Behold. The Universe. Its billions of galaxies. Each galaxy containing billions of stars. We are interested in one spiral galaxy. The Milky Way. Its billions of suns revolving around a center, like Muslims circling the Kaaba during the Hajj.
In the center of the Milky Way is a super massive black hole. At the center of the circling Muslims, affixed to the Kaaba, is an Aswad. Believers stop to kiss the Aswad.
Right. Okay. Let's go with that. Allah's asshole. As if Allah informed the Prophet, who in turn passed along Allah's will to the faithful. Before I most graciously grant you victory over the evil disbelieving infidels, Allah needs a rim job. Not a glorious lame rim job. Nor a sore unwilling rim job. Nor a bland proper rim job. Most merciful Allah may accept a cosmic tribal rim job. But to be absolutely clear, so as to avoid any misinterpretation, Allah wants an, no, infinitely wise and powerful Allah demands a rim job that is exceedingly glorious and wonderful.
This species of animal.
Homo sapiens. But we call them Jerries. This species of animal was renowned throughout the galaxy for taking
shrapnel above the neck, for it is only they who believed they were made in the image of an invisible
entity. They gave many names to this entity.
Yahweh, Jehovah, Shiva, Brahama-
Vishnu, Messiah, Allah, The Father-
Lord of Lords, Rock, Wonderful Counselor-
The Lord, God, Woden, Jupiter, Juno-
Hera, Zeus, Ra, Frigg, Vulcan, Athena-
and the most humble of all the gods of the Homos, Buddha. But Buddha was not listed as a god. Therefore, Buddha was the most plausible of all their inventions.
Wouldn't we have been invisible to them?
Well then maybe they didn't take shrapnel.
No, no. They took shrapnel. They hated each other. It was hilarious. Out of the billions of life forms in the Milky Way, they're the only species known to have hated themselves. Out of disgust many Jerries chose to disassociate with one another. They separated into gangs divided by politics, race, religion, ethnicity, and proximity to a Walmart. They publicly shamed one another. They passed judgment. They questioned each other's intelligence, while following without question a doctrine. Some of their most influential doctrines were created by primitive Homos thousands of years before science. More modern doctrines barely cloaked an insatiable appetite for power. All Jerries were indoctrinated to some degree.
Powerful organizations collectively known as The Media capitalized by inciting the gullible masses to riot. They would present a video clip that showed a criminal suspect being allegedly harmed by police. Jerries would take to the streets, destroy property, steal TVs, pharmaceuticals and athletic shoes. The Media would film the riots. If the reaction wasn't sensational enough, journalists embedded within the looters would throw Molotov Cocktails at police cruisers to see if they could goad police into firing off a few rounds.
When someone drew a cartoon depicting the prophet Muhammad, Muslims would throw a conniption and cut their head off. Then The Media would interview politicians who would lie to everyone saying Islam was a religion of peace.
Did anyone believe it?
Their mouths spoke not what their minds thought. No one believed it, though several claimed they did. Anyone who spoke their mind was labeled a fascist and unfriended.
A 21st Century phenomenon. Smart technologies allowed the Jerries to interact without being face to face. They called this Facebook. They'd open an account. Send friend requests to a whole lot of people they never met. Get drunk. Go back onto Facebook and rip into one of these friends as if they were the absolute dumbest Homo sapien ever birthed since history began, approximately 6,000 years earlier.
Wasn't their planet 4 1/2 billion years old at that time?
Shrapnel. Four and a half billion. Six thousand. It was a matter of zeros. The point is, they bloodied their planet. Earth, as you learned in school, was part of a science project made by the Reverend Godallahbuddazeus. You’ve seen the physical form of the Reverend? An hermaphrodite the size of a chimpanzee who smokes pot.
In school we learned that the Reverend was auto-sexual and often masturbated while watching Its universe project expand.
Well, how come the Homos developed such an intolerance for sex and masturbation?
Despite a reputation for being omniscient not even the Reverend knows.
What happened to the Reverend?
The Reverend got bored after the Homos went extinct and was last seen pleasuring Itself.
Miss Hot Tot Tot told us the Reverend could’ve intervened and altered the course of Earth history. Why didn’t It?
The Reverend is a voyeur. Its whole concept of the universe was to detonate a fingernail cell in that large empty space in Its backyard, to observe if some life form would eventually evolve its way back to us. Smoking the ganja demotivates the Reverend. Intervention would require effort. Although, there was one time when the Reverend almost couldn’t resist the temptation.
Niggahonky wonders if his divine Friend didn’t create Its universe on some ego satisfying whim. Imagine, an easily influenced species, due to a lack of critical ability, to besmooch your Aswad.
When was that Uncle Niggahonky?
When Earth was celebrating its 2nd millennium. The 2000 year mark, according to the Christian's calendar. Christ was supposed to reappear to do battle with the devil. The Reverend really wanted to send Hervé Villechaise instead.
The little guy on Fantasy Island who used to yell, "Duh plane, Duh plane"? He’s sooo cute. Why him?
In your mind's eye visualize the Reverend.
Ulilbitch takes a moment to visualize It.
Woe! They’re identical.
What stopped It from sending Hervé?
That would’ve broken Its non-intervention clause. We were all well acquainted with how impressionable the Jerries were. They kept quoting God, but the Reverend never said anything. It used to stand just to the left of the universe taking hits from Its bong and smiling. Not laughing. Just smiling good-naturedly. Like Gandhi. No, the reincarnation of Hervé Villechaise was a Chevy No-go. Keeping with Its own clause Reverend Godallahbuddazeus never sent anyone. In spite of their great imaginations there was no devil, but there were plenty of good horror films.
The most terrifying horror movie they ever made was called "Threads". It was about nuclear war. It was intended as a dramatization when it came out in 1984. Years later it would prove to be prophetic.
Christ never showing up didn’t stop Christians and other groups from yelling, "But He is coming, He is coming, and if we don’t save your soul you’re goin’ to Satan."
There’s a place we used to go, called The Atomic Café. It was on Earth's moon. We used to observe the Jerries playing out their conflicts. They served these vapors for nasal inhalation, that were other-worldly. Vapors that could be made from any proportion of mind-altering substances. Feeling groggy, a caffeine derivative could be added to your vapor. Feeling horny, an X derivative would maximize your pleasure. Bored? Apathetic? Coffee with a touch of mushroom would bring on intensely beautiful hallucinations. You can even satisfy a chocolate craving with a cocoa vapor. I could tell you some stories about Earth over a few vapors.
Let’s go, she thinks excitedly.
There is one matter for consideration.
What? What matter?
As you know, you and I are entities. Pure energy. Invisible. We reside in what some Jerries called the divine realm. When we enter the Reverend's universe we take on physicality. Matter, if you will. You will no longer be a Thoughtform. You will have a body.
Why do I have to have a body?
Reverend's rules: Any entity entering Its physical universe must take on physicality thereby subjecting it to the natural laws therein. I think the Reverend made up this law as a security measure. There were quite a few hooligans in Its class and It didn’t want any of them altering Its universe. A Thoughtform could easily slip in and out of Its universe undetected, but not so an organic life form. Every Homo, every living being in the universe, displaces space and exerts energy, thereby affecting every other being. This space displaced and energy exerted can be detected and measured. As you will experience, wearing a human body is clumsy, cumbersome, very limiting, but not without redeeming qualities.
I’m going to be a Homo?
We both are. What better way to appreciate the heavenly smells of The Atomic Café's vapors? Try not to be scared, Ulilbitch. When you first feel the weight of your body assignment, the limbs of heavy bone and thick flesh, drawing air into your lungs you may feel claustrophobic. Don't panic. Just remember that you can withdraw at any time by thinking yourself back to your Thoughtform. You ready to go?
I think so.
Disclaimer: These words are typed for you in your language, on toilet paper. Why the Thoughtforms take the time to put into human tongue the story of Earth being told to Ulilbitch, since you annihilated yourselves in a stupid nuclear war, is beyond the scope of this writing. The Thoughtforms assume any species that can make fun of itself with a cliché to describe insanity that involves a kangaroo, might be worth saving. Or, at least partying with. Maybe partying will help. If there is a kangaroo loose in the top paddock, Ulilbitch is gonna love it.
Niggahonky and Ulilbitch will themselves back in time to The Atomic Café. Triangular shaped windows, spires and arches of chrome and glass, like New York City’s Art Deco period Chrysler Building, adorn the café’s tables, seating, and space divisions. It smells old, yet comfortably familiar, of plaster, leather, wood. The microscopic dust of the materials from which it’s constructed and decorated.
A fit middle aged woman with long red hair pinned up in a bun, intelligent green eyes punctuated by crows feet, an emerald green mini skirt, gold stars covering her nipples, small natural breasts. She approaches their table, "Hi, I’m Eliana. Can I start you off with something to sniff?"
Niggahonky visualizes foreplay. Imagines Eliana emitting a loud orgasmic groan of pleasure. Uncomfortable seconds pass until Ulilbitch says, 'Unc'. His eyes regain focus as he swallows some spit. He finally orders a vapor laced with three parts marijuana for a pleasingly detached peripheral consciousness, two parts coffee to charge him up, and one part tequila for that extra party-all-night edge. He denies himself the X portion until later. He’s besotted with Eliana, but he is entertaining his niece. He has promised her stories of Earth.
"I don’t know what to get Uncle."
"How do you feel?"
"I don’t know."
"Are you tired?"
"No. Heavy. Breathing takes effort. And you look so weird, like a cross between Frank Zappa and Groucho Marx."
"Thank you, my dear. You look like a cross between Hillary Clinton and Eddie Murphy." Eliana chuckles.
"I do? Yuck!"
"No. More like a jowly Gwyneth Paltrow. A tall, lanky, fully formed young woman with taut yet supple skin radiating a tantalising heat signature with staggering pheromones. Too, your head is disproportionally large.
"That doesn't sound very attractive".
"It's not. But my body assignment has an unremarkable sex appendage".
"I suppose that wasn't considered desireable, either".
"It wasn't. Many males of this period suffered from feelings of inadequacy. A couple of decades later they would be able to modify their endowments at will. Then, every male grew an appendage larger than their forearms. The women grew so tired of being impaled that they began to desire more modest sized sex partners who didn't cause internal hemorrhaging."
"What about the women? Were they able to modify their appearance?"
"Yes. They modified everything. They reduced or increased, reshaped, enhanced their noses, butts, breasts, legs and hips, size of their hands to the relative size of their heads. They began to look like a finite number of variations on Jennifer Lawrence, Halle Berry and Rihanna. The attitudes that accompanied their new found beauty eventually made the men weary, and bored. The men began to mistake their Barbie doll with that of the Barbie sitting at the next table. They had real problems finding their Barbie at a football game when they were inebriated. They gave their Barbies an identifiable whistle to blow to guide them in. Eventually the men appreciated imperfections, to help them distinguish their wives and offspring, and to give the whistle blowing referees a break on Sundays."
Niggahonky: "Strange, I always envisioned you as a little girl who just happened to know about hermaphroditic masturbation and mind-altering substances. You’re really quite fetching, my dear." Then, in a nasal retracted upper lip voice, "And I do mean that in a most peculiar way." His unibrow winks up and down.
Ulilbitch scrunches her thin blond eyebrows as she considers again a vapor. "I’d like something sweet with a kick that makes Earth’s marble blue appearance effervescent."
To Eliana Niggahonky orders a peppermint vapor with a hint of X.
"Anything else?" asks the appetizing waitress.
"I believe I’d like to have a gander at your buttocks."
Eliana walks away smiling. It's the first sexist comment she's received since men were emasculated early in the 21st Century. Plus, she likes Niggahonky’s eyes.
As Niggahonky sits peacefully observing the interior of The Atomic Café, the strangely timeless curves, arches and spires, pleasing to his now human eyes, Ulilbitch awkwardly walks to a large triangular window on her new legs. Earth, blue and marbled with cloud cover, hangs beautifully without strings, framed in the blackness of space.
"Such a small planet in the Reverend’s immense universe," she observes, looking back toward her uncle for a response.
The captivating Eliana with her seductive human female form has her uncle’s utmost attention. Leaving the capped double necked bongs at their table, Eliana glides away at moon speed, but not before flipping up her mini skirt exposing her bulbous posterior unencumbered by undergarment, smiling coyly over her shoulder at him. Walking in lunar gravity at one sixth the Earth's, one must take care not to become overzealous, or end up airborne. On a nearby TV the crowd goes wild after a Marauder's player, a team from the moon’s dark side, hits a 1.1 kilometer homerun.
"Ulilbitch, come try your vapor."
Taking her seat she asks, "Why are you so smitten with Eliana?"
How best to demonstrate the advantages, though admittedly few, of being a Jerry. He reaches under the table and pulls Ulilbitch’s long luscious leg up over his knee enjoying its warm animal firmness. "How does this feel?" He strokes her leg.
"There’s much to be said about physical pleasure in the human form. Experience is better than talk. Homos spent a great deal more time talking about sex than actually doing it. They wasted effort looking for sexually ideal partners: the perfect body, measurements, physical attributes, a trophy to walk next to while attending social functions. What would their friends think? Fact: anybody could've been a sex partner. Old, fat, anorexic, toothless, amputee. The secret, my dear, was that an aesthetically unpleasing partner put more effort into an encounter. Because they didn’t have as many opportunities, they often proved to be more exciting and imaginative than the photogenic candidate who expected to be worshipped."
"Why were Homos so discriminating?"
"Because they thought. Unlike monkeys that would plug any and all available orifices, humans had to be seduced."
"Enticed by body language, verbal language, and pheromones. It was fascinating to watch people court one another. Something as subtle as a lingering look with hungry eyes, an artfully used tongue in conversation, or a haunting fragrance. I can’t really explain Homo bonding beyond that. You'd have to know culture, experience life with the Jerries to understand their languages. Even then many idiosyncrasies were baffling. Nonetheless, they have proven very entertaining for Godallahbuddazeus and I, in observance and by experience."
"You’ve been to Earth?" Ulilbitch’s eyes widen with interest. Pencil thin eyebrows in their upright inquisitive positions.
"Many times over the eons of this universe."
"Then you’ve had sex?"
"Many times with many different partners and in many different physical housings. I’ve even experienced sex inside a monkey’s body. That’s some rough rapid-fire polygamous sex. I don’t want to do that again for a while. Wears you out and you have to watch your ass."
"I can’t believe you’ve experienced that."
"My dear, there’s no better way to enjoy the Reverend’s universe than to experience it. We are non-physical entities. Quasi gods. You know we liberated ourselves from our own physical universe in our own course of evolution. We can always return to the physical at will. When I go back in time on Earth, I may engage anyone at any time for intercourse. However, after I’ve had my fun, I must reverse time to pull out at the point of entry, so I don’t alter the course of natural evolution. You see, by reversing time, we eliminate any signature prints left by our DNA. Essentially, we were never there, although we do retain our memories."
"Besides the physical, what’s so intriguing about sex?"
"Mostly, it’s in the mind. If two humans shared an emotional intellectual bond, then sex had the potential to be very meaningful indeed. Otherwise, from a purely physical standpoint, it was exciting, fun, burned calories, and released stress. I’d tell you it didn’t cost anything, but people had been known to pay dearly for it."
"Let’s enjoy these vapors then we’ll pay a visit to Earth. You’ll pick a time period in Earth’s history and we’ll materialize there."
Ulilbitch watches as Niggahonky positions his nostrils over the double necked nasal bong, deftly releases the stopper with his thumb, inhales deeply, eyes closed as he luxuriates in the earthy aromas of marijuana, coffee, and tequila. Moments later he opens his eyes and smiles, intoxicated. His dark moustache and thick eyebrows add exclamation to his strong masculine face.
"How do you feel?" asks his niece.
"Immaculate," he utters, at least he’s pretty sure he uttered, as consciousness of his physical body is heightened. He feels his pulse beating through his limbs producing a warm glow all over his body. Alert yet dreamy.
Ulilbitch examines her nasal bong. A green glass bulb about the size and shape of a softball with a stem that rises straight up and splits into two. A stopper at the bottom of the stem holds back the cloudy contents inside the bulb. When the stopper is released, the intoxicating vapors sucked up inside one’s nose penetrate the blood vessels therein, the drugs stream through long tiny red tunnels to the heart, which in turn propels them to feed the brain. Then, WOOOOOOSSSSSHHHHHHHH!
She inspects her body. Feels her rounded jaw, runs a finger along an eyebrow, licks her lips, cups her pointy breasts…
"Here, let me do that." Niggahonky’s hairy hands reach across the table and feel the small soft breasts. The tips hardened with arousal.
"Feels good," breathes Ulilbitch. Her eyes close as she savors human contact. "Touch me more," she implores, as her uncle removes his hands. She feels a warm stirring between her long legs.
"No, my dear. When we get to Earth you can pick a suitable sex partner to quench your body’s thirst. You’re gonna enjoy that body."
Ulilbitch exhales, positions her nose over the double necked stem, releases the stopper and neatly disappears the vapor. How is she going to feel once it hits? Her question is answered in as little time as it takes...
to not fill out a year 2000 United States Census form when you rent out your single family 2 bedroom ranch in Doraville, A Good Place To Live the Welcome to Doraville road sign says. Not great, not historical, not friendly, compelling, alluring, provocative, nor satisfying. Good. Why not pretty good, or tempting, jovial or trivial? Random. Yes, random. Welcome to Doraville, A Random Place To Live. In defiance of local ordinance you rent your single family 2 bdr ranch to at least 8 undocumented workers. Why should your neighbor care? In college, the neighbor shared a rental house with more friends than signed the lease, which helped to offset the rent. That neighbor now has an alluring, tempting young wife who returns from work each night observed by the several hardworking South-of-the-border migrants standing out in front of their small house, who have to smell each others pheromones everyday while subduing torturous thoughts, water-boarding thoughts, no fresh water in 72 hours floating in wreckage in the South Pacific thoughts, of sexual abandon with a beautiful female who smells like fabric softener, instead of salsa and gingivitis. The neighbor has tasted conservatism. No, he's no church goer, but he has come to appreciate the concept of obeying the law. Pragmatic addition enters his mind. Eight hardworking testosterone emitting migrant laborers plus a case of cerveza plus standing out in the front yard goading each other into doing something irredeemably stupid, plus a young attractive wife getting out of her car next door; does not automatically equate to something bad. But does, especially with alcohol, increase the probability. Does the neighbor call the Doraville police? ¡No. Aún no! Somebody else must have. A cop is out there talking with the men. They go inside. The cop leaves. Turns out the cop is the landlord. He comes by every week or so to check on his tenants. Dang mustardsucker is breaking the law breaking the law ugh ugh. Breaking the law breaking the law ugh ugh.
