirsty vampires looking for one last victim before the sun rose to end their plight. He went two blocks to St. Jude’s Church, where he spent fifteen minutes in prayer, proposing good deeds as bargaining chips with God if He would only let this be the day Memphis hit the big jackpot so he could spend his few remaining days living in luxury. Or at least with a roof over his head and indoor plumbing.
He’d been doing this routine for seven years now, never winning more than a couple dollars, but on the morning of December twenty-fourth, he was feeling lucky.
Memphis entered St. Jude’s as he noticed the sky suddenly grow black. The wind began to howl. Thunder crashed. Lightning flashed. He found himself alone in the church, not unusual this early in the morning. He chose the same pew he sat in everyday, slowly worked his creaking, old bones into position on the padded kneeler, made the sign of the cross, and began to pray. He was calculating the proper percentage of his winnings to propose as a donation to charity to convince God he was deserving of the next jackpot, when Memphis caught a movement out of the corner of his eye.
Above the altar was a life-sized statue of Christ on the cross.
Memphis looked up at the statue.
And the statue’s eyes opened and looked back at him.
2
Memphis: “Ahhh!”
Jesus: “Oww!”
3
As he awoke on the cross, Jesus’ first thought was where am I?
His next thought was who is that man running out the door, and why is he yelling like that?
Both thoughts were quickly forgotten as he was overcome by intense pain and, looking left, then right, saw why - his hands.
“OOWWW! Damn it, I forgot how much that hurts!”
He quickly pulled them free. He realized his mistake too late – his feet were still pinned to the cross. He fell, like a board game spinner. Upside down now, he hit his head on the ground.
“Ouch!”
He pulled his feet free, touched his wounds. They healed, and he declared, “I still got it.”
Swathed only in a small piece of cloth, he entered the vestibule behind the altar, spotted a closet, and removed a priest’s robe. Stepping back into the main cathedral, he glanced upwards and prayed for forgiveness, asking his Father to understand that he was sorry for disobeying and coming to Las Vegas. Then added, “And for stealing this robe.”
4
It was a pissed-off Jesus who decided it was time for His Second Coming.
There were:
3,342 robberies
139 rapes
8 murders
and 4 deaths from starvation.
All in only 1 minute.
Just in the U.S. alone.
The next sixty-second cycle was beginning, and it would happen all over again. Murder for money, murder for kicks. Rape. Robbery. World Hunger. Infanticide. Old diseases, new diseases. Old wars, new wars. The world was a mess, but the straw that broke the camel’s back was the O’Ryan situation. Father Peter O'Ryan, or Father “Pete O’ Phile,” as the press dubbed him, was the biggest pedophile the Church had yet discovered. Or had uncovered to be precise, since the church’s strategy on such matters was to pull a Helen Keller.
When complaints of child abuse began to come in, the Church’s primary concern was not for the children, but to avoid a pedophilia scandal that would tarnish their reputation by busting the myth of their sanctity, and, more importantly – cut into their revenue. So they moved Father
O’Ryan around like a faded, professional sports player, his value diminishing with each exchange:
St. Mary’s traded him to St. John’s, for a promising, young, up-and-coming priest, freshly transferred in from Ireland.
St. John’s traded him to St. Bonaventure’s, for two seminary students and a nun to be named later.
St. Bonnie’s traded him to Our Lady of Fatima, for ten percent of next week’s midnight mass collections, ten gallons of bottled Holy Water, and some slightly used Rosary Beads.
O’Ryan had been preying on children for years, and with his latest victim he graduated from molester to murderer. The Lord looked down upon him and was not pleased. I definitely didn’t die for these sins. And on that fateful day, Jesus decided to return, to walk amongst man once again.
But first, he had to ask permission . . .
5
Jesus found His Father in His usual surroundings, an Eden-like garden tucked away in a quiet little corner of Heaven, with a grotto modeled after Hef’s, but with furry little bunnies instead of surgically altered statuesque ones. He was lying on a hammock, slowly swaying with the gentle afternoon breeze, hovered over by grape dropping, floating cherubs. They appeared to be bored, feigning interest. When Jesus got closer, he learned why - God was telling His Creation Story. Again.
