“What’s this? It says ACAB, sir. No, no, no, it’s not what you think; it means ‘Anti-Cop Assault Brigade.’ I ain’t one to make pronouncements about a man’s character, sir, only about whether I hate him or not.”6 days ago
A black shadow eclipsed Jesus’ face like a pall and a deep rumble carried on a gray smoke: “you need a cigarette?”
Christ grimaced and said, “I only smoke when I’m drinking.” A hairy hand with four chubby fingers extended a bottle to the savior of man. Christ clasped the amber bottle with his own slender fingers. Jesus drank. He extended his frail arms and made two of his fingers into a V; he said, “slip it in, baby.” Pontius Pilate pulled the crumpled box from his pocket and his voice rumbled again, “just let me whip it out, first.” He slipped the cigarette between Christ’s fingers and offered him a light. Christ smiled and said, “no bother. I am the light” and like some wonderful form of street magic, the tip of the cigarette glowed. Christ inhaled deeply and holding it there for a few seconds, he exhaled a wispy, winged dragon. Pontius Pilate smiled and said, “then I guess you must drink a lot.”
Pilate leaned back in his chair and he asked his charge, “is it true what I’ve heard? That you’re a fabulous lover of women, Mr. Christ?” Christ smiled and answered him: “I love all of God’s children.” Pilate meditated on this statement for a moment and smiling, he let his rejoinder fall from his crooked mouth: “so we’ve heard, Mr. Christ. That’s why you were chased from that school, correct.”
Jesus looked out the window and he shrugged. He told Pilate, “you can’t believe everything you hear.” Pilate leaned into Jesus’ face now and he said, “but can I believe what I see?” Christ answered, “and what do you see?”
Standing up from his chair, Pilate began pacing. “Mr. Christ, I see a drunkard,” he said, pointing his finger into the air. “I see a philanderer,” he said pointing higher into the air. “I see a thief,” he said, his finger now a little higher. “And worst of all, I see a pedophile,” he finished, his finger pointing at its highest mark yet— practically straight up, almost as to accuse God, himself, for letting loose this abomination in his beloved little town.
Christ shrugged and dejectedly he said, “let he who is without sin, cast the first stone.” Then his eyes flashed and the now simpering Christ added, “and let he who has the stones cast out the sinner .” He bowed his head to Pilate, ceding the turn.
Pilate shook his head; “Mr. Christ, what are we to do with you?”
Jesus smiled; “Christ is actually a title. Not a name.”
“And what does it mean,” Pilate inquired.
“And what were you anointed to do,” asked Pilate.
“To save mankind,” Jesus replied.
Pilate slammed his fist into the wall and laughed. He laughed for a minute straight and when he was done, he asked Jesus: “mighty fine job you’ve done there.”
Jesus smiled and he said, “well, I reckon that anyone who looks at me and sees even the slightest bit of resemblance might aim to make a 180 degree turn.”
Thoughtfully Pilate conceded that point. But, The Time was nigh and so he slipped on his black mask and he put the rope around Jesus’ hands. He led him out into the town square and through the masses of angry townfolk. He walked Jesus up to the stake and he anointed him with a little bit of gasoline. Pilate walked down from the platform and he reached for the torch, but Christ called out to him: “No, Pilate. That won’t be necessary.”
Pilate smiled at Jesus and Jesus smiled back and barely audible, practically mouthing it, he said, “I am the light.” And his body erupted into flames.
On a bright afternoon the white, fluffy clouds lazily flew by and the sun smiled down on His creation. The sound of children’s laughter filled the warm, dry air and fifteen feet of verdant field separated three kids, their pizza, and a talking bush. The bush boomed, “render unto Caesar’s what is Caesar’s!” The children all spat out their pizzas in unision, like they had seen so many times on their Saturday morning cartoons. “Wh-what was that,” mumbled the chubbiest kid. The bush boomed once again, repeating itself. “I don’t understand,” warbled the skinniest kid, his eyes nearly in tears. And in that instance, the bush burst into flames and the startled, wide-eyed little kids watched a half-naked man emerge from the supposedly talking bush’s ashes. This revelation caused them no relief.
“And render unto me your Little Caesars,” said Christ, chuckling at his own wit. The three children turned away, their cheeks stuffed full of pizza once more and they shook their heads. The chubbiest of the three said, “get your own damned pizza.” The skinniest of the three, with a renewed sense of courage, added, “yeah, you slobbering nut.” Christ wiped the saliva from his face and asked the middle one, “and what do you have to say?” The middle boy, perhaps moved by the sad sight of this drooling man, handed his hot, fresh slice of pie over to Jesus without a word. Jesus laughed. Bent at the knees now, his mouth full of a mash made from sauce, cheese, and pepperoni, he asked the boy, “what’s your name,” with spittle and flecks of pizza mash spraying the kid’s face. The kid remained silent; however, the other two answered for him: “That’s Tony. He’s simple and you just ate his lunch, mister.” The three boys dashed away, leaving Jesus to his half-eaten slice.