The sweet peppermint coupled with X makes the Buck Rogers like setting even more ethereal. She runs her slender pale fingers over the cool hard surface of the retractable table, on the opposite side of which, sits her uncle radiating heat. She reaches over and touches his bristly moustache studying the large pores in his face.
"Uncle, can I merge with you and see what my embodiment looks like?"
"Of course, my lovely sea puss," he affirms, as if jumping one’s mind into another’s body is an everyday occurrence, which it is. He suddenly feels the familiar energy of her Thoughtform join his inside his body. Increased respiration and metabolism are the physical symptoms of her added energy. He begins to sweat and becomes a bit flushed. Gazing across the table at his niece’s slouching physical housing, smooth muscles, basic life functions still there, coma.
In his body, Ulilbitch feels the heavier muscle mass, perspiration emanating from his armpits, additional flesh between his legs, but no sensitive globes of gelatin resting on his ribs. Looking across at her dormant housing, she observes her pale moon-glow skin, the golf balls of her eyes shielded beneath the peaceful sheaths of her eyelids, the long blond eyelashes, the lanky limbs of her cylindrical arms, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing beneath a form hugging evening gown. As her uncle’s fingers lightly touch her body’s face, she feels the soft warmth of the young taught skin. Concurrently, as if in a dream, is the distant touch of fingers on her face.
Uncle, she thinks, will you slap me around? I want you to slap me around.
No, crazy Ulilbitch, he thinks in reply, chuckling, I wouldn’t want to bruise that beautiful body.
In an instant she’s back in her Homo suit. Like opening a window blind she raises her eyelids to a grinning Niggahonky, the beautiful blue Earth suspended in a window over his shoulder, the easy slow-motion gate of Eliana retreating with their empty nasal bongs. Eliana left a celestial feminine scent lingering in the cool lunar café air.
"I’ve decided Unc. I’d like to meet Jesus."
"Hey-Zeus," corrects Niggahonky.
"Hey-Zeus?" Ulilbitch is puzzled.
"He prefers the Hispanic pronunciation of His name. He has a sense of humor not unlike the Reverend's."
"Is He Mexican?" she asks.
"No. He’s a brutha."
"Jesus was black?"
"Yep, just like Santee Claus."
"Santa Claus was black?"
"Well… no. I’m kidding about Santee Claus. But Hey-Zeus was definitely no caucasoid, and like the Reverend, He smoke-a-da ganja."
"So, Jesus was a dope smoking black man."
"Indubitably," he ejaculates.
"But white Christians depict Him as a bearded white hippie."
Niggahonky nods in affirmation, "Homo sapiens were self-serving. It helped with civilizing themselves. Like-minded and similar looking peoples grouped together forming gangs for protection, for survival, and to ward off boredom."
"But I thought all people were alike?"
"Ah, the tragedy of the Homo sapiens. Shakespeare was exalted for his tragedies. Such repetition. For thousands of years they brutalized each other over trite differences, only to realize just prior to their great offing, that they were all fundamentally the same. Consider. You break Homo sapiens down into their smallest component: The Jerry. What would it take to make one happy? Plentiful supply of food and water, love, compassion, respect, a few laughs, matching recliners. All said, humans required surprisingly little for happiness. Yet when you grouped people together: jealousy, greed, intoxication, disrespect, power trips, intimidation, politics, public shaming, indoctrination; and if communication broke down, war. The more advanced they became, the more power each individual possessed. One's mental health became crucial. Suddenly, every Jerry had the power to erase mankind with a briefcase-sized device."
"I don’t know if I want to go to Earth, Uncle. I mean, Homo sapiens sound awfully unstable."
"They are. They were. That's part of the fun. They're unpredictable. No matter how much they attempted to group together and bully others, people were individuals. Most were honest and compassionate. Most had a sense of humor once you pulled away the layers of indoctrination and exposed their humanity. Regrettably, too many thought nothing of destroying life. Don’t assume all humans were felony stupid because they slaughtered other species for hamburgers, fur coats, ivory piano keys, shark fin soup, or because a toddler got frightened by a pollinating insect." Niggahonky’s unibrow rises on one side, "We believe humans had good intentions even when they killed 99 percent of all bacteria with their hand soap, including the bacteria necessary for sustaining good health."
Niggahonky pulls from his pocket a blue plastic-wrapped package of Oreo cookies. He sets it out on the retractable table and noisily opens it. Easing a sandwich cookie out he observes, "Been a while since I had one of these," as he rotates it between his fingers. "Try one, it’ll go well with your vapor aftertaste."
Ulilbitch studies the dark disc with the fake white filling. Smells it. Curious. With a bite the cookie is broken in half, small crumbs fall slowly to the table. "It’s so sweet."
"Almost pure sugar, my dear. Really bad for the body. Yet addictive. If it tastes good it must be bad, or so went the wisdom of the day. But I’ve got the munchies, and where we’re going the munchie selection is limited to goat, grasshopper, and lousy wine."
"Where do Oreos come from?"
"Twentieth century Americana: plastics, pesticides, preservatives, mass production, sex toys, saccharine, soul food, hair spray." Niggahonky pauses to crunch into a swirl of chocolaty goo, then flush past his tonsils, a representative of the 20th century in cloned sandwich cookie form. "There are no Oreos back when Hey-Zeus was 30 years old, bearded, stinking of goat, and doing His best to appease the hordes of sick or wounded, who keep begging Him for His magical healing powers. A time of gum disease, venereal disease, lice infestations, parasites, high infant mortality, and birth defects. Let us depart, my dear. Fun awaits among people with some of the worst breath in history."
Leaving the Atomic Café, Eliana, dead brain cells, and the great rock known as the Moon, which in Universal terms isn’t even acne on a grain of sand, for the humid warmth of self-important Earth at the time of Jesus Christ. Address: Bethlehem and vicinity. Relative time: A couple years before Jesus was shot.
"There He ih, aftuh ‘im." Some goat herders are chasing Jesus again. Ever since He made the mistake of encouraging some sick people to use their powers of positive thinking, and also to stop drinking the same water that they crapped in, the ever-growing masses have been after Him for consultations.
A bearded, dark-skinned Man runs out from between a small herd of goats. The lean Man, history’s most famous and misquoted, dashes up a rolling grassy hill disappearing from view over the top, Phew! A motley crew of disheveled, dark and bearded men are in pursuit up the same hill looking like twelve black Jesuses. Quickly, they too disappear over the hill, Ph-ph-phew ph ph ph-phew!
"Why are they chasing Him, Uncle?"
"It’s a perpetual human drama. Somebody does something great, then everybody wants them to do their neat little trick over and over again, like a trick dog. Eventually, somebody gets tired of doing that same thing again and again and decides to stop. But the masses ’ll have none of that. They tell somebody he’ll do his neat little trick and like it. This is apparently what the goat herders are trying to tell Jesus right now, but He has not the phlegmticity to negate [their] proposition by unresponsive inaction opting instead for the rapid approach to secession via the two parts of the anatomy most often in contact with the earth." In a nasal voice with a retracted upper lip, "And if you like that description, try reading something by Melville."
Ulilbitch offers, "That's a strange way to express gratitude."
"Not about gratitude. It’s about power. The growing pains of a modestly intelligent species exerting control over each other. Recall His demise: spikes driven through His palms and feet into a large wooden cross, a halo of thorns piercing His scalp." Shaking his head with dismay, he continues, "Jerries who promoted peace often died violently: Martin Luther King, Gandi, Marvin Gaye, Robert Kennedy. All we are sayyyyyyying…is give peace a BAMM!"
Ulilbitch ejaculates, "Yet all these eons of violence and misery might’ve been averted if women had been leaders and men subservient. Women did communicate better than men."
"Not necessarily," inserts Niggahonky, "but women did like to talk more than men. No subject was too sacred. They would leave their dates to check their faces. Imagine a microphone inside their sardonic sanctum, so the whole restaurant could hear."
Seems like you and Randy get on together. I know you just met. Have you had relations?
It was a little awkward. We were doing it missionary style on the floor in my bathroom. I don’t know how we ended up there, we weren’t drinking. Anyhow, I’m looking up at him while he’s humping away. He’s got his eyes shut tight and he’s making a face like he’s in pain, like this (demonstrates).
He finally looks down at me and sees me looking back at him perplexed. I ask, Are you okay? He says, Yeah, yeah I’m fine. Why? I say, You look like you’re in pain.
What’d he do?
He stopped making the face. I think I popped his cherry. I mean, I think it was his first time. What about you and Marvin? He seems to like you.
Yeah, he’s okay.
His idea of sex is to grab my tits and crotch. He’s like an ape. I keep fending him off. Eventually, I give in. He gets all excited when the panties come off and spits on my cooter.
Yeah, I mean he hawks a fuckin loogie on it. Gets it all wet, then does the same to his wong. Then he pushes it in, slow at first, which starts to feel nice. I mean, just when I start to like it he turns into Mandingo and starts ramming it in there. A minute later he gets ready to cum, pulls out, scoots up to my face and squirts his load.
You’re kidding? Hee hee.
No. He watches way too much porn.
Did you say anything?
Yeah, I said, How’d you like it if I blew my nose on your face?
…moments later they’d return to the table talking about liposuction, though, random giggles would impregnate the rest of the date.
"With women in positions of power alongside men, Western culture flirted with peace during the latter part of the 20th century. It was the East and Middle East that found it most difficult to allow women to rise from subservience."
"I remember learning about Middle Eastern women and how they were required to cover as much epidermis as possible. Miss Hot Tot Tot said you could see only their hands and their dark eyes."
Provocative, thinks Niggahonky. Visit the Middle East to unwrap an Arabian woman.
"Here comes Hey-Zeus."
The Messiah is headed right for them. His cornrows dance behind His head.
"Uncle, where can we hide Him? I don’t want them to crucify Him."
"He’s won't be crucified until He’s thirty-three."
"What’ll they do to Him?"
"Probably pimp slap Him and hold His face down in goat shit. Typical goat herder fun. A male exercise in dominance. Then they’ll bring Him back to their village to cure their ills."
Jesus runs past them, Whoosh! Only goats and hilly grasslands so far as the eye can see.
"Let’s hide Him under your tunic."
"Okay," agrees Ulilbitch.
Niggahonky yells, "JESUS!" (Pause, no response). "HEY-ZEUS!" Jesus turns around immediately to see Niggahonky waving Him over. Ulilbitch lifts her tunic above her knees. Her long smooth legs remind him that he’s in a male body. His eyes linger as he wishes he could hide under there, too. He turns and directs Jesus toward Ulilbitch. Without hesitation Jesus crouches down. He holds His knees making Himself into a cannonball. Ulilbitch spreads her legs wider to accommodate Him, drops her tunic, then appears in a natural stance, as if no one might be under there hiding from goat herders.
Here come the herders, winded and jogging now. They come to a stop in front of Niggahonky, gasping like goldfish out of water. They gawk at Ulilbitch having never seen a light-skinned woman with such a big booty. Addressing Niggahonky, "Slick, you seen a bearded black May-an wit cornrows?"
Niggahonky looks at the speaker, looks at the eleven other dark skinned, braided herders, draws a breath, "Was he uncouth and stinking of cattle?"
Jesus’ fingers begin to roam upward along the inside of Ulilbitch’s thigh. She produces a short girly giggle followed by a sucking S sound through her teeth indicating the arrival of the finger of God. All twenty-three shepherd eyes, one in their ranks is a cyclops due to inbreeding, aim at Ulilbitch.
"Naw, goat," their spokesman says never taking his eyes off Ulilbitch’s facial expression.
Niggahonky says, "We haven’t seen a man pass by fitting your exact description," knowing these simple folk would cut out his tongue if he lied, a hand if he stole, an eye for an eye, or his foot if he missed an important field goal in a game on which they’d bet half their herds.
"Awright den, le’s go niggas." And so they did. Quickly did they shrink as their distance grew. If one closed an eye and looked through forefinger and thumb, one could now squeeze the little buggers. Soon did they disappear beyond a grassy knoll. Ph-ph-phew!
"All right Hey-Zeus, You can come out now. Your buddies are gone."
In a fine English cockney he replies, "New" (meaning: No).
"Ow, does we think we Suh Alfreed Hitchcawk?" chimes Niggahonky knowing there’s short time before the posse returns. "O-roy, ow witchuh, beefaw me lass plumps uh stink-uh unto Yuh doom."
"Newwww," protests Ulilbitch with eyes tightly closed. "He’s reached the melted butt-uh. Ahm jus’ wait-un fur me cawn tuh pop."
"He can pop your corn later. Come on Hey-Zeus, unless You want Your eleven disciples and a cyclops to hold Your face down in goat shit again."
"Righto," articulates Jesus, crawling out.
Niggahonky and Ulilbitch accompany Jesus toward the late afternoon sun. Their shadows grow longer on the clay soil behind them.
"Who you ih?" grunts Jesus. Pause. Both Niggahonky and Ulilbitch look at Jesus.
Asks Niggahonky, "What?"
"Who you ih?" repeats Jesus.
"I don’t understand what You’re saying Hey-Zeus. Do you understand Him Ulilbitch?" She shakes her head a little scared.
Much louder this time, "Ah say-ud, WHO…YOU…IH?" Jesus getting frustrated. White spittle at the corners of His full brown lips. A ripe animal scent wafts on the backs of air molecules over to insult the noses of Jesus’ new caucasoid company.
Finally registers with Niggahonky: Jive. Talk jive. "Aw sheet muh fuh. Ah be Niggahonky an dis fine lookin ho Yuh be stickin Yo finguh in be mah niece, Yo-lilbitch."
"How d'you do?" articulated like a British actor from a 1940's black & white film.
Since this is a good point for our characters to get better acquainted and more than enough plot in a pornographic feature to start fornicating, we resume after Ulilbitch has her first sexual experience with Christianity’s Savior baying like a billy goat and her uncle yipping like a horny Chihuahua. And this out in the lusty dusk of the Reverend Godallahbuddazeus’s universe not far from Nazareth. All of this disgusting exchange of bodily fluids, the mammals that they are, is being observed by the Reverend Itself currently enjoying auto stimulation. Oh the shame of this blasphemous treachery. Very well, let’s carry on.
Jesus scratches His beard then flips back his braids, "Where you be fruh?"
Niggahonky now down with the jive, "We be uh long way fruh he-uh."
"Den why you be he-uh nah?"
"Likes Ah tole you, dis ho be wantin tuh meet Yo stanky A-yass."
"Yeah, well danks fo heppin uh Nigga ow."
"Sheet, we know how it ih," empathizes Niggahonky. "Hey-Zeus, You got a rep-tation fo healin folk dat be eel. How You be doin dat? It be duh magic o’ sump-mm, o’ You duh debbull?"
"Naw, nuttin lock dat. Ah jess be usin’ mah hey. So many deez fooz tuh-day be stoopit an shih. Dey kill uh bruthuh fo’ uh go’ [goat]. Dey ain’ got no sent." From a little pouch inside His tunic Jesus pulls out some weed and a small piece of what appears to be dry corn husk. He carefully centers the pot in the husk removing seeds and stems, then rolls it into a cigarette. Pulling out two bits of flint from the same pouch, He rests the cigarette on the clay soil and commences striking the stones together making sparks. The continuous barrage of small sparks finally catch and the joint begins to smolder. Jesus takes several short tokes. The joint glows alive. The sweet aroma reaches Niggahonky.
"Dead Sea ha uh lotta sawl, goo’ fo’ cleanin woon an skin ailment, very therapeutic. No magic. Jess common sent. Deez peepuh are semmple folk," he pulls a toke from the cigarette then offers it to Niggahonky. "Keep talkin shih bout duh worl’ gawna end on account uh some pisst awf mofo in da sky. If da wind blow too hard dey run screamin, "Lawdy Lawdy He’p us He’p us We all gawna die." Den, when duh win’ stop, dey bow and thank the sky and slaughter a lamb. Dass why da lambs take off when da win’ kicks up. I pity ‘em. In fac’ I pity ever’thang dat doesn’t go on two legs, an’ some dat do."
Night has fallen with the strangely unnerving scent of burning wood on the gentle warm breeze. Their pace is easy. Niggahonky reverts to talking white, as jive requires too much effort and doesn't conform to his body assignment.
"So, You don’t actually heal people?"
"Naw. Ah jess clean an dress dey woon, gim some word uh wizdum lock, shet duh fuck up an lessen sometime, o’ um (pause), be goo’ to yo chirren cuz we don’ need no mo un-love bast-duds out dair, o’, do a lil dan, make uh a lil luh, git trim tuh-night, o’, you don’t git sump-mm fo nuttin. O’, Ah my say, nex’ tom you fee’ lock kiln uh bruthuh, keel yo-sell instay-ed. Unnuh-tan? Lodge-ih."
"Yeah, lodge-ih," Jesus says adamantly.
"Oh, logic. Oh! So, then you condone suicide?"
"Nah ness selly. But Ah druthuh a foo take iz own li’e den some un el."
"Yeah, that makes sense," agrees Niggahonky. "You getting hungry?"
"I am," ejaculates Ulilbitch.
"Yeah, Ah gots deh munchies, too." Offers Jesus, "Well, we ain’ got no go’ so you gots uh chaws. Ee-duh locusts an wile hunney (pause for effect) o’ wile hunney an locusts, HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW. Hey-Zeus may uh funny, HAW HAW HAW HAW."
"Hey-Zeus is batshit," grins Niggahonky.