“So I said to the little ingrates, ‘Hey, get the hell out of My garden.’ As they slowly walked away, heads bowed in shame, I added, ‘And quit running around naked all the time! Put some clothes on for My sake! Trust Me, in about ten years you’ll thank Me for the idea. Time and gravity are not your friends.’”
Jesus cleared his throat to announce his presence. “There’s been another incident involving the Church and child abuse. Mankind is out of control. The world is overwrought by war, hunger, disease, murder, and wanton sex. It is a total wasteland. Degradation is complete. Evil reigns supreme.”
God looked disapprovingly at His Son. A rich, bass voice raged as if amplified by a thousand woofers, reverberating with shock waves that shook the ground. Jesus had heard it before - vintage James Earl Jones.
“Evil reigns supreme? A tad over dramatic, aren’t we?” God bellowed.
“Do you have to do the voice? I hate it when you do the voice. The world is a mess.
You don’t believe me, Darth? Turn on the TV.”
God nodded to two of his bare-assed, winged minions, who flew away and returned in a flash, setting up a big-screen plasma TV. He nodded and they clicked the remote.
CNN: “We have a breaking story for you tonight, the Pentagon has learned North Korea does indeed have nuclear capabilities. Blame the Republicans”.
Click.
FOX NEWS: “Oil prices reach an all-time high. Blame the Democrats.”
Click.
MSNBC: “It appears that war with Iran is imminent. An MSNBC exclusive, coming up next.”
Click.
NBC: “Third world nation children starving to death, numbers reach epic proportions, film at eleven.”
The cherubs sniffled, and wiped a tear.
Click.
Court TV: “When we come back, we will have an update for you in the Yancy Grace murder trial. We’ll show you the security tape from a cheesy, short-stay motel, where the thirty-nine year old teacher accused of murdering his wife is seen on the day before the murder, entering “The Gestapo Theme Room” with his nineteen-year-old secretary and a German Shepherd.”
The cherubs booed and hissed. God smiled at them with approval.
Click.
Comedy Central: “Tonight, we have a special about the rampant increase of priests abusing young boys.”
God and the cherubs cast downward looks of shame.
Click.
ABC: “Tonight, in an ET post surgery exclusive, we have the latest incarnation of Michael Jackson.” A close-up of Jackson’s face filled the screen and they all shrieked in fright.
God lunged for the remote and hit the power off button. “Enough! I see nothing new, good and evil have always waged war for the souls of man. Hey, ya win some, ya lose some. You gotta lighten up there, Kid. Hey, I gotta good one for ya.”
Jesus was afraid of this. More than he feared being denied permission to return to mankind there was one thing he really feared – God would try out one of his knock-knock jokes on him. And “Hey, I gotta good one for you” was the prompt for Jesus to indulge Him.
He tried avoiding it. “Sorry, I’m really pressed for time, and - ”
“No, no, this is a good one, really, I think I might finally have a sale.”
God was unbearable to listen to lately, ever since He learned Readers Digest paid fifty dollars if they used one of your jokes in their “Laughter is the Best Medicine” section. He sent them original knock-knock jokes hoping to get one published, but, so far, no luck. Because none of them were funny. Not that you could tell Him, He thought he was a hoot. Obviously, he didn’t need the fifty bucks; it was more of an ego thing. Jesus realized it was inescapable, so he played along just to get it over with. “OK, go ahead.”
“Knock-knock.”
“Who’s there?”
“Atch.”
“Atch who?”
“I BLESS YOU!”
The cherubs laughed as if it was the funniest thing anyone ever said, while Jesus remained stone-faced.
God explained. “Achoo, get it? Like a sneeze? And when people sneeze, other people say, ‘God bless you,’ but I AM God, so I instead of saying - ”
Jesus cut him off. “I got it. When you get your fifty bucks don’t spend it all in one place.”
God did not appreciate the subtlety of sarcasm - your knock-knock type-of-guys never do. He arched an eyebrow and frowned. “Is there anything else you want to say?”