Christ contemplated this action, his divine brain crunching it into something resembling a parable. As he went to speak aloud for anyone and the birds to hear, he stared down and saw that his new sandals were now caked in mud from the puddle he had absent-mindedly wandered into. His focus now diverted, the story was lost in the wind. Jesus sighed.
He moved out of the puddle, muttering, “shoulda just walked on it,” and grabbing a nearby stick, he stood on one leg and attempted to beat the mud off of his sandal. This tasked proved too physically demanding for him and so he fell backward into the puddle.
Sitting with his ass in the mud, Christ leaned back, catching and bracing himself with his long, frail arms. “So there I was in the bar,” he began, like so many of his famous parables began, “and then she walked in.” Christ then whistled and he looked at the corner, where a curious group of balding, middle-aged men had assembled. “She was a beut,” he said, smiling, staring up in the sky, like maybe the clouds resembled her a little bit. The cloth hanging over his crotch grew more taut and he said, “you know what I mean?” He lifted his arms and with his mud covered hands, he began to trace the woman’s curves in the sky, but before his fingers began their double-arch maneuver where the neck turns into the bosom, he collapsed backward into the mud. Christ laughed and so did the assembled men. “Someone get me a donkey,” he hollered out, “I ain’t driving home tonight!”1 week ago
I never got to meet my real mother, sadly. A lot of you guys are lucky. My real mother- real parents, really- visited this planet 28 years ago and like some kind of intergalactic cuckoo, they abducted my mother, removed the child growing inside of her and replaced it with me.
Naturally, gestating in the womb of a human has made me take on human-like features, but I am not truly human. That’s part of the trick: it’s so the fooled animal won’t eat any strange looking young. It’s so I blend in outwardly, while inside, my alien parts plot the destruction of another poor family. You could at least give nature some credit that, while this entire process may be grotesque and unfair, at least I didn’t consume the family set to raise me the second I popped out. There are some species that do that, you know. It happened to one of my aunts, in fact— I mean a human aunt, obviously.
But on this mother’s day, I look up into the sky and I know that somewhere you’re out there, mom, just cruising through the universe.1 week ago
Didn’t I wear this yesterday? Hm. Yeah, maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t make it home last night. When you were sleeping in a bed, maybe I wasn’t. Maybe I slept in an alley with a bunch of dogs, huh, maybe I did that. Maybe I didn’t make home this afternoon either. Maybe I got dragged into an argumebt- that’s an owed altercation, by the way- between my street dogs at the playground. Maybe I only got one type of shirt anyway. Maybe I got only one shirt at all!
Hey, where are you going? I wanna by one of those tasty pops you’re selling.
Five dollars? You’d take that shirt right off my back! Get the fuck the out of here! Go! Before I let the dogs on you!
This is a Gaslight Anthem song broken up with a Bon Iver cover. The original of this song (sans Bon Iver) gave me chills once. I’ve been reluctant to share this, because I know it won’t hit you. I don’t even listen to Bon Iver, but this version of the song kills me.
Sometimes I want to describe what music means to me since I’ve started drinking. Since I was 19 and on and on and on. I want to describe the the globe in my hand that’s resting in my interlocked fingers and I want to describe how it feels to take in the air and let it out; and when I let it out, it’s the same as my brothers and sisters next to me. Because I’m singing along. And it doesn’t kill me at first. That’s the thing. When it first hits me, I could love anyone and anything. That globe dissolves into everything I want it to be.
And here, during the Bon Iver breakdown, Brian Fallon is the most attractive man I’ve seen ever. Since I’ve been drinking (that’s, oh, a decade now), I’m susceptible.
And it makes me sick to keep music from you, because I know you won’t care. It makes me claw at the inside of my chest, to hold it back. But I know you won’t care. You won’t care, because you have different sensibilities. You aren’t people I’ve known or people I will know. And against my assumptions, I don’t care. So I dedicate this song to you, whether you like it or not.1 week ago
So on the walk home I got to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. I pissed on the law building. Not to sound like a Garcia Marquez novel, but it was a mighty stream. I actually started to get a little worried as it encroached on my shoe area.
But, I survived! And I think the law-types have given me the outlet I need to tell you why I hate go-getters. You see, there was this Mother Jones article about public defense, the time they got for cases, the funding, etc. Yeah, it’s an MJ article, but in the comments, some public defenders were *ahem* defending their offices.
“That’s who I want on my side!”
No, I want someone with time and money. I don’t care about enthusiasm. Well, to a point. Enthusiasm wanes. Money is…forever. Well, it’s worth more than enthusiasm.
And now I’ve finally got something concrete to lay against the A-Types, the go-getters. You are failures not because you personally fail, but because when the times comes to demand more, you tell everybody “I can do more with less.”
You don’t fail yourself. You fail everybody who depends on you.
And they will hold you up as an example why more isn’t needed.
I’ve bitten my lip about this a lot in the past. I’ve wanted to say something, but I’ve abstained. I’m well aware how it looks to point your finger into the chest of a go-getter. Go-getters are poison. Don’t tell me about what you can do. Tell me about what you need. Don’t tell me about the pay-cut you’re taking. Tell me about what the pay you’re getting actually gets someone.1 week ago