"He sho’ ih," agrees Jesus about Hisself.
The smell of burning tree is stronger now. On the dark horizon is the unmistakable glow of fire. The sun has long since traversed the sky and dropped below the end of the earth, for Earth is flat according to the science of the day. Hundreds of years later the Quran would affirm the stars as unreachable jewels set out by the Creator, so that the Jerries could guide themselves by them through the darkness of the land and of the sea.
Jesus rations out the dry, crunchy locusts, and small skin of wild honey He always keeps with Him in case of emergency. Being thin as a result of His high metabolism has disadvantages. To be without nourishment to maintain His blood sugar levels would’ve killed Jesus long before He had a chance to be betrayed and crucified. Too, it would’ve made for a less compelling story. What kind of martyr would He have been if He’d died from malnutrition?
"The Reverend started something really wonderful with this expanding universe idea. The sky looks so amazing dotted with twinkly stars. And the air feels alive whispering in my ears and caressing my skin. Like the combined breath of all that is living. The trees, the plants, the animals, the insects. All the painful laughter. All the sorrowful joy of an evolving wheel of life."
"Well said my perceptive pomegranate."
Ulilbitch considers her new body and addresses Jesus, "Hey-Zeus, do You think I’m pretty?"
"Why o’ caws. Effen Ah poke one go’ Ah poke too many."
Perplexed by this last bit, "What?"
Her uncle cuts in, "Never mind, my dear." Changing the subject, he inquires about the people who’ve been burning the trees, now clearly in view.
"Semmple folk. Effen uh tree put fo’ evil fruit, dey burn’t."
"They burn the whole tree?"
"Das right. Lotta tine dey don’ een cut duh mofo dow’. Jess set it tuh fi’e right where it tan. Shih smay-ll bad too. Smell’t? Ain’t nuffin livin’ dat smay-ll goo’ when it burn."
"How do they know if the fruit’s evil?"
"Why dey keep callin’ Me dey lawd? How tuh hell d’Ah know? Hep uh cons’pated nigga one ti’e by tell’n ‘im tuh lay aw duh go’ en git sum ruffage innuh hi’ diet, en nah Ah got ev’ry foo’ dis si’e uh Syria comin’ tuh Me wit dey ailment: in-grow toe nai’, hair-piece, bline drunk, leppuhs, deaf, duh; Ah een got foo’ cum tuh Me tuh lance balls on dey butt-ox. Know what Ah say-nn, stoopit. Can uh bruthuh git uh A-may-un?"
"I know where one Bruthuh got a hymen."
"Oh, are you and Hey-Zeus rhymin’?"
"I wasn’t trying."
"Trying’s good, just keep the timing."
"Hey-Zeus, isn’t Your blood wine?"
"En mah flesh iz bread lahk mah behine."
The three surveyors pause to consider the tree burners and their options, but not before Ulilbitch comments on that delicious meal.
"Hey-Zeus, those locusts sure were good!"
"Yeah dey wuz!"
"I’ve never heard you use sarcasm before, Ulilbitch."
"I’m not, Uncle! Why, you didn’t like them?" she asks, a little surprised by his statement.
"When you’ve experienced Earth as much as I have and tasted much of what it has to offer, honey may rank, but locusts?" He arches his monobrow. "If all the different foods of Earth had assigned seats at a Vanilla Ice concert, then locusts would be forced to sit in the front row to watch a white man rap, while the most delectable foods got high and played hacky sack up in the nosebleeds. No, the locusts remind me too much of when I used to go for a jog and inhale a flying insect. I took the Reverend’s name in vain on such occasions."
In the midst of their conversation they’ve come to a stop alongside Jesus as if on autopilot, the Lord guiding them peripherally. A Christian might say, God is my co-pilot, to which Jesus would respond with reference to Himself, "Don't keel Me!"
Jesus stands for a moment holding His bearded chin between forefinger and thumb pondering the tree burners. Thinking to Himself, Is it worth it? On duh one han’, ef Ah make mah presence known tuh dem, Ahm gonna be up all nigh’ healin’. An ef one mo’, Ah mean jess one mo’ foo’ shows Me a war’ on hiz dik, Ahm gunnuh kick hiz ass right out en front uh duh multitudes. Ah don’ care what duh mofoze think. It’s a damn dirty trick duh Almighty play awn Me. Ah fix His ass too when Ah git up tuh heavmm.
Both Niggahonky and Ulilbitch quietly watch Jesus consider His options. Niggahonky’s right hand rests on the curvature of Ulilbitch’s left buttock.
Jesus, still thinking, On duh uttuh han’, Ah kuh take deez white folk home tuh meet Momma. Git ‘em fill up on sum go’ o’ on sump-mm Pappy keel en duh backyar'.
Now Niggahonky’s standing directly behind Ulilbitch, sexually harassing her with both hands firmly gripping their corresponding buttocks. If he were a dog, long strings of drool would be hanging from his muzzle.
Nearly done thinking, Jesus again, Aw sheet. Ah suppose Ah can do sum healin’ den go see Momma. He turns to his white frenz. They see that the chocolate chip cookies are finished baking in the oven of Jesus’ mind and are ready to come out.
He says, simply, "Le’s go."
A little let down by this summation after the careful thinking on the part of the Savior that they’ve just stood witness to, Niggahonky releases his niece’s booty and approaches Jesus, "That’s it? All that hesitation and pondering and all You come up with is, 'Le’s go.'"
"In case you han’t notice’, dair ain’ uh whole helluva lot tuh do roun’ he-uh, honky."
"Awright, Niggahonky. Unnuh-tan, Ah could take yuh to uh go’ slaught-uh, o’ uh cruse-fikshun, but dey only cruse-fy mofoze on Sat’day. An Ah din think Yo-lilbitch would lock tuh watch uh go’ slaught-uh."
"Good thinking. So what’s the plan?"
"Ah figguh we go awn ovuh an Ah do sum healin’ fuh dem tree-burners, den aftuh dat rag mah ass out, cuz dey gonna work Me lock uh dang dawg all goddam nigh’, den we go see mah Momma an git sum grub."
"And I bet Your mother’s name is Mary, Your father’s name is Joseph, and three wise men bearing gifts paid You a visit when You were born."
"Naw, it’s Hattie-May, an Mo-Reese. Don't know nuffin bow wise may-un, but mah unkooz ain’ nevvuh leff. Bin freeloadin’ off mah pa’ents mah whole li’e. Ain’ nun uh duh farm animal bin safe neethuh."
"You sure your mother’s not the Virgin Mary?"
"Aw hay-ll no. Only thang virgin ‘bout mah Momma iz duh awl slickin’ up huh greezy fah-head. Shee-it. You could stick uh locus’ awn mah Momma’s fah-head en haf tuh pry it awf, HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW."
"Hey look, eats Hey-Zeus. Kay poss-ah Amigo?" "Hey-Zeus." "Hey-Zeus." "Hey-Zeus."
His name spreads rapidly among the tree burners. They surround Jesus, Niggahonky, and Ulilbitch.
"Where You bean mah fren? We meese Jew."
"Bin runnin’ frum duh dang go’ herders uh-gin. Deez folk he’uh hepped uh Nigga ow by hidin’ Me unnuh duh perty one’s tunic. Dey awright fuh white folk." All eyes have already determined who the pretty one is, including the pair belonging to the triceratops. One among them has a three-horned face due to inbreeding. Although they remain quite motionless, the light from the fire gives movement to their features, like a flag rippling on a windy day.
"Ho-Zay, dis he-uh be Niggahonky. An dis iz Yo-lilbitch."
"El-low senyor. !Estas’ muy bonita, Señorita, y muy blanca!"
Jesus interprets, "Ho-Zay say you one fine lookin’ white bitch."
"Why thank you, Ho-Zay, you’re pretty good lookin’, too, for a ferret faced mofo." She smiles, then farts.
Ulilbitch’s inadvertent comeback punctuated by an anal burst sets Jesus and Niggahonky to laughing, "BAH HAW HAW HAW HAW HAW." But none of the tree burners take delight in her comment. All just stand there stone-faced looking at her as the firelight continues to lick their features. Jesus' and Niggahonky’s laughing quickly tapers off into the vacuum of mirthless night air along with the smoke rising from the burning trees.
"Yo-lilbitch jess messin’ witchuh Ho-Zay! Didja crack a toof eatin yo’ refried beans?"
With a consoling chuckle not to be mistaken for a laugh, say José, "Eats pretty good. Ferret face. Ha ha, pretty good Yo-leelbeach." The tension slides off everyone, swimming pool hands off a greased watermelon.
Jesus and José have been compadres for years. They met when they were training as lawnsprinkler repairmen. They looked on in astonishment as their trainer, Steve, who drove the van and was supposed to be responsible for the expensive equipment, cut lines of coke on a mirror, occasionally stemming a nose bleed, while showing off a wallet picture of his hot girlfriend and making a persuasive argument as to why he was undeserving of such a hot girlfriend. "Jew o'erestimate joursel', my freen". A smart ass comment that created an irreconcilable vibe with Steve, while commencing a friendship with Jesus.
"José, deez folks wanted tuh know why ya set da trees ablaze. Ah tole em, cuz da fruit's evil."
"Well, how you know it's evil?"
"Eet threatened me an' my family."
Eyebrows rise for both Jesus and Niggahonky as they consider José having a conversation with a piece of fruit. Ulilbitch is distracted by the tree burners as they cavort and carry a melody.
"Threatened ya? How does fruit threaten ya?"
"Lass nigh' I held a piece of froo in my han' an' dee face of a womoon appear on dee froo. She say, eat me an' jew an jour family weel die. Trample me an' I weel poison jour land an' jour water an' keel all jour livestock."
"Was ya smokin' reefer?"
"Jess. Like You, my freen. When we have weed we smoke."
José pulls from the sack buckled to his tunic a spike of rye. "We only smoke weed, while we chew on thees rye. Jaime (High-may) brought eet from hees house, for when we have hunger. Eet made me real eetchy."
"An' makes duh fruit talk. Yuh have any mo'? Ah could pra'ly use some when Ahm savin'."
"Thees ees it."
They chat a bit longer reminiscing about the variety of part time jobs they held over the years and the personalities they've encountered. They talk of meeting up at a crucifixion. José tells Jesus to say hola to Maurice and Hattie-May. They slap each other five and part ways.
Inside the confines of a tent Jesus is now seeing patients by candlelight. Quickly does a queue form outside. Lepers, the sick, blind, deaf, dumb, wounded soldiers, pregnant lady, more wounded soldiers. Where are the wounded soldiers coming from? Unknown to the three amigos are five thousand soldiers camping under the canopy of stars only a few hundred meters from the tree burners. The all night wait in line to see Jesus is similar to holding one’s place in line until 8 A.M., when the box office would open to sell Van Halen tickets. Hacky sack. Tie dyed tunics. Reefer madness. Little has changed in nearly two thousand years.
Sleeping in line to get concert tickets, what a scam that was. If you were early enough you would count the people in front of you, say fifteen. Wow! Sixteenth in line, that means I have a shot at getting seats near the front row. It wasn’t until the next morning when you were facing the ticket agent, that you learned you’d be sitting the length of a football field from the stage. The show’s promoter reserved the first twenty rows for his guests. In the minutes that elapsed since the box office opened the next 25 rows were sold by dozens of ticket outlets around the city. You stayed up all night for an expensive shitty seat, but you think, it’s Van Halen. Lights go down. The long anticipated moment has arrived. Eddie lets out a whammied guitar squeal. Crowd roars. Lights flash. Alex and Eddie lead the charge as Van Hagar proceeds to suck for the duration of the concert. Those who surround you seem satisfied by Eddie's keyboard crap and Sammy singing some bullshit about what dreams are made of. You miss the whiskey guzzling antics and occasional missed notes of the balding David Lee Roth.
In the same sense, Jesus would prove underwhelming, if one were traveling back in time from the 21st century to meet Him. Two thousand years of hype and Van Halen might’ve parted seas, healed by vibration, turned water to whiskey, been depicted in “The Last Supper” by Leonardo DaVinci wearing spandex, while tapping on a guitar fretboard with impressive two-handed dexterity. We know who the best masturbator in the band was.
Niggahonky resumes talking at Ulilbitch. "Exaggeration went along with story telling. With holding a listener's attention. They would paint pictures with words. Aggrandize their own contributions to a vibrant economy while blaming their opponent for every death during an outbreak of influenza. They would lay claim to how much better life would be for the average citizen once they assumed command.
Many newspapers would back a certain politician by aggrandizing the aggrandizer. Rather than outright lie, newspaper editors would represent a politician like a lawyer defending a murder suspect. They would print facts that showed their client favorably, while omitting those that didn't.
Nature balanced exaggeration with the ability to call bolshevic. Once indoctrinated, whether into a religion that exalted the Prophet Muhammad or into a socialist all-toilet-paper-will-be-provided-by-Uncle-Sam ideology, a Jerry's ability to call bolshevic became compromised. Often with contempt."
"You mean, they would scornfully reject criticism of their beliefs?"
"To the point of death. Some grew so angry they were willing to lay waste to their entire planet."
"Oh my God."
Tree burners, herders, farmers, soldiers, smiths, carpenters, clergymen, artists, lawn care professionals; all with varying ailments, lined up outside the tent awaiting their consultation with Jesus Christ. Ulilbitch stands outside the tent’s opening and acts as nurse showing the patients in, then sitting Indian-style, legs pretzeled beneath her, at the back of the tent alongside Niggahonky.
The first patients tonight are a curious couple. Weighing in at 75 kg, a tall, skinny man with yellowed teeth resting on his lower lip in a fashionable overbite, Wobb is over 2 meters tall making his wife, Sheetl, appear short and stout by comparison with her 82 kg. Sheetl would be an attractive woman with her long black hair tinseled gray, high cheek bones, sculpted eyebrows, full lips under a small nose, large pendulous breasts over a pot belly, proportionate hips, and so on, if not for the scowl which effectively negates all of the aforementioned. The bitter scowl officially began after she married Wobb. Sex seems to be one of the lonely few good points in this unfortunate pairing.
A typical afternoon with Wobb and Sheetl begins with Sheetl spending hours brushing her hair and applying ointments, lotions, oils, and color to her face reflected in a looking glass, as she theorizes to Wobb about how obsolete his gender has become since women’s liberation, that men are needed only for reproductive purposes, and even in that role, could be eliminated altogether if they’d just squirt into a cup. Wobb happily smokes hit after hit from his bong, deftly picking out stems and seeds from his marijuana and replacing the charred ash that is successfully altering his perceptions in its rapid path through the capillaries that line his mouth, trachea, and lungs, to his bloodstream: last stop nerve central, the brain. And in his altered state, concedes her point. But as the charming afternoon wears on, Wobb smokes through his stash and gradually becomes more sensitized to Sheetl’s banter. When she tells him that his member is rather small in proportion to his height, he wishes, as on many previous occasions, that she would spontaneously turn into a man, so that he could ball up his hand and drive his knuckles into her head. Instead, he resorts to calling her a fat old whore and tells her that her poetry sucks, at which point the bowls and cups of ointments that she’s been adorning herself with, become projectiles with surprisingly good target accuracy, as they impact in succession his shoulders, neck, and head. This afternoon merges with many others, to affix a permanent bitter scowl to an otherwise attractive woman’s face, and to cause a large adult male to pout like a five-year-old at social gatherings. Let’s return now to the tent and see what the Savior has in store.
Ulilbitch holds open the flap as first Sheetl, then the ducking height of Wobb, pass into the dark inner sanctum. Despite the cornrows, Jesus could pass for the image on the Shroud of Turin, if one achieved an altered mindstate. Quietly and respectfully everyone is seated, Niggahonky and Ulilbitch at the tents’ rear, Sheetl and Wobb before Jesus. Niggahonky and Ulilbitch look on with great interest at the infamous Man about to use His renowned powers of healing. A Man who, so far as they can determine, has been misquoted, Jive-less according to Christian doctrines, and may have some moral ambiguities.
As all eyes reverently watch the great Man, He pulls out from beside Him, it’s quite dark and therefore difficult to see, a beautifully rolled joint. A brotherly smile stretches across Wobb’s face, as Jesus lights up using the candle, and extracts a toke. The sweet and distinctive herb tantalizes the four nostrils of Niggahonky and Wobb, interests the pair belonging to Ulilbitch, and sufficiently provokes the flaring pair used by Sheetl inspiring this outburst, "No way. No way. This is shit from camel, Wobb. You set me up. I’m not listening to another goddamned pothead."
"But honey, you promised you’d at least give Him a chance."
"Fuck you, Wobb." She effortfully rises to her feet.
"Hey-Zeus, isn’t there anything You can do?" Wobb pleads.
Jesus, unperturbed by the outburst, extracts a sweet toke from the burning doobie. Hold. Then exhales a cloud through which He responds to Wobb’s inquiry with a succinct, "Nope." Followed then in a commanding voice by, "NEXT". Ulilbitch rises to her feet to let the ailing couple out.
"Then there’s no hope for us, Sheetl!" implores Wobb. "He was our last resort."
With great difficulty and through tightly pursed lips Sheetl concedes, "All right, He’s got five minutes, then I’m outta here." She resumes a squat next to her lanky husband, but stares toward the back of the tent in a rebellious attempt to avoid eye contact with the famous Dopesmoker.
Jesus speaks, "Ain’t no meer-kull gonna hap-mm tuh-night unless both parties involve wahn it to, unnuh-tan? Nah en case yuh ain’t notice, dair-zz uh lott-uh peep-uh out dair wait-nn tuh see duh Lawd. So Ah don’t have uh lott-uh tom fo’ boo-shit, hog shit, go’ shit, o’ shit frum camel. Nah eff yuh want Hey-Zeus tuh hep ya, ya gonnuh haft-uh do what Ah tell ya, unnuh-tan?" Sheetl reluctantly nods as Wobb affirms with alacrity.
"Good," continues Jesus, "Nah strip!" Silence fills the tent as all eyebrows rise uniformly in astonishment. Niggahonky’s mind reads, You sly Dog, coupled with an urge to see Sheetl’s big bazookas.