Jesus pleaded his case. “Take the Middle East. I’d call it the beginning of civilization but there is nothing civil about it. The oldest inhabitants of the planet and they still can’t get it right. They’ve been killing each other since day one. I suggest it is time to act as related in the ancient scriptures. The sands in the hourglass run low, it is one before midnight in the garden that was once good but is now evil. It is time for the Rapture,” Jesus said, “time to bring home the servants of God and punish the wicked. It is time Father, for Armageddon.”
“No, God said. “I am not ready to end it all yet.”
“Maybe another flood then?”
“Been there, done that.”
“Fire?”
“Too Satan.”
“Meteor?”
“Too Jurassic.”
“World War III?
“Boooring.”
“Then send me back to be your cleansing sword of righteousness. Let me remove some of the really rotten apples. I’ll start with the lawyers.”
“No,” God said.
“How about I go back for just one day, to remind them they need to live Christian lives.”
“No.”
“Well, you’re gonna have to do something soon or they’re going to nuke themselves anyway. It’ll be a shame Father, but You may have to scrap this experiment too, just like the dinosaurs.”
“Ah, yes, the dinosaurs. That was a pretty cool one, eh?”
“Yeah, until they started eating each other,” Jesus reminded him.
God, not one who liked to be reminded of His mistakes, shot His Son a menacing glare. “I sent a wall of water three hundred feet high to crash down on California, a tsunami the likes of which had never been seen before. I opened the earth in South America and Japan with quakes.
I doubled the number of hurricanes this season, and completely wiped out one of the most famous cities in the United States. There is not a single continent that has not suffered my wrath
in some way, shape or form. My feelings have been made known, my anger unleashed. We will give them time now to read and heed the signs. If not, then maybe it will be time to begin the Rapture.”
“Yes, you have done all that,” Jesus said. “And still, they do not see, they do not hear.”
“Perhaps you have a point, My Son. Maybe we should have a conference on this. Bring St. Peter to Me, and summon Death also,” God commanded.
The cherubs played “odd finger out,” to see who had to carry out the unpleasant task of retrieving the Grim Reaper.
6
God said to St. Peter, “I want the latest report on soul distribution, My Son thinks mankind is a lost cause.”
He looked it over. “Hmmm, it’s been a fifty-fifty split since the Creation. Satan got Cain, I got Abel. One for him, one for Me, and so forth throughout the ages. Now what’s this? Over the last fifty years he’s out-pulling me, ten to one? Reaper, why wasn’t I informed?”
“Haven’t you noticed you’ve lost twenty straight ‘Annual Afterlife Softball Classics’ to Hades?” Death asked.
God frowned and looked to St. Peter. “Any new arrivals coming who can play?”
St. Peter looked to Death, who said, “I have Pete Rose scheduled to have a massive coronary rooting on his horse down the home stretch of the Kentucky Derby.”
God was elated. “Pete Rose, baseball’s all time leading hitter? Great! That should help us, no?”
The Grim Reaper shook his head. “Pete Rose? Up here? Puh-leeze.”
“You mean he’s . . .”
Death cast a downward glance and shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry.”
Impatient with their irrelevant monologue, Jesus spoke up.
“If you don’t mind, could we forget about the stupid game and get back to the subject – mankind is out of control and it is time to act.”
God moved to defend his creation. “What about my musicians, my writers, my film makers? Surely there is still much beauty in the world.”
“Music? Have you heard what passes as music these days? Rap rules the airwaves and nothing is original anymore. Video killed the radio star then MTV helped kill music altogether. And film? There’s nothing new there either. They just did “King Kong” for the eleventh time. All Hollywood knows how to do is make feature film remakes of failed TV shows. Right now they’re in pre-production for a big screen remake of “My Mother the Car,” starring Jim Carrey as Dave Crabtree and Jerry Van Dyke as his father.”
God looked up in horror at this latest revelation. “Stop! Say it is not so!”
Jesus nodded his head in the affirmative.
Disappointed and defeated, God sank lower into his hammock, until His head disappeared and just His voice was heard, filled with disbelief. “It appears my poets are outnumbered by my madmen. What have I wrought?”
Jesus repeated his request. “So, can I return to try and restore some faith among the God-less?”
“No, I need to think on this matter for a while. But not now, I am too depressed.”
Needing to cheer up, God switched back to FOX. “Death, tell me, what do we have planned for “The Simpsons” creator, Matt Groening?”