Sunday, June 15, 2008
Jesus would upstage all of our bitch asses
There is this crackhead couple that lives in my building, and they both drive me insane. The dude--who perpetually has a gigantic, purulent, oozing sore on his lip that I'm convinced is a herpes lesion amalgamated with a festering pipe burn--is always trying to tell me how to handle my dogs, and the chick is always hitting on me. Both are missing many teeth, smell, lack basic hygiene skills, act sketchy, and are basically what you would expect to see if you looked up "crackhead" in the dictionary. They are always trying to talk to me, and while I know I should tell them "fuck off, crackies," I simultaneously realize that they are pathetic crack addicts and I should have a more Christian attitude towards them.
However, the more I think about it, the more the prospect of having a more Christian attitude pisses me off. Surely if I asked myself "what would Jesus do?" when faced with a babbling, dentally challenged woman bobbing up and down like a fighting cock on meth speaking nonsense about the legendary beauty of my blonde hair (a favorite topic of hers is adulation of my Helen of Troy-esque looks, which just goes to show you how fucking delusional she is), he would not tell her to fuck off. The Gospels are replete with tales of Jesus befriending lepers, whores, tax collectors, the possessed (AKA schizophrenic and otherwise mentally ill), the blind, the deaf, the dumb, the lame (and by that I mean crippled), and anyone else who was an outcast way back when in Caesar Augustus-ruled Israel. Supposedly I'm to be nice and accepting to the crackheads, and invite them back to my apartment for a grilled cheese and a beer.
However, "what would Jesus do?" is a pretty fucking unfair standard. Unlike me, Jesus had the ability to take care of the whole crack addiction problem with a snap of his damn divine fingers. He didn't have to worry about being robbed blind by the crackheads he invited home for a number of reasons. All he had to do was order that pesky lust for crack into a herd of pigs, send them trotting off a cliff, and problem solved (although I bet the pig farmer didn't much appreciate seeing his annual income run squealing into the Sea of Galilee). Since he could instantly cure almost any socially repugnant malady, it was no big deal for Jesus to clean their asses up and invite the freshly cured and probably extremely grateful crackheads to wherever.
Furthermore, Jesus didn't have to worry about being a gracious host once those recently Christianized crackheads came over, since he could also conveniently turn water into wine and bust loaves and fishes out of his ass whenever he felt like it. Even if the crackheads hadn't completely gotten rid of their old habits of stealing and freeloading, Jesus could basically replace anything they ran off with because he had son-of-God skills. In fact, I went to Catholic school for twelve years and I've done a lot of Bible-reading in my time, and I can't think of a single Gospel account in which Jesus buys ANYTHING. Every time he needed something, whether it was more hooch at a rowdy Canaan wedding, snacks for the faithful at the OG Billy Graham crusade, or a convenient storm to prove his awesomeness to his boys when they doubted him, Jesus could make it happen. I can't make that happen efficiently enough to allow crackheads into my house.
Actually, Jesus didn't have to worry about crackheads fucking up his house since he DIDN'T SEEM TO HAVE ONE. No matter what you saw in The Passion of the Caviezel (including the part where Jesus supposedly invented the modern table), the Gospels don't say a damn word about where the hell Jesus actually hung his sandals. From what Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John tell me, Jesus was a damn homeless wandering hippie. So he could bring home all the strays and degenerates he wanted, because it was SOMEONE ELSE'S HOUSE! What the hell is it to Jesus and his non-materialistic ass if the crackheads of 33 A.D.-era Galilee trash Lazarus and his sisters' house? It's not his crap they're going to jack or destroy. It's not his hard-earned fishing money that they're going to burn through like a pound of schwag at a Phish concert. And if anyone complains about that, Jesus will just be like, "Why don't you go ask the fucking Jewish elders what I do when people get uptight about money? Those Pharisees are still pissed that I cost them like ten trillion shekels over at the temple/public marketplace when I got my righteous outrage on! And by the way, how dope was that when I ran around overturning tables? You wish you were born from a virgin womb, bitches." In other words, Jesus is an ungrateful hippie who feels entitled to do everything just because he CHOSE to be poor. For that matter, he chose to be crucified just to make a point. That whole "why have you forsaken me?" nonsense on the cross was just for dramatic effect. TRUST! Attention whore.
Now I'm probably going to hell for all this shit-talking about Jesus, and I'd like to say for the record that Jesus is still my Lord and Savior and all that. Judging by the company he kept, he clearly loved the skanky types, and if he could cure leprosy, I bet he could cure a mean case of the herp too (and I'm not one of the 26% of New Yorkers who have herpes, but that doesn't mean I couldn't be someday). Plus, he died for my sins, and I've done a lot of sinning, so I appreciate his efforts to put me in one of the nice Bosch paintings as opposed to the ones where random demons are shitting out souls who hate on JC. However, suggesting that I ask myself what the fuck Jesus would do with the crackheads is irrelevant, because that fucking granola-ass hippie would probably work some divine magic that I simply cannot do. I'd love to have the whole city over and be like, "who wants chips and salsa?" and pass around plates of the same that never exhausted themselves. I'd love to run around singlehandedly curing infectious diseases with mud and some Messianic hocus-pocus. I'd love to respond to capital punishment by springing out of my tomb after three days and be like, "HA, suckers! I bet you wish you asked Pontius Pilate to crucify Barabbas! Kiss my resurrected ass!" However, I have to avoid getting killed because I can't just sleep it off and pop out of my shroud and ascend to heaven amidst a big show for my followers. Even if I could rise from the dead, I can't send the average Razzyphile's drunken stupor into a herd of pigs, so my followers would probably be too hung over to show up at my tomb before dawn after a couple days with herbs and spices or whatever.
In other words, quit asking me to apply what Jesus would do to my life, because I can't do 99% of it. Therefore, the next time one of those crackheads tells me I'm beautiful or they like my dogs, I'm going to do what Razzy would do. Specifically, I'm going to tell them, "Look, I hate you both! NEVER talk to me again!"
Labels: Dear God, drugs, NYC, Razzification
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