Beginning to regret having turned to Jesus, first Wobb drops his diaper to the dirt, followed by the tunic of Sheetl. Ulilbitch’s thoughts include, I could’ve done without seeing Wobb’s naked tooshie, coupled with, pay close attention: I’m about to learn something significant about Christianity.
"You uh UGLY," mocks Jesus, "Ahm leavin’". This outburst causes the insecure couple to recoil and bend to reach for their garments. Jesus recants, "Kood-nn hep Mah-sell, had tuh say it. Hey-Zeus jess messin’ wit yo mines. Awright, nah here’s what Ah want ya tuh do. Wobb, you lay dow’."
No longer sure that he wants to endure this healing process, Wobb slowly collapses his long skeletal limbs like a wooden puppet without string tension. Lying flat on his back he spans the width of the tent.
"Nah Sheetl, Ah want ya to squat ovuh Wobb wit yo feet straddlin’ each uh his ear." Sheetl complies, affording Wobb a splendid view of his favorite orifice, the opening in Sheetl that Wobb has taken great pleasure in exploring, prodding, poking, lapping, and depositing his hot sticky milk. The pleasure pocket that controls Wobb, access denied when he irritates his wife, yet open for business when she has an ulterior motive that he will pay dearly for some time in his miserable future.
Jesus continues, "Good. Nah Ah want ya tuh think ‘bout ever-thang Wobb done tuh piss you awf, an’ when you ready, release duh contents uh yo’ bowel an’ bladduh." Wobb’s concerned eyes turn toward the Speaker. Once again, everybody’s eyes turn toward Jesus, except Sheetl’s. She seems to have resolved whatever prejudices she had toward the Lord and is trying her best to comply. She concentrates, summoning up the image of her over-bitten husband justifying his expenditure of half their household rent on gambling with the fellas by saying, "I don’t see why I can’t have some fun when you spend so much money on your ointments and facial creams," always failing to acknowledge that she gets up before the sun working until dusk, rolling and kneading dough for the village’s daily bread in a sweltering kitchen, while tolerating the fat fuckin’ baker’s fingers pinching her ample bottom. Out comes a hot stream of urine covering Wobb’s face and hair. His eyes are squeezed tight as he’s reminded of the other function of this most coveted opening. Sheetl sphincters her stream to a stop, then waits patiently like a hunter stalking a deer, until her sweetie squints, blinks, then slowly opens his eyes, to release another hot stream of pungent piss. The excitement of pissing on Wobb’s face has stimulated her bowels. A few pellet-sized turds drop and stick to his cheeks followed by a turd the size of a pine cone, which plops on his lip. The outpouring has softened the features of bitter Sheetl like that proverbial ray of golden sun poking a hole in an interminable gray cloud blanket. She rises to her feet, and for the first time since entering the tent, appears somewhat satisfied.
As Wobb rises to his towering height pulling the last sticky turd from his lips in disgust, the following words from Jesus cause Sheetl to break into shrieks of horrific laughter as she bolts for the flap (if this were a scene in a movie, the slow-motion function would be greatly appreciated by the straight men in the audience to behold gravity’s effect on her big, bouncing assets). "Nah it Wobb’s turn."
As if joined by a mental rope, Niggahonky, Ulilbitch, and Wobb, arrest Sheetl’s departure, and fight her kicking and screaming to the dirt, determined to see this consultation reach its appropriate conclusion. Wobb stands over her with long, skinny feet and toenails inlayed with a dark buildup of dirt next to her ears as Jesus restrains her legs, Niggahonky and Ulilbitch at her arms. Sheetl attempts to bite Wobb’s ankles but fails as Wobb adjusts with a wider stance. He aims his flaccid organ, over a meter above her head, and a powerful jet of hot urine dowses her face causing an end to the geyser of obscenities now in progress. When his stream tapers off, Sheetl spits but keeps her eyes tightly closed. Unknowingly, Sheetl’s next barrage of obscenities encourage elimination from her husband better than a hard night's drinking, which unfortunately for her, he indulged in just last night. Vile diarrhea blows from his anus like hot, dirty dish water. His height makes for a more complete dowsing, causing her hair to glisten and steam not unattractively in the candle’s intimate light. Quiet whimpers of defeat now emanate from her abusive mouth as she continues to lie in the raw sewage puddle and spit remnants of Wobb shit-ka-bob that caught her on the teeth. The others, disgusted, help her to her feet as she latches to her husband’s concave chest continuing to sob.
"I don’t know how to thank you, Hey-Zeus, it’s the first time in months that anything’s left her mouth besides curse words. IT'S A MIRACLE! IT'S A MIRACLE!"
"Wobb, yo’, Wobb. Nah dair iz sump-mm ya can do fo’ Hey-Zeus," implores the Lord.
"When ya leave dis tent, Ah want ya tuh keep dis to yo’-sell."
"Of course, Lord."
Ulilbitch parts the opening for the saved couple’s exodus. Peace on Earth arrives. Not a sound can be heard, not even a mouse. Jesus clasps His hands behind His head. Closes His eyes and draws in a few breaths. In through the nose, hold, then out through the mouth. Tactical breathing. Niggahonky's impressed with the silence. Then, like a minaret blaring at the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, "IT’S A MIRACLE! IT’S A MIRACLE! THE LORD HAS SAVED US!" Wobb's yells encourage a roar from the masses, as if Michael Jordan sunk a three-pointer to win The Superbowl.
Jesus lifts the back of the tent and disappears into the darkness. Niggahonky and Ulilbitch look at each other, then follow Him.
"Where You goin’ Hey-Zeus?" asks Niggahonky.
"Tha’s enuff boo’-shih fo’ one nigh’!"
Ulilbitch adds, "But You only saved two people! What about the lepers and the herders, the pillagers, the blind, the in-breeders; aren’t You going to help them?"
"Not tuh-nigh’. It nevuh ennz. Ah get no ress. Dey wear-nn uh Nigga ow. Ahm goin’ tuh see Momma. Ahm ti’ed uh deez overgrowed infinnz want Hey-Zeus tuh wipe dey ass. It’s lock uh bad joke." Jesus again looks skyward into the starry heavens and mumbles menacingly under his breath to Godallahbuddazeus, "Ah haven’ fuhgotten Ya. Ah getchuh. Yo ass is mine when Ah gets up dair…"
"But Hey-Zeus," implores Ulilbitch, "what about Your legacy?"
"T’uh hail’s uh legacy?"
"The way future generations admire You for Your sacrifice to save the Homo sapiens. Your tireless energy to heal the suffering. Your goodness."
"Seer-yus? Peepuh akchully buh-leev dat shi’? Mah goodness? Mah tie-less enuh-G? …What sacrifice?"
"A-hem," Niggahonky interrupts, "You think You can help out a couple more patients, for their sake?"
"Aw fuh cry-sake, can we go den an’ see Hattie-May? Dang, Ah hope Mo-Reese keel sump-mm goo’, Ah iz so pone-gray Ah kud eat a hussy."
Ulilbitch misses this reference altogether, yet agrees to Jesus’ terms, as Niggahonky ponders the reference, is that where that expression comes from? Naaa. Couldn’t be?! Why that’s ridiculous.
"That don’t make no sent no how," says the Lord.
"No, it doesn’t," verbalizes Nigghonky. Then, "Hey, how’d You know what I was thinking?"
Without responding Jesus lifts the back of the tent and slips back inside. Niggahonky follows Him in, as Ulilbitch goes around front to show the next patient in.
A young man of fair complexion and medium build kneels in the puddle before Jesus, takes a whiff and exclaims, "Phew!" A decidedly normal reaction. Nothing outwardly appears to be wrong with him. His limbs are intact. No symptoms of any hacking ailment. Could he be like Sheetl and Wobb and have some kind of mental deficiency causing him to act retarded in social situations?
"Wha’s up, homeboy?"
At Jesus’ prompting the young man pulls aside his tunic and shows Him a pea size white-headed boil, which rests on his shriveled pecker looking angry and ready to be lanced. But not as angry as the recognition on Jesus’ face as He looks at it, then at the young man’s face. The Light of the World surprises the youth with a right cross that sends him reeling backwards and extinguishes the candle. With each successive blow the young man can be heard pleading, "Stop!" PAP! "Cut it out!" CRACK! "I’m sor-" WHAP! "Forgive me!" Somehow, dickman manages to escape and books past the multitudes.
Thinking quickly, Niggahonky yells after him, "IT’S A MIRACLE! IT’S A MIRACLE!" Which encourages another roaring cheer from the masses.
Back in the lightless tent it is decided that it would be better if Jesus didn’t beat up the people waiting to be saved. After several minutes of brisk walking in the humid night air, the three amigos have diminished the size of the tent, the tree burners, and the multitudes, to a barely discernible grouping of red glowing ants in the light of the burning trees. Walking has served to calm the emotions, an exorcism of sorts. Truly amazing how the exertion of one’s body: walking, jumping, fleeing, humping; can soothe one’s mind.
Niggahonky presumed Jesus to be non-violent. His outburst was contrary to His much hyped love thy neighbor Christian legacy, which leads Niggahonky to ask Him what happened back there.
"Steel don’t know wut duh hail yuh talkin’ bow wit dat legacy boo-shih. Don’t know when Ah evuh gave duh impression dat Hey-Zeus take sheet. Anyhow, Ah don’t think Ah did much damage to ‘im. Maybe dair iz some good to be had from all dis. Maybe dair iz a bigguh pik-chuh he-uh. Uh great-uh lesson tuh be learn." Jesus pauses to consider this potential lesson. "Take fo’ uh-zample Dih-may-un. Ah could uh let ‘im go, tole ‘im how tuh deal wit it hisself, o’ gawn uh-hay-ed an lance it fo’ ‘im. But den he go tell all hiz frenz, "Know what hap-mm?" An’ dey’d say, "Naw, wut?" Den he’d say, "Ah went to duh Lawd cuz Ah had uh ball awn mah dih an’ yuh know wut He did?" Den dey’d say, "Naw, wut did He did?" Den he’d say, "He lanst it." "Naw, dat’s boo-shih," dey say, "You lyin’". Den he’d say, "Naw. Look. Ah show you." Den dey all see duh crater in hiz dih an start tuh laughin’ dair A-S awf at Hey-Zeus ‘til pretty soon all hiz dum frenz start comin’ tuh Hey-Zeus wit all kine uh foo’ prah-lemms. An’ duh only, Ah mean duh only way tuh stop duh influx of pess iz tuh beat duh crap out uh um. Ah seer-yes. Yuh got tuh clench yo’ fiss an pown ‘em in duh hay-uh til yuh make yo’ point. Uttuh-why, dey return lock uh roach."
The stroll to Hattie-May’s will require a half-day by foot from their current global position. The legs of Ulilbitch have proposed stopping, seconded by her eyelids, unanimous by all other weary parts. What started last night as a couple of mind altering vapors in a lunar café, has mushroomed into an around the clock organic adventure with the Messiah: hiding Him from goat herders, imitating dogs in heat, eating locusts and wild honey, meeting tree burners, and witnessing the Man save (as promoted on Baptist billboards throughout the US an’ A). A long day indeed for an entity that’s never navigated in human form.
"Uncle Niggahonky, Hey-Zeus, please can we stop?"
No debate is had. They decide to sleep by a short tree and upon waking, set out for La casa de Jesus. This feeling of great fatigue is as bizarre to Ulilbitch as getting high, being penetrated, chewing like a cow food for the nourishment of this, her strange and weighty physical housing. Even the excitement of the tiny organs of her ears by the complex, breathy pitch changes exhaled by her talkative uncle and Jesus, can tire a body out. She decides the human body requires far too much energy to negotiate in. She greatly prefers her ability to will herself vast distances. She feels suddenly unsociable and oddly pessimistic, unusual feelings for an ordinarily upbeat Thoughtform. With these unsettled feelings, our desirable blond, fair-skinned Euro vixen shuts down for rejuvenation.
She has her first organic dream. She is riding a goat. She is naked. She is clenching the woolly hide with her hands while gripping the animal tightly between her legs as it undulates, up and down, up and down, side to side. She feels as if she must urinate, yet waves of heightened stimulation allow her to control her bladder. She grinds her pelvis into the pleasurable pressure. She thinks, Flex your thighs, Push and Grind, Flex, Grind, Squirm, Mmmm. She wakes up. Between her legs is Niggahonky from the nose up, his mouth hidden below her blond pubic horizon. The warm wooshie feeling that he applies to that recently discovered nerve center is delicious. A squirmy pleasure that forces her muscles to contract, to push herself onto his mouth.
Delicious would also describe Niggahonky’s thoughts. The most enticing orifice for a heterosexual male or a gay female, spread like an exotic crimson fruit before him, added to an oral fixation, equals a rollickingly wonderful way to wake up. It also helps that his niece is uninhibited by any human moral codes. Had they decided to come to Earth during the 21st century, Niggahonky would be in jail, or at least having to retain a lawyer against charges of sexual harassment, incest, bestiality, indecent exposure, corrupting an extra-terrestrial, and heckling the 2-legged land mammals.
Jail would present only a minor inconvenience for an entity capable of reversing time to pull out of the Universe at its point of entry. Or, he could jump into bajavida (short life), an accelerated state of being brought on by willing one’s metabolism to increase. Jumping into bajavida, his body would metabolize so rapidly, that he’d be rendered invisible to the eye of the Jerry. To a being in bajavida, a person would appear to be motionless, like a mannequin, stuck in whatever position they’d assumed when the being first kicked on its biological afterburners. However, if Niggahonky remained in bajavida, the physical body would mature and die within weeks, the skin would peel off in great sheets, hair and beard would grow long and turn white like Charles Darwin’s. Escape would prove easy and undetectable in bajavida, but it had to be used sparingly.
Men in Jesus' time took their pleasure with women, if they were available, with or without their consent. Screwing other species wasn't yet prohibited by law. Men in 1999 wanted a self-respecting lady in public, who bathed regularly, but a horny slut in bed. Few wanted Madonna who'd for the Chicago Bulls spread. The scene in Jaws when Richard Dreyfus cuts open a shark, pulls out a license plate and a rubber boot, but finds no human remains. A reconnaissance team inside Madonna's vagina, finds Rahm Emanuel covered in mucus, I was head raped he claims. "I did not have relations with that mayor. End of story." Madonna ejaculates. Also recovered: a size-15 Air Jordan, hoop with the net attached, and an order of fries. The biodegradable carton turned to cottage cheese flecked with bits of red and the golden arch logo. The fries remain unchanged, like those found between a car seat. Happiness Is A Tight Tamale read a shot glass at Emanuel's Tavern.
Often pondered was the question of how one detonated a female orgasm that she would brag about to her friends. A theory put forth by the late, widely respected 20th century philosopher Sam Kinison: lick the alphabet. How many licks will it take to make Ulilbitch pop?
Bathed in brilliant morning sun, while The Savior plays the voyeur, while insects and birds chirp, click, and buzz with a new day’s business. Thinks Niggahonky, Why not? He methodically traces out each letter with the tip of his tongue. A, up down over. B, up around around. C, backtrack and around. D, up around. E, up over over over. F, up over over. Down around R, our Chiquitita de Limón has thigh tremors. S, left around right around, brings forth a deep moan. She likes S. T, up and swipe, more thigh tremors. U for Ulilbitch. V for vasectomy. W for, in one climactic moan she launches her Wuhan into his moustachioed face. Rising to a kneeling position Niggahonky clutches his nose. Through watery eyes he sees Jesus staring at him. "What?" he says testily.
Jesus continues to stare, at Niggahonky, at Ulilbitch, then back again. The event has burned a permanent image in His impressionable mind’s eye. It never occurred to Him to put His mouth on that part of a woman before. Might He attempt to apply His mouth to the anatomical equivalent on a goat? He begins to nod His head in approval, beams a huge smile, applauds, and says, "Awright! Awright!"
The next act also fascinates Jesus as Niggahonky’s probiscus finds its way, as if guided by some unseen force, to Ulilbitch’s lips. Thump. She looks dumbfounded, utterly clueless as to what she’s supposed to do. He instructs her to say Ah. When she does, he pushes in his helmet. With eyes closed he pleasurably exclaims, "Oh yeah!" After a moment of standing there looking stupid with his thang in her mouth, and she looking up at him with eyes that say, Now what? he withdraws and holsters his tunic flounder declaring, "A return to the 20th century is in order, my dear. We’ll go to New York and you’ll see your first porno. Will You join us Hey-Zeus?"
"Ah don’t know whatchu jess say-ud, but eff it involve whatchu jess did, yeah, Ah jawn yuh!"
Niggahonky plucks some grass blades adhering to Ulilbitch’s blond pubic mound and to her wet plum. He is infatuated with God.’s housing assignment for his niece in this universe. As a Thoughtform, women, drugs, nor food have meaning. It’s like watching golf on television. Pleasure is neither given nor received. Thoughtforms displace not a molecule. However, once inside this hormonal, gamey smelling housing, he is again subject to all the ebbs and flows of metabolic requirements, needs and desires that the lusty humid Earth environ dictates. To yield to the call of nature or to deny it? The most successful Jerries were those who could deny their earthly desires, focusing the full force of their minds on accomplishing goals. But Niggahonky is no Jerry. He answers nature’s call.
Sue's-a-double-dog is Godallahbuddhazeus backwards. Doggie style, 69, missionary, bump and grind, pearl necklace, roto rooter, bang a gong, lick a cooter. Anticipation of fornication with a 20th century fox make ya feel swell in yer nether ree-jans. She is his sex doll. Mid-life fantasy. He is her tour guide. Thoughtform disguised. He helps her to her feet. Feet they pretty be. Imagines the slogan Godallahbuddhazeus presents The Universe Theme Park: Slip Into Your Physical Housing Assignment, Set Your Kangaroo Free.
December 31, 1999. New Year’s Eve. NYC. The religious propaganda about the 2nd Coming of Christ is carefully monitored by the FBI. Talk of Armageddon and Y2K chaos due to anticipated computer failure has disrupted air molecules for the past year. Religious crusaders are amped up like crack heads campaigning Jesus, unbeknownst to the Man Himself, claiming He will do a fly by, gather up His believers, while leaving the infidels behind to contend with Satan in eternal Hell. Some call it the Rapture, a victory for the faithful. Everyone else thinks they're ass souls.
Jesus stands in Times Square in a dark blue vested pinstripe suit with a white tie underneath an orange vinyl trench coat. He stands in thunderbolt platform shoes made in Italy. Capping His dome is a bulbous blond afro. Jesus neither chose His clothes, nor His hair style. The Universe adapts time travelers to whatever era they stop in, augmenting certain personality traits like a caricature of oneself. Thus, the tunics worn by Ulilbitch and Niggahonky upon entering Jesus’ time.
Ulilbitch is in a white evening gown similiar to what she wore at the Atomic Café, only not made of ultra light space age material. The Universe has her in combat boots, sky blue synthetic fur coat cut above her hips, and bi-plane headgear made of leather complete with goggles. There may exist some sisterly kinship with Amelia Earhart. Her hair hidden inside the cap is still blond, though cut close to her head now.
Niggahonky’s in a Saturday Night Fever suit with two-tone heeled shoes. A green Mohawk and white rectangular glow-in-the-dark glasses adorn his head.
Our funky psychedelipunk threesome standing on any other corner in any other city would be eye magnets. In New York they’re merely sidewalk obstacles to navigate around. Minds of the passerby:
The Lord is astounded by the mass of humanity on display before Him near Times Square. The diversity of people. The complexity of clothing they wear. The sheer, gleaming, perfectly vertical and symmetrical cliffs illuminated from inside, that tower above and form an immense canyon along 42nd Street. The strange bleeping beeping noises that seem to ricochet in all directions. The low grade rush of sound from all that energy being consumed and emitted. The stranger smells. The giants with heads forty feet high that talk from a video screen above the street, their voices sounding omnipresent. They must be gods. A giant named Dick Clark comments on the fireworks display at the Eiffel Tower as the midnight hour strikes Paris. Jesus thinks Dick Clark is probably the god who’s been sending Him stoopit people to save, but doesn’t yet know how He’s going to kick his forty-foot ass. Six hours to go here in New York and most of the world has already celebrated the arrival of 2000. He nearly trips as He takes a step forward, which draws His attention to His platform footwear. He then inspects His bright orange leather trench coat and blue pinstripe suit. He looks around for Ulilbitch and Niggahonky, but sees only strange faces. Ulilbitch extends a hand to His shoulder and says, "I’m here, Hey-Zeus."
He looks to his right and is startled by her appearance. He yells above the sound, "WHAPPEN TO YO HAY-UD?"
She yells back, "IT’S JUST A HAT." Removes it, "SEE?"
"WHY YUH GOT DAT AW?"
"I DIDN’T PUT IT ON."
"WELL, WHO DIH?"
Into Jesus’ other ear, "THE SAME FORCE THAT DRESSED US ALL." Jesus looks around to see the familiar yet bizarre looking Niggahonky, with his green Mohawk like a rooster’s head, and his rectangular glow-in-the-dark glasses. He keeps looking up at the Mohawk. Niggahonky reaches up and feels his rigid hair, "All right!" he smiles in affirmation.
"AH DON’T UNNUH-TAN."
Looking past Jesus toward Ulilbitch, at her half moon eyes and rosy pink cheeks above a dazzling smile, "YOU LOOK SURPRISINGLY BEAUTIFUL, MY DEAR!"
"THANKS," she's puzzled by this insult coupled with the acknowledgment of physical attraction, "I GUESS, UNC!"
They dodge in and out of the sardine packed New Year’s Eve partiers, following Niggahonky who seems to know where he’s going. Niggahonky yells out the rules of the universe as they push through the noisy throng. That the Lord doesn’t understand what He’s being told is irrelevant, because He doesn’t understand what He’s seeing either. After all, He really was born 2000 years ago at a time when they used leeches to bleed the demons out when a person fell ill, the deployment of a fist if someone acted retarded or “cut duh fool”, sacrifices to appease God to have mercy on them and not blow them away with hurricane or drown them with flood or starve them with famine. In some respects that same mentality never changed. Lynrd Skynrd sang it in their 1970s anthem “Free Bird”. The multitudes have for 2000 years complied. Lord help them, they can't change, unless they can draw some advantage from it.
Understanding that every action causes a reaction, every molecule that’s displaced in turn displaces the molecules around it, like waves pulsing out from the impact point of a pebble in a pond, when a lioness catches a gazelle her cubs eat, if the gazelle escapes then her cubs starve, if liberals can relate to a dope smoker, a politician might say, I used to smoke pot, and if conservatives say they’d never vote for a dope smoker, But I didn’t inhale, leading to the conclusion that if the President can lie to get into office then… Jesus has no idea what Niggahonky's talking about, but if He doesn’t get some nourishment soon he's gonna pass out.
They follow Niggahonky into a shop. On display are aisles of X-rated video tapes together with sex apparutuses. Toward the rear, doors open into booths in which metal windows remain closed until coins are deposited into a slot.
Picking lice, fleas, ticks, and other critters from Luther’s hair Hattie-May say, "What’d Ah tail yuh bow messin’ wit duh go’?" SLAP! She nails him upside the head.
"AGH!" he exclaims.
She suggests to her brother-in-law, "Loof-uh, whyun chew fine yo sell uh nice girlfren," then considers who she’s talking to, with his missing tooth and gamey smell, "O’ uh nice ripe punkin, an cut uh hole een it? Nah leave duh goddamn go’ alone." SLAP!
His reply, "AGH!"
"Mo-reese." No response. She yells, "MO-REESE!"
"LOOF-UH BIN AT DUH GO’ UH-GAYUN."
From a 100 kg man comes the menacing reply, "GODDAMMIT LOOF-UH, WHUT DUH HAIL AH TAIL YUH BOW GETT-NN NEAR DUH GO’?" Normally, this would prove mildly irritating, but Maurice is trying to watch the game, a very dangerous time for Luther.
Luther is one of Hattie-May’s brothers-in-law and Maurice’s oldest brother. Maurice being the youngest of four men, three of them supposedly wise, grew up to be the biggest and strongest. Bullied as a youngster, he has mental reserves of payback stored up for his brothers, except for Q. That they’re freeloading off Maurice and Hattie-May hasn’t done much to help race relations.
Luther speeds out of the barn. The heavy footfalls of Maurice follow. Luther is quicker, but the sound of his brother's pursuit causes him to giggle, which adversely affects his speed. He spots a tree and quickly scales it. His brother arrives at the trunk and makes eye contact from 5 meters below. Luther smiles stupidly. Surly and tired, mostly because of sleep deprivation, Maurice returns to the barn.
Sleeping in a barn with farm animals, it’s wise to be quiet as you pass the doorway that opens into the animal’s quarters. If you startle them, they go off like alarms. Dog barks, rooster cackles, donkey hee haws, pig grunts and snorts, are amazingly loud when Homos are trying to sleep. Animals are as subtle as the lady talking on her cell phone at the next booth.
Hi Ruth... Can you hear me?... Ruth?... It’s Shirley... Yeah, I’m at 'Palace of Wong' in
Rockville Centre. I was in the mood for Chinese... Oh, he’s okay. He says it only hurts when he bends over.
Or he bangs it... Yeah. He’s got an appointment next week to get the stitches out.
Scuze me… Scuze me... They put a mic inside the mouthpiece SO YOU DON'T HAVE TO SPEAK SO LOUD.
Oh, some jerk behind me being obnoxious. What if I was talking to the President?
Oh, yeah. Tell him the First Lady’s hot. (One can imagine the President nodding in agreement). Fact, the last few First Ladies have been hot… except Hillary.
Hold on a second, Ruth. She turns around and barks, YOU'RE SUCH AN ASSHOLE! Then, turns back to her cell.
KISS MY ASWAD!
Bernie, another wise man, got up at three this morning to take a wiz in the chamber pot, but didn’t notice it was full until the waste from a hard night's drinking topped out and started running over his feet. "SADDLE-GOOSE" he ejaculates as he clenches his stream. He carefully peers through the darkness to see if anyone or thang heard him. He then proceeds to cautiously carry the chamber pot past the notorious door that opens into the animal bay, trips, stubs his toe, yells "FUSSOCK" spilling the malodorous contents just outside the doorway. Days forward any air flow into the barn gently wafts the aroma like dandelions on a spring day. He succeeds in setting off the animals. Pig snorts wake Maurice. FUSSOCK! followed moments later by the smell of sewage causes Maurice's jaw muscles to clench. The recurring fantasy of eviction day for his brothers allows sleep to once again return. Sleep with the hint of a smile.
"Wha’ppen?" say Hattie-May.
"He clime uh tree."
"Whyun-chuh git ‘im dow?"
"Don't thank the tree could-a hol' me."
"Whyun-chuh git duh sling shot?"
"Ah think Hey-Zeus got it."
"Where He at?"
"Ain’t seen ‘im in uh few day. Prah-lee ow savin’."
Debbie Does Nebraska, Little Oral Annie, The Wizard of Ahs, Star Whores, Driving Into Miss Daisy, Chumming Madonna’s Channel, On Golden Blonde…
The streets have been blockaded for hours in preparation for the colossal New Year’s Eve event. Yet 42nd Street peep shows still do a good business with the curious international tourists, who giggle and crack jokes at the explicit penetrations and stimulations exhibited beyond windowless walls, as a janitor mops up the floor in a booth after a patron made his deposit.
The performers are human oddities. It’s a one species circus. Few are considered pretty by the conventions of the day. Male reaction teeters between amusement and bemusement, like being at Disneyland on transvestite Tuesdays. Women are more intrigued by the male fascination than the actual act. Outwardly they feign disgust, yet find it difficult to remove their own eyes from the graphic displays.
In a booth, uncle and niece look on as a leathery woman orally stimulates an overweight, hairy, orangutan man. "This is what I wanted you to see, Ulilbitch. Young women learn their techniques through years of bathroom chats and hands on practice. Some become exemplary at giving pleasure, a quality no man can ignore. As you can see, she is rough and ridden hard, not their ideal of physical beauty. Still, she’s quite a performer. With her skill she could satisfy any man, no matter what they called her."
"What do you mean, what they called her?"
"Rather negative terms would be associated with such a woman. It was a social contradiction. She would be looked down upon as immoral for openly engaging in lewd acts. Nevertheless, beyond all the talk and verbal ridicule, men simply enjoyed it. As women enjoyed going to a salon and having their hair washed, cut, colored, styled, their nails manicured, their feet filed. Men wanted a place to go to get their tally whackers tended to without being condemned for it."
Heathen-1: How’d your open house go this morning? Any offers? (An escort bobs her head at his
Heathen-2: No offers. The realtor wasn’t too happy we ate fish last night. (Another escort pleasuring). She told Angie she… spent 45 minutes walking around the house spraying deodorizer. Said... we’d have to find a new realtor if we pulled that shit again.
Heathen-1: Serious? (Sounds of sucking and gagging.)
Heathen-2: About the fish, yes. About... finding a new realtor, no. Angie said the... house smells like baby aspirin and mmmmmmmmmm pussy.
"Yes. It became common practice during the 21st century to emasculate men, to punish their natural tendency to enjoy multiple partners while they were in a monogamous contractual relationship. They called it fucking around, or cheating. Yet as women came into professional prominence, they found themselves indulging in similar behavior, often at a more promiscuous rate, as if they had decades to make up for. So, the practice became unofficially tolerated. This dramatic shift in attitude didn’t occur until right before humanity annihilated itself in a nuclear exchange. Coincidentally, women were finally set to be honored on U.S. paper currency and the first Atheist President-elect was preparing to take the oath of office without placing a hand on the bible."
"So, women had to experience the same things that men did in order for it to gain social acceptance?"
"Something like that. The great irony is, as we now know, Homo sapiens were at the altar of world peace. All they had to do was..." Ulilbitch’s mind hears only the deep sound of her uncle’s vocal chords vibrating like a lawn mower, enough to induce a nap, "to avoid extinction. When two blah engaged in blah, other blah boycotted them with trade blah. Open blah about their blah without the threat of violent blah for the first time in human blah. Parents made blah to their children’s power of blah before opening a can of whip-blah. Compromise and moderation of one’s blah ultimately led to blah." Unzip. "Imagine the feeling of blah these people had" Ulilbitch pulls out Niggahonky’s member "as they kept their blah together, satisfied their physical blah and got stoned." She begins practicing. "A blah from the hood and a white trash blah passing a… blah back and forth and laughing their… blah off at the stupid human con… dition. Ooooh yeah. Mmm. Sssssss. Feels good!"
"OOOOOOH, SSSSSHHHHIT. OOOOOOOH, SSSHHHHHHHIT."
Niggahonky peers back to see Jesus swearing as he pushes into the skilled leathery woman from behind. He thinks Jesus must’ve crawled through the wall of a neighboring booth. He’s surprised no bouncers have grabbed the Light of the World and evicted Him. The leathery woman complains not as she bounces her crustacean onto the legendary Man.
Chinese is the cuisine of choice. The Pheekul Duk Restaurant.
"Wair-come to Pheek-ur Duk. I weer be yaw waituh, Wong. You sit he-uh. I come back take yaw O-duh."
They sit down and observe the large fish tank, the red décor, the ornate dragon lanterns, the horrid Muzak playing, the crowded noisy dining room, the bright fluorescent lighting. Starving to the point of nearly passing out after burning more calories at the peep show, Jesus ponders the restaurant’s name as He gnaws on a chopstick, "Don’t Phee-kuh mean shih?"
"Ssshh," Niggahonky shushes Him. Quietly he advises, "Yeah, fecal is shit, but THEY don’t know that. The Americans keep many secrets from the Chinese. You see, the Chinese don’t have a sense of humor, so far as anyone can tell."
Wong returns, "Ready to O-duh?"
"We haven’t seen a menu."
"This not Buhguh King. No menu. You have it ow way."
"We'll have it your way."
"I juss need yaw cock-tair O-duh."
"How ‘bout three Mai-Tais," orders Niggahonky.
Big smile on Wong’s wide, pale face, then in a higher pitched tone, "Aw, you want to craw outta he-uh."
Jesus watches Wong hustle away, "He loo’ funny."
"Yeah, I don’t suppose You’ve seen too many different looking people."
"In fak, ever’one in New Yaw loo’ funny, Ahm leavin’." Jesus makes to rise from His chair as if to leave then sits back down.
Niggahonky chuckles, "Tell us about your parents, Hey-Zeus."
Jesus looks around the dining room in absolute wonder. It didn’t occur to Him when they first materialized just how diverse the packaging was with regard to humans of the second millennium. Big, dark, hairy, anorexic, splotchy, exotic. He’s saved a lot of people, but none as mixed by breeding or as ornately adorned as the patrons of the Pheekul Duk. Jesus is observing two thousand years of evolution at work.
"Mo-Reese uh big may-un. Ah han’t seen duh may-un may-add but uh few ti’e mah ‘ho’’ li’e, an’ Ahm damn glad uv it. When Mo-Reese git may-add his head fill up wit’ blood and his eyes glaze O-vuh. He git mean as hail. Dats when mah un-kooz start tuh runnin’. An’ on doze uh-K-zhuns, Hattie-May egg duh mofo awn. But moze tuh ti’e, he pretty cool."
"Hattie-May uh diff’rent sto-ree all-tuh-gethuh. She mean on uh regglar basis. She pretty crafty, too. Ahv had ev’ry kine uh farm utensil thrown at Me." His voice rises in pitch, "Shih, Ah’v had ev’ry kine uh farm animal thrown at Me. Hen, potbelly pig, oven stuffer roaster, feesh…"
"You’ve had fish thrown at You?"
"Yeah, we raise feesh. Calves, ducks, dawgs, cats. Eff she could uh lif’ um, she’d uh throw Mo-Reese at Me." He looks directly at Ulilbitch with bugged out eyes, "She’s tried, buh-leeve Me."
"What makes her so mad?" Ulilbitch asks as she moves her elbow out of the way to make room, as Wong sets down the Mai-Tai’s, and some egg rolls with duck sauce. They smell delicious. Niggahonky can’t remember ever being so hungry.
"Usually my un-kooz."
They watch as Niggahonky puts the cylindrical straw in his mouth moving the umbrella of fruit out of the way and extracts a big pull of the sweet alcoholic beverage. Ulilbitch is reminded of the nose bongs at the Atomic Café. She imitates her uncle as does Jesus. Niggahonky eats the maraschino cherry and hunk of pineapple from the umbrella toothpick and enjoys the warm alcohol feeling as it spreads throughout his chest and stomach. In moments, they’re all starting to feel the effects as they crunch into the vegetarian egg rolls.
Jesus continues, "When mah un-kooz mess wit duh go’, dey don’t give mil’, an when dey don’t give mil’, Hattie-May git pisst. Mah Un-kuh Loof-uh, he duh wurrs. Prah-lee cuz he duh ug-lee-ess an no woman in her right mine would go anywhere near um. He got uh seer-iss hygiene prah-lem, too. Ah think it stem from uh natchull born fear uh wut-uh, lock uh cat."
Jesus pauses momentarily then announces, "Nah Ah got tuh empty duh tunic flounduh." He rises to His feet and reaches for His thang but doesn’t know how to unleash it. The zipper of His suit has Him in lock down. Ulilbitch looks at Jesus blankly. Having only been physical for a little over thirty-six hours real time, she's naïve. Mai-Tai spews from Niggahonky's nose. Takes him a moment to compose himself as he puts his hand up toward Jesus in the universal gesture indicating, Stop, Wait, Don’t do it. He imagines the ruckus Jesus would’ve caused if He'd succeeded in urinating where He stood.
"C’mon Hey-Zeus, I’ll show you where You do it in the 20th Century."
"Follow me." Weaving in between tables, stepping out of the way of attentive waiters, dodging a middle-aged Asian woman who thrusts her chair backwards at the last second. This must appear like an obstacle course of organized chaos to an untrained eye, like the streets they’d navigated to get here. Earlier, Jesus was okay, for all the motion of colorfully garmented pedestrians and moving objects were cloaked in the darkness of night. Now, as He watches Niggahonky advance through the well-lit dining room, He freezes. Niggahonky retrieves the Light of the World and escorts Him by a blue pinstriped sleeve to the rest room.
Unisex Restroom. That’s what the door states. A tall, beautiful black woman emerges, turns to a shorter cuter black woman, "Gurl, Sumbuddy blew duh BAFF-room Uh-up!" Jesus looks up at the Amazon, who acknowledges His salivating hyena stare, "Tuh hail You lookin’ at, Nigga?" Immediately she deduced that He wants to mount her, that like so many men, He is verbally impaired by testosterone, that He is incapable of responding, that the conversation ended before it began. She moves on trailed by her friend. Neither of our two protagonists considered the Amazon’s first remark to her friend, nor did they care, until they entered the unisex facility closing out the fresh air behind them. Their faces contort and their eyes well as their noses are raped. Niggahonky can’t imagine what the perpetrator ate, but hopes it wasn’t eaten at the Pheekul. He demonstrates with his own fly how to unfasten oneself. Jesus acknowledges the method. Upon freeing His member He hears a loud female scream, which prompts Him to hesitate for a moment, smile coyote-ishly, then proceed to urinate accompanied by the screams of several more women, which fill a man with pride.
As Jesus happily urinates enveloped in the noxious cloud, Niggahonky steps outside the bathroom to find out what the commotion’s really about. Across the dining room by the cash register are three men in dark coats wearing ski masks. Wong, the waiter, is holding his head. Apparently one of the men struck him. The cashier is terrified as she hands bills from the register to a man pointing a weapon at her.
Niggahonky wills his metabolism to accelerate into bajavida, which drops the pitch of all sound in the room to an inaudible level and effectively renders all occupants motionless as mannequins, including Ulilbitch, who sits studiously watching the sport. He pushes across the room as if through a swimming pool, the air now like water with its slow-moving molecules, and pries the weapon from the man’s hands. He studies it. A heavy hunk of metal. If he were to release it in bajavida, it would suspend in air as gravity hadn’t had time enough to act on it. He sets it behind a counter. In real time, since Niggahonky left the bathroom, crossed the length of the dining room to the register and procured the weapon, only milliseconds have transpired.
He studies the assailant, his frozen hate-filled eyes. He sees into the depths of his being.
Grew up in Bed Sty, no father, a hopeless crackhead mother who felt her obligation to him ended after birth, her son an inconvenience that represented an extra allotment on her welfare check, he was beaten by public school classmates, called a sissy, schooled by drug dealers, at ten he dropped a cinderblock from an apartment window just missing a man and his grandson 20 stories below, at fifteen he punched out a Korean convenience store owner when she tried to open his backpack, it pissed him off that she would accuse him of shoplifting while he was shoplifting, has never been loved except physically, once had a girlfriend but scared her off when he threatened to kill her for talking to a mailman, he’s not afraid to die because he’d finally be released from his living hell, his favorite color is black, his favorite food is Burger King, “The Sound of Music” always brings a tear, for he’d rather be plucking edelweiss on an Austrian Alp than living out life as a stereotypical gangsta; also, he has an imaginary friend named Poofie.
Spotting a roll of duct tape below the register, Niggahonky seals off their mouth and nose holes, tightly wrapping each of their heads. They look mummified in their ski masks. He tapes their ankles together and wraps each of their hands so that their fingers are immovable. Steps back to assess his composition. Inverts bowls of hot and sour soup above their heads which hang there defying gravity in bajavida. Satisfied, he places his finger on an alarm button located under the register, then wills his metabolism to slow to real time…
Assailant number one’s empty mummified hands jerk abruptly upward in the absence of the gun’s weight. Bowls of hot soup simultaneously douse the assailants. Niggahonky’s finger sets off the alarm. Recognition that they are unable to draw breath causes the fellas to panic and clumsily fall to the floor. Niggahonky retrieves his Mai-Tai and heads leisurely for the unisex facility. The patrons and employees are too surprised at their reversal of fortune to notice him. Except for Ulilbitch, who sees him strolling toward the restrooms knowing he used a Thoughtform trick. The incident concludes as police arrive to find the gruesome three on the floor gasping for air. Looking at Wong and the cashier, it’s just too ridiculous to imagine these two Pheekul Duk employees subduing the assailants.
In the meantime, Jesus learns how to wash His hands, having completed His intended task. "Nah, why iz dis impo’tin’?"
As Niggahonky demonstrates the use of the soap dispenser and running water he explains that bacteria from other people invisible to the human eye can enter one’s body through their mucus membranes and set off disease.
"Inviddible! Dat sown lahk boo-shih. You sown lahk duh dang go’ herders telling uh bruthuh uh-bow dey Gawd. Dey say, "He’s everwhere." Ah say, "Ah don’ see nuffin’." Dey say, "Dat’s cuz He’s inviddible, yuh got tuh have faith." Ah don’ know what tuh say tuh dat. It gets pretty dang infuriatin’ how dey credit sump-mm inviddible for everthang dey ‘complish."
Niggahonky adds, "It’s worse when they kill for It." Jesus is fascinated by the hot air dryer. He enjoys the powerful jet of air.
"I KNOW THEIR INVISIBLE GOD", he says a little too loud, as the high decibel dryer stops. He adjusts his volume, "I’ve known It longer than Your universe has been in existence." Jesus doesn’t respond, He just stands there looking in the mirror, speechless. Niggahonky continues, "It’s a hermaphroditic chimpanzee looking mustardsucker, that spends a lot of time altering Its mind and having sex with Itself." Again, no response. He’s not sure the Lord heard what he just said. Sucking air loudly through his straw, his Mai-Tai hits bottom with a final pull. He leads the way back from the bathroom through the excited dining room filled with speculation of what was witnessed, as two cops question Wong and the cashier by the register. Back at the table Ulilbitch seems content and drunk, entertained by the human interaction in the aftermath of a violent event turned comedic thanks to her devious Thoughtform uncle.
After being questioned and with a newly acquired red welt about his eye, Wong delivers a tray of exotic looking food. Steamed spinach dumplings on a bed of cabbage, bowls of hot and sour soup, broccoli tofu omelets, brown rice, glasses of sweet carrot juice and a pallet cleansing pot of hot green tea.
The prevailing wisdom at the time was, vegetarian healthy meat unhealthy. Along with the trendy vegetarian mentality went a tree-huggin’ dope-smokin’ 60’s wannabe anti-military anti-nuke socialize-the-economy, so everything is free mentality. The downside of this vegetarian wholesome-r than thou lifestyle and unbeknownst at the end of the 20th century was that had humanity survived, evolution would’ve been unkind to subsequent generations of vegetarian offspring who would’ve taken on the appearance of emaciated buck tooth rabbit men with thick sprigs of hair sprouting from the upper lip of the womenfolk.
Our marvelous three were so famished, that they’d eat locust exoskeletons, if that was what Wong delivered. Like those who have gone without adequate nutrition for several hours, their cell systems dominated the would-be conversation by over-riding the ordinarily talkative mouth to perform its biting tasting chewing swallowing function. After a few minutes of eating like Jesus, they look up at each other with faces smeared in soy sauce, then continue to feast. Ordinarily, Niggahonky would’ve used the utensils that remain clean and positioned at the side of his plate, but he finds Jesus’ eating habits too amusing. Also, he enjoys the attention that eating in such a fashion garners. Other tables scold their children telling them that that’s not how one should eat, with the hands palming great clumps of food.
They’ve become a spectacle at the Pheekul Duk this New Year’s Eve 2000. The most famous man in western civilization, whose name is dropped in everyday exclamations like, Jesus H. Christ!, or Oh for Christ’s sake!, is appropriately anonymous in New York, dressed in a smart, dark blue, pinstripe suit, and topped with a basketball sized blond afro, that now has bits of rice adhering to it. He looks like Jimi Hendrix might have, if he’d lived to embrace the glam of America during its hedonistic disco era 1970s, with its danceable, even by the most uncoordinated of white people, kick drum thump: boomp-boomp-boomp-boomp. Parents tell their children they should be more like Jesus, Who gave His life for their sins. Yet they are completely unaware, that the very blood they symbolically drink, and the very flesh they symbolically accept in thin wafers on their tongues each Sunday, is the very Being they now tell their children not to emulate. How arbitrary.
Jesus is oblivious. Plus, He’s happily drunk, full of delicious Chinese vegetarian cuisine, and trying to make eye contact with the Amazon.
Abruptly changing the tone, inspired by the gun wielding antics of the would-be assailants, Ulilbitch ejaculates, "Unc, I feel like playing a video game. I wanna kill a whole lotta people really fast. I wanna watch their heads blow off in a mist of pink spray."
"Yeah, that sounds like fun, Ulilbitch. We can join their 6 year olds and practice mass slaughtering their species. Then, we can go to a firing range and practice with some real guns."
Most of the time, Luther and Bernie stay out of Maurice and Hattie-May’s way. If they could play video games or check out porn sites, they would. Instead, they drink grain alcohol and watch goats fuck. Cow-tipping and the whammy bar were invented by Luther and Bernie, as well as head banging, head butting, mosh pits, and mud wrestling. They smoke tree bark, cannabis, nail clippings, and goat shit; on occasion, mushrooms that grow from the goat shit. In their farming community there is little to do for leisure, if one evades imprisonment or crucifixion by the Romans.
When locals sat on a stump staring incredulously, dumbstruck by the carnage, at a landscape littered with bloody crucifixions, the moans of those in the process of dying for sins, real or invented, their friends would poke them every so often with a stick, to be sure rigor mortis hadn’t set in. In such brutal times, throughout all of human history, killing brain cells was a reasonable endeavor, throughout all of human history. If one were fated to be crucified, shedding a few million brain cells and being wasted immaculate would make the brutality almost bearable, as if the spikes were driven into someone else’s palms, into someone else's feet. This is not my blood dripping down my face. What thorns?
With dried feces and other heinous substances that they’d experimented with, Luther and Bernie have at times been the most comatose of all the locals. And on these occasions, their friends would decorate them like Christmas trees, they’d urinate on them, they’d bury them up to their necks and throw hen’s eggs at them, they’d shave off their hair leaving one eyebrow. Bernie unknowingly started a fad during one of his comas, when his friends set fire to his fro. After they’d doused it with donkey piss and pulled away the charred hair, a perfect circle right to his scalp remained. The friar fad lasted for centuries and is depicted in the art of the Middle Ages.
The third and thus far unaccounted for wise man is Qarl, mysteriously known as Q. Q has lousy eyesight. Because he has to be no more than 15 cm from an object to see it, he knew early on that the pastimes that entertained his brothers would do little for him. Thus, Qarl became a scribe and spent long hours every day writing on papyrus all the tales that he’d heard around campfires, at elder’s councils, feasts, and coming-out parties. Being functionally blind made writing his universe: the history, the tall tales, the lessons, the fears, the incomprehensible, the supernatural, the impossible to believe. "The Gospel According to Q" is the first book of the New Testament. Someone claiming to be Matthew plagiarized Q's gospel, then re-wrote it with a white persuasion calling it "The Gospel According to Matthew". That was many years after Qarl passed on.
To illustrate the difference between the two gospels, let's look at Q's Gospel, at "The Sermon On A Grassy Knoll". Here again, the Messiah:
Who art in heav-mm
O’ wherevuh t’hail You be
Can Ya give us dis day
Sumpmm ta go wif da bread?
Maybe a lil’ goat cheese?
Bread don’t las’ a mofo long workin’ out in da sun
Ah bet dere’s mo’ of a selection up in heav-mm
Y’all iz holdin’ out on us Earthbound niggas
Prah’ly gots: lamb chops, succotash, crepes, quiche…
Jesus goes on to list 4 categories and dozens of foods. Think of the begats. His audience was mostly stoned, inebriated, or already comatose, so they paid Him no mind. Some woke up when He said…
We shan’t mention Q again, as it’s important to perpetuate the myth of who actually wrote the bible, so that those prone to paranoia can continue to believe in a conspiracy of sorts. Incidentally, Q is an 11th generation knife-thrower. Although he's never made a kill, he is proficient at clearing a room, which affords him ample time to commit prose.
Luther finally drops out of the olive tree, Maurice having given up and returned to the stable. Bernie, with his friar doo, happens along.
"What up nigga?"
"Naw, you bin at duh go’ uh-gay-un, hanchuh?"
"Naw, bro’, Ah wuz up deh contemplatin’."
"Boo-shih. Dair ain’ shih tuh contemplate from up dair ‘cept goze. Why-n-chuh leave duh go’ uh-lone, Loofuh? Why-n-chuh leave duh go’ uh-lone? Why-n-chuh leave duh go’ uh-lone, Loofuh? Why-n-chuh leave it uh-lone?"
Bernie is an irritant. He takes pleasure in irritating people when by his estimation they’ve done something stupid. The dumber the action, the more Bernie irritates. It’s a complementary relationship. It's also a tactic that's served him well for luring unsuspecting opponents into a brawl. If he's low on weed, a good brawl provides exercise and releases endorphins leaving him feeling relaxed and satisfied, like after sex, albeit good sex.
Once, a man by the name of Jacob had a brother named Thaddeus. Both Jacob and Thaddeus were goat herders. Jacob once had his way with a village woman against her will. He held her down and slapped her into submission. Bernie, therefore, has zero respect for Jacob. When Jacob implored Thaddeus not to stand up in a field during a lightning storm, making him taller than his herd, thus the tallest object and most likely to be struck, and Thaddeus who was special, remained standing, Jacob mourned the loss of his brother. During Jacob’s grief, Bernie, who’d witnessed Thaddeus’s impression of a lightning rod, repeated the following taunt:
"Why’d yo’ bruthuh stan’ up in duh middle of a feel durin’ uh lightnin’ stome, Jacob? Why’d yo’ bruthuh stan’ up, Jacob? How come yo’ bruthuh stood up, Jacob? Why’d Thaddeus stan’ up? Huh? Why, Jacob? Stan’ up, Jacob? Why? Huh?"
This particularly irritating and insensitive line of questioning went on for several minutes, because of Bernie’s acute lack of respect for Jacob. Despite being a strong and intimidating man, Jacob endured the humiliation because he was well aware of Bernie's and Luther's reputation for taking down bullies, another of their favorite pastimes. Jacob was there when some hulking Romans passing through their village assaulted some locals. He was there when the brothers sided up to the Romans, drew them into a brawl and methodically decimated them. Thus, despite being bigger than him, Jacob is afraid of Bernie and meekly endures his taunts.
With Luther and his tendency to poke goats, Bernie went on for only a minute by comparison. "Why-n-chuh leave duh go’ uh-lone, Loofuh? Go’, Loofuh. Uh-lone, Loofuh. Why do yuh fuck goze, Loofuh?!"
11:47 P.M. The Pheekul Duk officially celebrates the Chinese New Year in February, but their patrons are preparing now and starting to look at their watches. Some are testing their kazoos. Niggahonky realizes that they’ve got to get the check, pay it, traverse half a city block, and penetrate a police barricade to reach Times Square when the ball drops. Should they succeed, Christ will have fulfilled His much anticipated 2nd Coming, as He stands next to Ulilbitch and Niggahonky in an enormous sea of Homo sapiens, who will remain completely obtuse to His actual presence among them. Niggahonky is most interested to experience what actually befalls New York on this predicted ominous eve of evenings. So, he thinks of a joke. These three brutes hold up a Chinese restaurant near Times Square on New Year’s Eve when three time travelers, one of them Jesus, Lord and Savior, foil their plot, then go on to steal their money to pay the bill, so they can watch the ball drop. This is how it transpires:
Niggahonky accelerates his metabolism, so that all motion inside and outside the Pheekul Duk whines down to virtual silence like shutting off a vacuum cleaner. He pushes his way through the swimming pool air past a statuesque policeman holding open the Pheekul’s entrance door. The first of the hooligans is stuck in the perpetual pose of getting into the back of a squad car, hands cuffed behind him, another policeman holding his arm. Niggahonky slides the man’s wallet from its home in a rear pocket and discovers $409 in cash, undoubtedly stolen, making Niggahonky the thief of a thief. He returns the empty wallet to its original pocket, pushes his way back inside, and places all the cash on their table to cover the tab.
As Wong with his swollen eye heads toward their table carrying a tray with fortune cookies and their bill, moving imperceptibly slow as a clock’s hour hand to Niggahonky’s second hand; as the police complete their questioning and leave without leaving (yet); as the fabulous Amazon woman who’d stifled Jesus earlier when exiting the unisex bathroom informs her homophobic boyfriend, that perhaps he should reconsider his boast about suicide, because he has had relations with a man, and if he doubts it, just reach up between her legs (notably, the facial expressions at the Amazon’s table are quite animated); Niggahonky unlocks the minds of Ulilbitch and Jesus allowing them to enter bajavida.
Jesus doesn’t immediately catch on. He continues to sit at the table and stare at the Amazon, like He’s been doing all night. Suddenly, the lack of sound, really it’s just too slow and low in register to hear, startles Him. The liquefied air causes Him to panic, until Niggahonky places a comforting hand on His shoulder to show Him it’s all right. Speaking, one’s lips and jaw move before sound reaches the ears. Because air molecules move too sluggishly and human vocal chords are incapable of vibrating fast enough, it's pointless to attempt speech in bajavida. Ulilbitch is at peace with this new perspective. Then again it’s all new to her. She’s a fearless astronaut entering the unknown. She’s a Thoughtform vacationing in a physical universe. Physically, she risks nothing. Death to her body assignment merely means a return to her Thoughtform. Mentally, however, her malleable mind will never be the same. She’s a good sport. A pioneer. A guinea pig. A lemming?
They follow Niggahonky, who grabs the fortune cookies from Wong’s tray, then passes through the door still being held patiently, if inadvertently, by the same policeman. Once out in the illuminated street, they move slowly forward, until Niggahonky kicks up and begins to swim. He swims in an underwater fashion making arcs with his arms and frog kicks with his legs. His progress is greater than attempting to walk. Both Ulilbitch and Jesus easily copy his technique, swimming over parked cars and statuesque pedestrians, over a drunk man urinating in an alley way with a thin 98.6 degree icicle arcing from his hand held extremity, giving the impression of being tethered to the side of a building. They don’t see the droplets of yellow urine suspended in air at the point of impact. Swimming past illuminated store fronts, bars, cafés, all with televisions tuned to Dick Clark in a black leather jacket looking 30 years younger than 70, wearing headphones and holding a microphone, his breath in a cloud before his face, frozen like a fluorescent photograph without sound. People frozen smoking cigarettes with clouds of exhaled smoke that don’t rise and taper off. They swim over the police check point and into Times Square, over the sardine packed multitudes that collectively bring the street level up an average of one and a half meters, if one were to walk on their heads. Niggahonky tries to locate a place to land and stand, but the people are too tightly squeezed together. The time that has elapsed in bajavida since leaving the Pheekul Duk, in real time approximately ninety seconds, has begun to affect their strength adversely.
They come out of bajavida standing on top of some porta potties to draw quenching breaths of fresh, if frigid, December soon to be January air. Suddenly, everything is powered up, alive and humming, like a tidal wave that engulfs without pummeling. The sound of two million Jerries pressed up against each other is monstrous. Both Ulilbitch and Jesus are awed and excited by this strange and vibrant atmosphere. A policewoman points at them and yells, "HEY… YOU… AWF DUH FUCKN PAWTA POTTIES."
The F word is New York’s most popular adjective. Niggahonky holds up an index finger to indicate, just a fuckn minute, as they take a few deep breaths.
The cop is once again frozen before she can complete her hostile "OW". As they return to bajavida the intense wall of sound and energy retreats.
Niggahonky kicks up and treads air, while examining the scene. He looks around 360 degrees, his attention drawn to an enormous video image of Dick Clark. He notices that just below it and on top of a five-story building are floodlights and TV cameras focused on the man himself. He is amazed at how an average sized man can take on such colossal dimensions when televised. He swims up to the televised scene to inspect.
There’s Clark with that puff of exhaled breath suspended before his face. The cameras. The intensely brilliant flood lights as bright as an artificial sun. The security guards. Clark’s guest stars, Ed McMahon and Whoopi Goldberg, round out the production delivering lines that are universally un-funny and easy to ignore. Was there ever a New Year’s Eve party at which one was shushed to pay attention to what Whoopi or Ed or Dick had to say? This benign Bob Hope sort of humor delivered by these most ubiquitous of American celebrities is quite brilliant in its ability to keep the corner of a human’s eye on the television, yet un-profound enough to compete with a decent conversation. Imagine Whoopi, Ed, or Dick breaking into a monologue about Criminal Race Theory. How light-skinned peoples of the modern era must pay for the crimes of their ancestors. Pay and pay and pay - begat.
If this easily ignorable entertainment wasn’t sufficient, there were always the pestering commercial interruptions promoting cure-alls with side effects that included: hair loss, impotence, bleeding, drowsiness, mood swings, and in rare cases, profuse bleeding. Warnings included don’t take this pill when you’re with anyone dressed in white.
TV was invasive, informative, mind numbing, trance inducing, most often a reflection of the worst aspects of the human species, occasionally inspired with the best. Network television was at its very summit with Dick Clark’s Rockin Eve this night. TV would experience a decline and a realignment in the 2000s, once Star Trek’s communication devices became widely available. These devices became known as smart phones, and were used by the government to track everyone.
Hark! Wh-what’s this? A guy crouched down just beyond the main camera’s eye manning a teleprompter? I don’t know if you can hear the helicopters overhead, but they’re up there, the teleprompter reads. Dick Clark’s delivery is expert and affable, as if talking to a neighbor.
This new insight requires further consideration. What if the teleprompted words could be altered? Mr. Clark has been doing this same broadcast for decades. He’s weathered difficulties. Niggahonky wonders if he can nudge him out of his comfort zone a little. He has Jesus assist him in lifting teleprompter man by his rigid elbows and move him like a mannequin through a swimming pool about two meters, facing away from the production. There the man stands with hands extended, as if resting on a keypad. Niggahonky looks over the frozen script, but finds nothing that grabs him. Comes out of bajavida, rush of sound, the script starts scrolling. He reads through trivia and phrases. Dale, that’s teleprompter-man, looks slowly around, down, eyes widen, face stricken, these stages of reorientation take but a few seconds. Niggahonky spots some items of interest in the script, just as Dale is coming toward him and starting to yell, "Hhh…"
Bajavida: Niggahonky and Jesus lift Dale, who is poised to run, carry him onto the set, and lay him supine at Dick Clark’s feet. Dale’s rigid body is like a molded green plastic toy soldier, with shoulder blade, elbow, buttock, and foot heal making contact with the stage. Niggahonky returns to the keypad.
Back in real time. He begins typing. Cameras are trained on the crowd and focused in on a couple wearing sombreros. Clark, talking:
"You can hear hhhHEY..."
Dale convulses at Clark's feet as if he’s having a seizure. Clark’s eyebrows go up as he deftly side steps. Security guards start toward him as he continues his commentary with barely a pause.
"... the music building in the background. They have this surround sound this year. All sorts of sound and confetti and other doo-dads will happen as we go along. There are 500 gay… uh-ugm, dancers, actors, musicians, and puppeteers."
He looks over to where Dale should be, but no one there. Niggahonky disappears into bajavida. Security is dealing with the convulsing lunatic at his feet. Clark continues, "A hundred thousand handouts, which include: um pom-poms and lais and wigs and flags." He ad libs, "They’re having a great ol’ time. There’s the ball, it hasn’t moved yet. Ain’t nothin’ like the ball in Times Square. Crossroads of the world in New York City. This is the place to be (chuckle) believe you me."
The camera hones in on some smiling partiers. Clark: "Happy looking group of nig... people. Notice the ages. It is a young persons’ game. In order to stand out there for 10 or 12 hours you gotta gots a lot of stamina. The police have arranged that the porta potties on the side streets and all, they’ve accommodated the nig... people, that couldn’t get into the Square. Heck, I just saw a guy urinat… uh ugm… Think my teleprompter guy is having some fun. They worked it out so nig... people, people can… move around with ease. And we’re just less than three minutes away from probably the biggest sound you will ever hear, as the millennium ball drop happens."
"What the hell's going on?" Clark yells off mic, losing his famous composure. The teleprompter reads: And git Sheniquah's ass back ova' heeah.
Dick fills in the next 90 seconds with more impromptu banter. Then, the green mohawked culprit appears, typing away at the prompter, looking like a punk disco rooster. Clark is a little startled when he makes eye contact; a little afraid. Niggahonky smiles, a bit reserved, unsure if Dick’s fear is going to turn to rage. Satisfied, he then disappears again into bajavida. Dick isn't sure what he actually saw. Alert to the mischief, he proceeds cautiously, "It’s all computerized now. In the old days… used to drop it with a… you know a… nylon a… clothes cord with 3 gays… guys, and a Mickey Mouse watch… uh… ugm… got me again… There’ll be some staff changes this new year, you can count on it. You were wise to stay at home. In one minute the ball will drop and you will see pandemonium. Listen to ‘em. The ball is beginning to move. They can feel it. They know it. Hee Hee thiddy five seconds. Thiddy? Did I just say that? Get close to somebody you love. In 25 seconds it’ll be the new year. And we’re gonna count it down from here down when we get to 10. Iz ya ready? Happy New Year early. In 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1, HAPPY MUTHUH FUCK'N TWO THOUSAND!”
Pandemonium. A blizzard of confetti. Kisses, horns, kazoos, noise makers of all sorts and derivations, vocal chords, fireworks, sirens, strobe lights and flood lights, flash lights and bug lights, handshakes and glass breaks, champagne toasts, vomit, urine…
Clark comments, "It looks like a blizzard here… Confetti fired by canons from 13 different locations. Our cameras can hardly see through the paper. Happy New Year!"
Tattoo aka Hervé Villechaise, wearing blue eye shadow, candy apple red lipstick, and a white suit identical to Niggahonky’s, except made for a chimpanzee, standing between two heavenly young women who give the impression of being the Twin Towers next to Him. Hervé Villechaise. Duh plane. Duh plane.
Its theme music sung by the Godfather of Soul: "I love, I love to do my thing, Ha, and I, and I don’t need no one else, good god..." Hervé’s theme music is performed by thirty-year old James Brown in person, a physical impossibility. Fireworks go off in reverse, imploding, sonic booms that accompany each backward firework reverberate in reverse, hiccupping. Everyone standing in Times Square witnesses the snow storm of confetti sucking away back into the canons from which it was fired.
Aside from J.B., there is silence in Times Square. There is silence the world over, as if there is no air for sound to resonate in. In every time zone all televisions have an impeccably well-defined picture of Hervé, even TVs that were off. No matter what channel, there It is. Kids playing video games now have a cartoon version of It as a human child. In actuality, there are no cameras trained on Hervé and Its beautiful, relatively tall companions. It is simply the physical embodiment of the Divine. The elusive Omniscient, the most sought after of speakers, the One, the only, the Man upstairs, the Creator, God the father, God the mother and… Godallahbuddazeus.
An encounter with the Being most universally imagined might take precedent over most worldly experience. Even the segment of the human populace regarded as intellectually challenged would pay attention long enough to determine if the Creator was going to display some bitchin’ pyrotechnics in all Its glory. Though only a small percentage of the world’s populous was acquainted with the TV show "Fantasy Island" and its plane spotter, Tattoo, everybody with no exception, even incoherent infants and drooling seniors, sense the identity of the Occupant of the meter tall body of the re-animated Hervé Villechaise. Very strange.
All those times that people looked skyward and asked the Almighty, Why? Yet when It finally materializes, they’re speechless. Twenty-year-old Elvis Presley replaces J.B. singing, "Ah doe wahn no uh dey love, Baby it’s still you I’m uh thinkin’ of, Don’ Be Cruel…"
Many are emotionally overwhelmed. All the suffering, sickness, pain, violence, war, oppression, hardship, misery, poverty, trials and tribulations; all the giddy elation, comedy, joy, euphoria, laughter, success, love, tenderness, bliss; emotions suppressed or endured or enjoyed for eons caused many to break into tears; tears for the victims of slavery, the victims of the Holocaust, the victims of war, the victims of homicide. Some, pessimistic like Jesus, want to tackle It, beat It into submission and ask It simply, What the fuck? For Jesus now knows Hervé’s the One responsible for mindlessness the world over. Everyone remains silent and reverently awaits Its word. The silence, however, is peppered with the compulsive utterances of obscenities by those suffering from Tourette’s: "short, shit head, shorty, short, fuck, fuck, fuck you, fuck, fuck, fuck off, fuck, fuck yourself."
It holds Its divine stubby hands so that Its fingertips meet and point inward toward Its face, a pope-like gesture: rocking Its hands to and fro and hunching Its head as if to say, in Yiddish, "Ka-peesh" or "Meshuggeneh" or "Such a deal!". It begins to communicate with every Jerry in their own language. Rather than coming across as a politician making a single canned speech for thousands, Hervé telepathically carries on six billion conversations all at the same time. With a Ghandi-like smile of enlightenment on Its face the telepathic conversation goes something like this:
How yuh doin’? Hervé asks a brawny twenty-eight-year-old Italian American who repairs the New Jersey Turnpike at night.
"Wutt?" The worker responds aloud along with one million other New Years Eve partiers, simultaneously. The word WHAT has surprisingly awesome force when asked in perfect unison as it leaves two million lungs causing a million voices to reverberate through the silent canyons of New York’s skyline. Hervé is propelled backward by the sound, but quickly recovers doing a reverse somersault. It’s really a wonderful gymnast due to Its low center of gravity. Again, the sporadic utterances of Tourette’s sufferers: "fuck, what?, fuck you, what? fuck, fuck off." The remaining million in Times Square haven’t acknowledged the telepathic contact. Oh, they heard it in their minds. They’re just waiting for another message to be sure they weren’t imagining things. To these million Hervé says, No, you weren’t imagining this. Watch Me.
Times Square becomes warm, lusty, balmy, as a breath of tropical air exhaled from West Palm Beach incubates New York. The partiers shed their winter layers. The air is sensual and most welcome after standing for so many shriveled up hours in the cold. With a wave of Its arm It disappears all Its clothing and exposes a set of male and female genitalia ready for action. Its male part is conveniently hinged like an accordion allowing the amazons to assist. It is quite happy to have at Itself for all to see. Its very act stifles the mind. A viewer at home sees Tattoo’s little hairy brown body laying on a white love seat with one knee propped up as two nude women assist. Their nimble hands work Its hinged genital in and out of Its female depository. It moans, "Oh yes, Yeah baby, Oh, do it to Me, You’re soooo hot!" as the familiar sloshing sounds of penetration are surreally amplified. The ladies stimulate each other orally and theatrically as they serve Hervé… "Ah don’t wahn no uh dey love, baby it’s still you I’m thinkin’ of". The last strains of Scotty Moore’s guitar decay. Still doing Itself, Hervé announces, "Thank you, Elvis!"
"Any tom, Sir?… Ma’am?" says the confused King in his familiar drawl. Under his breath he shakes his head, "Phew! Could a done without seein’ that mess," as he steps back into oblivion.
Hervé continues, "And now, ladies, gentlemen, in-betweens, undecideds, or combo-units like Me... Lou Reed."
"Hey, sugar, take a walk on the wild side…" Hervé rolls over and takes Itself doggie style with a little help from Its friends. A money shot is had by the ABC cameras with close ups, though unbeknownst to those trying to record the occasion, all footage of the Divine will be blank, as if Hervé is invisible. Niggahonky, who loves this song, grabs Ulilbitch’s hand and leads her out to the grand sex scene where Dick Clark is, as the evening’s events digress into perversion. Is it blasphemous if the pervert is the Divine? Voyeurs are quite satisfied with the surprise ending to an otherwise forgettable airing of Dick Clark’s Rockin’ Eve. Ulilbitch and Niggahonky undress each other and start fuckin. Jesus utters, "Hell wit dis!", positions Himself behind one of the Twin Towers, then starts fuckin. Pretty soon everyone present is naked, fornicating, spanking, sucking, sweating, licking, rubbing, wanking, whipping, watching, or futilely trying to film. The world over, in every time zone, in the streets, in the fields, in the cars, on the cars, on the couch, in the bed, against a wall, by a tree, old men, young women, black men, Asian women, Middle Eastern cab drivers, spherical black women, children playing doctor, dogs stupidly mounting each other mocking the humans, a rollicking good time is had by all. Hervé wills wild fornicating footage of lions and tigers and bears to air on the towering screens of Times Square. Thoughts range from outright disgust and revulsion to euphoric abandon and satisfaction.
Dick Clark starts back with his commentary, "Well, they’re in a party mood. Can you imagine how long this thing is gonna last? Ha ha ha Weeee. You’ve got a whole night ahead of ya. This is magnificent coverage going right here for the ABC 2000 event. They’re taking pictures of each other. Celebrating. They’re in a festive mood if ever there was one. Gonna preserve that on his uh home video there. You won’t find a happier group of people anywhere in the world."
The colored girls sing, "Do de-do do do de-do do do do de-do…" And they do, until the sun brightens the eastern sky forcing darkness to retreat westward once again. Manhattan’s streets are littered with empty and half full cups of beer, used condoms and torn wrappers, party hats, clothing, and naked or partially naked bodies strewn every which way, sleeping, yawning, stretching, farting or once again engaged in pleasure.
Dick Clark still offering commentary, "Years and years ago I could sort of judge it by looking up and down the street. You can’t take an individual head count, but I’d say, well a half a million people here and sure enough it’d appear in the paper the next day to confirm it. I uh…”
Perhaps the reason the masses so readily accepted Hervé’s display was that It altered their brain chemistries and eliminated normal inhibitions, much as alcohol does. Or, perhaps the reason the masses engaged in open sex was that they’d repressed such feelings for so long by controlling their urges, that it took a godly display to show them that behaving like monkeys is instinctual and natural; and incidentally, Its joke on self-important beings. The humans most determined to satisfy these lustful urges at the New Year’s exhibition are the Baptists, the radical Muslims, and the most sexually repressed beings of all, the clergy.
Or, perhaps it never really happened. None of it. Did they ever exist? If a nuclear holocaust or a comet extinguished all life on Earth, who would be there to tell its story? What or who would care?
Hervé: "No disrespect to you, Mayor Giuliani, as you’ve done a fine job cleaning up Times Square and making New York safe, but I prefer to remember your streets like this". The conservative mayor's aged loins rage as the liberal Whoopi rides him like an equestrian. Their racial and political differences inspire a breathless communion.
Nearby, Dick Clark grabs Ed McMahon's hand. Ed, a former marine, reflexively connects with a right jab that dislodges Clark's toupee. Conflicting feelings of hostility and remorse, anger and tenderness well up in Ed, allowing Clark to bestow kisses on his cheeks. When Clark kisses his lips, the marine nails him in the gut with his large fist. Once again conflicting feelings emerge in Ed, which permits Clark to make further advances. This back and forth is too slow to pay attention to.
Godallahbuddazeus returns to center stage, once again clothed in Tattoo’s Fantasy Island white vested disco suit to stand next to, if only as high as the hip of, Niggahonky, who is also clothed in his white disco suit, and Ulilbitch back in her gown, light blue fake fur coat, and blue combat boots. She never actually removed her Amelia Earhart headgear, even through raucous sloppy drunken penetrations and head bobbings. Niggahonky’s Mohawk is a bit twisted, but intact despite the nocturnal eventing that it’s been through. Jesus still wears His blue pinstripe slacks around His ankles, as He continues to enjoy His second Twin, His blond afro unperturbed and round as a basketball. The humid blanket of Florida air lifts as cold New York air settles in. God. addresses Its multitudes, "I’d like now to leave you with a message song." Few of the scattered multitudes are coherent enough to pay attention to what their Creator is saying. The Pointer Sisters wearing only high heeled shoes sing, "We Are Family". Saucy brown breasts sway above flat bellies and narrow gymnast hips centered with carefully groomed pubic mounds like exclamations pointing to their dark clefts of Venus. Jesus leaves His Twin for the taut athletic booty of a Pointer with the intent to enjoy each sister singularly. The thought of juxtaposing His body in a grinding, squirming, panting Pointer Sister sandwich makes the Messiah happy to be a man.
Niggahonky looks over at Ulilbitch, then down at Godallahbuddazeus. They grin at each other, satisfied, as they watch Jesus in His bleached fro go. To Niggahonky, there is a hilarity to the scene that forces his normally reserved chuckles into uncontrollable hiccups of laughter, causing his Mohawk to buckle, as he envisions all of Godallahbuddazeus’s children doing each other in the pervasive act that looks universally mindless as sniffing an ass-tainted finger or examining a booger. Exposed bodies bumping into each other accompanied by grunts, moans, unintended farts, all in the name of love, or is it lust, revenge, curiosity, or just boredom? An act that is drunkenly elevated to spiritual heights by the Homo mind, soberly condemned as sinful, yet advertised ubiquitously like pharmaceuticals, fast food, and Jesus. What dumb fun, especially considering that it all evolved from a fingernail a relatively long time ago.
If you’ve made it this far, congratulate yourself. For you are a genius. So that The Toilet Scrolls may be flushed into eternity you might wonder: Why would the entity known as God masturbate for all Homo sapiens to gaze upon? Why did the Reverend choose the millennium festivities at New York’s grandiose annual party to break Its non-intervention clause? Lastly, according to the exit polls the most asked question throughout the galaxy: What is the fate of the post apocalyptic dung beetle?
The end of a trip: the goodbyes, the good lucks, the hand waves, the kisses, the hugs, the good riddances accompanied by an extended middle finger. The calling of home entices one back to the familiar, the comfortable, where you keep your stuff. Thoughtforms have no homes, but they do have mental stuff.
"Wellll look who it ih! Gimme uh hug. Where you bin kid?" Maurice, as big as a football player, gives his elusive Son a bear hug. Maurice is always glad when Jesus is in da stable.
A pair of dogs swarm the guests, chirping with great excitement, as if they're best friends with a long history together. Tails whipping back and forth.
"You have dogs. I love dogs!" beams Ulilbitch. Jesus points out that dog is god backwards. "What are their names?" she asks.
"Duh fuzzy one wit duh big nose is Nostradamus. And duh lil feisty rip-ya-face-off is Sukreeshuh. She very fass."
Nostradamus imposes her nose into Ulilbitch's cleft. Ulilbitch observes, "Uncle, since we've been visiting Earth, I've noticed there's been a lot of attention given to this part of my anatomy. You." Niggahonky gazes down and puffs his upper lip. "Hey-Zeus." Jesus fiddles with a braid as He looks around. "Me." Eyes turn toward Ulilbitch. "And now, Nostradamus."
Hattie-May scolds, "Nostradamus, git jo nose up outta huh Wuhan."
"It's okay", says Ulilbitch. "I like it. It feels nice."
"NOSTRADAMUS", barks Hattie-May. The fuzzy dog scoots behind Maurice, who strokes her head.
"Folks, dis hee-uh iz Yo-lilbitch, Niggahonky, and Gawdallah… Gawdallah… Hervé."
"Welll look at You. Hello Hervé." Maurice stands with his large brown fists on his hips, his elbows jutting out, as he looks nearly straight down at the strangely compelling Man wearing blue eye shadow. Sukreeshuh tries to hump Hervé. Maurice pushes her away. "Come awn in." He watches as they pass by, paying extra attention not to misstep on the Supreme Being. Maurice pulls his Son aside, as the others walk into the barn. "You jess in tom, Son. Ah bin lookin’ fo duh sling-shot."
Jesus takes a moment to look around and get re-acquainted with His surroundings. It’s been a while since He’s been home. He remembers and tells Maurice. "Uncle Loofuh bin at duh go’ uh-gin, Pop?"
"Yee-eh, ugh," Maurice exclaims with the satisfaction of knowing a little pain is about to be inflicted on his goat fuckin’ brother. Maurice produces the sling-shot, Luther takes off running. He takes aim with a marble sized rock, stretches the sling back taut, then releases with precision. The rock careens across twenty meters of pasture and explodes into the ass of Luther causing him to grunt not unlike when Hattie May slaps him upside the head, only with greater fervor inspired by the exponentially more painful sting. Luther continues to run until he disappears beyond a grassy knoll, Phoop!
"Are you gonna chase ‘im, Pop?"
"Naw. Ah ain’t really may-ed. Yo Uncle Loofuh’s a lil’ stoopit on account uh all duh drugs he done, but he awright. Jess gotta hit ‘im wit uh sling shot when he tries tuh run o clime a tree. He’s had a lotta practice runnin. He pretty fass. Bein’ stoopit an fass make ‘im uh social threat, but mosely to ‘imself. Sheet! Wit out yo uncle, Ah wouldn’t uh had duh aim tuh kill duh rodent we gonna have fo dinnuh. Bettuh wash up."
They all sit down on one side of a long table with a long table cloth. Crunchy finger foods like locusts, ants and roaches, centipedes, millipedes, and termites, are set in small bowls along the length of the table for nibbling until the feast is served.
Jesus makes His way into the dining room, "Look whut Ah got." He jerks a string suspended like a tassel before his face that lights up a battery powered fluorescent halo above His head.
Maurice raises his sling shot and announces, "Ah’ll get it Son, kuh-vuh Yuh eye."
"No, Pop, don't shoot! It’s awright. Ah got dis at a shop in New Yawk."
Niggahonky recalls paintings he’s seen of the circular light that hovers above Jesus’ head, paintings of white Jesuses. The real Jesus, however, has been to New York. Niggahonky ponders how odd it is that this universe seems to be scripted, as if there were some divine scheme, as if the halo was meant to be suspended above Jesus’ head, whether it was placed there by an artist, by order of a religious leader, or because the Man Himself lifted it from a shop in NYC.
"Hey-Zeus, why are we all seated on one side of the table?" Niggahonky ejaculates. "Wouldn’t we be more comfortable if some of us sat on the other side?"
"Ya know where we at?" rejoins Jesus.
"Da's right. Da hood. Nobody sit wit dare back to duh do’ in da hood. Ain’t safe."
"Oh. You afraid you’re gonna get attacked by some hostile goat herders?"
"Naw. Romans. Dem white folks be crazy. Jews be crazy, too. Too many kangaroos loose in the top paddock."
"Hey, how do You know that cliché?"
But Jesus doesn’t respond as he munches a locust, lost in thought.
Hattie May enters carrying a dish with a large, golden brown rodent, followed by Bernie carrying another. They take their seats. Hattie May is seated next to Maurice who besats Jesus who besats Ulilbitch who besats Niggahonky who besats Goddallahbuddazeus who besats Bernie. Since the picture would be incomplete with just seven, in walks Luther rubbing his ass, followed by the apostles and fellow dope-smokers, Ringo, George, Paul, and John. Yesterday, I Saw Her Standing There, Got To Get You Into My Life, I Want To Hold Your Hand, Sexy Sadie, Why Don't We Do It In The Road?, Oh! Darling, You Can't Do That, While My Guitar Gently Weeps, If I Needed Someone, I'll Follow The Sun, Drive My Car, Here, There, And Everywhere, I'm Looking Through You, Glass Onion, Across The Universe, Tomorrow Never Knows. All Together Now they fulfill the twelve Homo requirement, so that The Last Supper may be painted by Leonardo DaVinci.
Bernie leans over the table to make eye contact with Ulilbitch. She returns his gaze with a warm smile and a hello. He then eyes Niggahonky who glances back expressionless, but not unpleasantly. Jesus introduces them, "Uncle Bernie, dis here’s Niggahonky, an’ his niece Yo-lilbitch." They nod at each other. "An’ dat’s Hervé."
Bernie pays no mind to Hervé, as his perceptive mind is at work deducing the chemistry between Niggahonky and Ulilbitch. Hervé can see Bernie’s mind at work. He sees that Bernie has perceived something different about them, not that they are non-physical entities housed in human form, but something not quite right. Hervé is once again impressed by the intuitive powers of humanity, the ability to observe a number of subtle details, combine them, and know that together they equal a finite number of possibilities. Hervé knows that Bernie would have made an excellent scientist or detective, if he were born in another millennium, and is entertained once again watching evolution at work on Jesus’ uncle.
"So, You finally decided to drop in on humanity! What made You break Your non-intervention clause?" Niggahonky asks.
Hervé draws a deep and thoughtful breath. In a voice that squeaks like a hinge, "After waiting for 4 1/2 billion years watching one life form after another evolve, many into extinction, I’ve decided that a nuclear holocaust is a pathetic demise."
It jumps up on the table pointing toward the sky, "DUH WARHEAD! DUH WARHEAD!"
No one thinks that’s funny, so Hervé sits back down and continues. "Not that it surprises Me, as humans couldn’t seem to get past visiting Hell upon each other. They must’ve learned that from my feminine side, their Mother. Women were more vindictive and devious than men."
Hervé pauses as It normally would at this moment to take a bong hit. Muscle memory guides Its hands into position, but there is no bong to hit.
"I grew so disgusted with this particular ending, that I decided intervention was in order. Let us convene at The Atomic Café over some carrot vapors. Maybe Ulilbitch will sprout some bunny whiskers on her upper lip. We’ll observe how strange humanity becomes after they realize that Hey-Zeus is a goat-mounting pothead." The Creator smiles, Its head barely clears the edge of the table.
Jesus say, "I don’ mount goze."
"…I know," croaks Hervé, "Ah’m jus messin wit Yo mine."
"Ya know Hervé, I thaw bout kickin Yo ass on account a dih-man. But aftuh seein Yo public display o’ sel’ ‘fection, which I cain’t seem tuh eraze from mah mine’s eye, I knew it was luduhcriss. I spose all deez imbeciles You created was inebiddable."
"Correction: I didn’t create them, they evolved. Nevertheless, please, go on."
"You awright Hervé, Ah forgive Ya."
"I knew You would. That’s Your legacy Jeez… I mean, Hey-Zeus."
Ejaculates the Creator, "Ulilbitch, now that you're acquainted with humanity, do you think Marvin Gaye’s 'Sexual Healing' will prevail over Guns N’ Roses’ 'Appetite for Destruction'?"
"I’m optimistic. I’m going with Marvin Gaye. I think Homos can learn to 'Come Together'. It's been great getting to know Hey-Zeus. I'm grateful to Niggahonky for bringing me to Earth. And, I do love kangaroos."
"Niggahonky?" inquires Hervé. Its friend's answer may prove rather winded judging by the pregnant pause.
He draws a breath, "Guns N’ Roses is up by one in this World Series."
Jesus pulls on the tassle clicking His halo on and off, off and on.
Niggahonky continues, "It's a pity to witness the carnage of a species plagued by mental illness. They blamed
You for The Ten Commandments, in which You tried to limit their freedoms: Thou Shall Not
Kill. You allegedly wrote it in the 13th century BC, in stone, then gave it to Moses
to get the word out. You think someone vandalized the tablet?
Thou Shall No
They killed everything. Nothing was safe on their planet, hee hee: whales, elephants, rhinos, birds, bees, goats, trees, each other. They never stopped killing. Everyday. Everywhere."
Everyone looks toward Hervé, Who nods wearily and says, "Meshuggeneh."
"They ate popcorn while watching Jerries being beaten, raped, dismembered, or blown into body chunks with red gravy."
As if the preacher is leading the flock in call and response, altogether they chant in unison, "Meshuggeneh." For Hervé, the word indicates Its exasperation over how batshit Homo sapiens turned out to be. For the others, it's fun to say.
"To feed the voracious Homo eating machine, slaughterhouses and fisheries gutted and bled out living creatures by the millions."
"The news media recapped the days events with stories of terrorism, mass shootings, domestic violence, gang violence."
"Their kids trained on killing simulators called video games."
"They had hundreds of words associated with killing: Lynching shooting knifing slaying Offing burning bombing preying Stoning drugging beating razing Suffocating drowning hazing."
Thinking Niggahonky's finished, they look at each other and at the feast set out before them. Then he starts again, "Crucifixion execution Retribution electrocution Extermination decimation Annihilation obliteration."
And again, "Matricide patricide Double murder homicide Pesticide herbicide Killing whales was ceticide. (pause for a breath) I think it’s gonna to take more than one intervention… Meatloaf’s 'Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad'? Not likely! I'm guessing, Chicago's '25 or 6 to 4'."
John Lennon looks perplexed, mostly because he has no idea why or how The Beatles got there. He knows Marvin Gaye, but not the song “Sexual Healing”. He imagines Meatloaf is not unlike his Aunt Mimi’s burnt shepherds pie. Meshuggeneh has now found it's way into his head and may end up in a Beatles song. He rises, goes around the table and drops to his knees opposite Hervé feigning reverence in this strange play in which a little man is God and a soul brother is Jesus and everybody’s seated on the same side of the table. He’s had stranger psychedelic excursions in the 1960s.
Hervé, enjoying the interaction with the iconic 20th century musician squawks, "Remain on your knees knave, that I shall let your head remain affixed to its stem."
Ringo followed by Paul and George join Lennon prostrating themselves at Its feet.
Hervé again, "How ‘bout a song boys? May I suggest Nowhere Man?"
Without hesitation they stand and harmonize: "He’s a real nowhere man, Sitting in his nowhere land, Making all his nowhere plans, For nobody…"
The others, including Maurice and Hattie-May, bob their heads, impressed with the harmonious baritones and tenor of the four lads singing a cappella. When they finish, Niggahonky and Ulilbitch run around the table shrieking Beatle maniacs, the others merely rattle their jangly bone-matter adornments. The Fab Four bow and return to their seats.
"Maurice, would you care to lead us in grace?" suggests Hervé.
Without hesitation comes Maurice’s succinct reply, "No thanks."
They all tear into the spit roasted rodents, sucking the bones, devouring their portions without a word of conversation. All except Hervé, Who chooses not to partake of the flesh, sitting quietly in meditation with eyes closed. Ulilbitch and Niggahonky practice eating like farm animals, like Jesus. Lennon looks at his mates with great mirth. Although he has no idea who these people are, he decides to follow their lead attacking his plate like an animal.
"Where you be fruh?" Niggahonky is startled by Bernie leaning over the table and clearly trying to deduce some greater meaning. Niggahonky swallows then ejaculates, "Are you related to Hey-Zeus?!" He’s finally grown weary of the trip and is ready to abandon this tiresome body. He pre-empts the usual Homo social intercourse by summarizing and resolving Bernie’s questions:
"Yes, she’s my niece. Yes, we’ve had relations. Yes, it’s immoral. What else do you want to know, Bernie?"
"Why you have sex wit yo’ niece, Niggahonky? Why you have sex wit yo’ niece? Uttuh women ain’ good enough? Why you have sex wit yo’ niece? Niece, Niggahonky. Why you... (Niggahonky decides that if Bernie persists he will end the conversation physically) have sex wit Yo-lilbitch?"
Everyone remains quiet at the long table thinking, Dang! Nigga has sex wit his niece, or Golly! What a strange man to play with Gwyneth... his niece's pee pee. The Beatles can be heard muddling, "A niece loo’ lah that bet it’s all he could do to keep ‘is Shoemaker Levied."
Perhaps it's human aggravation, or perhaps it's sleep deprivation, but in just seconds Bernie succeeds at asking his needling question once too often, thus satisfying Niggahonky’s silent ultimatum, "Niece, Niggahonky."
Bernie’s mouth and throat close on a partially eaten rodent leg off Ulilbitch’s plate as quail eggs crack in succession Bu Ta-Tat and ooze on his bald spot. He begins to cough and choke reaching for his mouth then scalp. Both Hervé and Ulilbitch know what Niggahonky did. While they’re visiting Earth this time, Hervé’s satisfied to let any physical intervention that occurs disrupt the natural order.
Niggahonky pulls from his tunic not three, but twelve plastic wrapped fortune cookies. He knows he grabbed only what was on Wong’s tray, that it wasn’t a dozen, but here they are. The Universe has provided, so everyone gets a cookie. He explains, "These are fortune cookies. You peel off the plastic, then break it open, like this. Then you read the fortune written on the slip of paper."
"What does yours say, Hattie May?" Niggahonky asks.
"Somebody haftuh read it fo me."
Ulilbitch reads aloud, "That wasn’t chicken." Niggahonky smiles. No one else gets it.
"What does yours say, Ulilbitch?"
"Rook up! Beho'd Universe. Rook down! You need pedicure. Cawr 8675 309. Ask for Jenny."
"How ‘bout you, Hey-Zeus?"
"'Do not berieve smerr in restroom. We not kirr crient since open new rocation.' (pause) Ah don’t unnuh-tan."
Maurice, Luther, and Bernie hand their slips to Ulilbitch.
"Maurice’s says, 'You will be hungry again in one hour.'"
"Luther’s says, 'Next time you come without goat. We show you good time. Ask for Pat.'"
"And Bernie, 'Confucius say: Rash go away when stop scratching, Itch go away when punch self in eye.'"
Godallahbuddazeus slides Its slip over to Ulilbitch. She reads, "If Shorty break wind, brace for typhoon." Hervé smiles allknowingly.
Elbows propped on the table, Niggahonky silent chuckles behind his inward facing knuckles. His smile fades as he reads his slip. Ulilbitch prompts, "What does yours say, Unc?" He reads, "Your offspring will be Cyclopian."
The Beatles read theirs.
Ringo prompts, "All right lads. George?"
"The Stones are bett-uh."
"Mine says, 'I am the egg fu yung, I am the egg fu yung, I am the poo poo plat-tuh.' Might be a song in that. Sir Paul?"
"I rather don’t understand mine, it says, 'Money can’t buy love, but a prenuptial can prevent reflux.'"
Having enjoyed the show, Lennon shrugs his shoulders, "Mine has only one word...