In honor of Monty’s sober meditation on God and the universe, I thought I’d lighten the mood a bit and describe a very odd dream I had about just that topic.
The dream starred none other than Jesus himself. I have odd dreams in general, so if a dream is odd to me then it is very odd indeed. I dreamed that Jesus kept jumping in my shit and making me feel guilty. Now, I know that Jesus is generally telling people to be kind to each other and to accept suffering with good humor and grace. But he was being such a dick about it.
I can’t remember every detail with clarity, but the dream generally followed a specific pattern. I would complain about some minor inconvenience, and then Jesus would show up to remind me that he died pretty gruesomely on my behalf, and that it would be a good idea for me to stop being a baby and shut the fuck up.
Like, here’s an example. I was in line at the DMV and they had forgotten my appointment. Naturally, I complained. Not only would I have to wait an hour in an uncomfortable plastic chair likely to injure my spine and make the left side of my body go numb, but the only reading material available would be a tattered copy of Woman’s Day from March, 1993. And I already HAVE Phylicia Rashad’s recipe for Cherries Jubilee! Anyway, as soon as I complained that the DMV forgot my appointment, out pops Jesus from behind a silk ficus like some kind of toga-wearing ninja. He comes up to me and holds out his bloody hands and says “I’m Jesus Christ.” That’s all he said, but his tone said a lot more. “I’m Jesus Christ. I got nailed to a goddamn (sorry, Dad!) piece of wood and had a sticker bush shoved on my head. I think you can sit in that chair for an hour without crying like a little bitch. Oh, and some tool jammed his sword through my ribs, too. I always forget that part. So yeah, long story short, suck it up.”
I don’t remember the complete details of the other scenarios, but they all went pretty much the same. Like the one in the snack aisle at the supermarket. “Dammit, they’re always out of Nacho Cheese Doritos. I hate Cool Ranch!” (Bags of salty snacks part, revealing a bearded face) “I’m Jesus Christ.”
“FUCK, dude. Can’t you wear a bell or something?”
I try to be a good person! Really, I do. But the DMV sucks and Cool Ranch Doritos are gross. These things aren’t my fault. Please stop haunting me, Mr. Jesus sir. Thank you.
jesus
(okay, I am done now)
http://i.imgur.com/Lhedq.png
http://i1.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/original/000/021/337/1249571207358.jpg
http://1mut.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/03/Oh-Jesus-meme-collection-1mut.com-6.jpg
These are awesome.
/Tomb flies open…
On a related note, I just had a fucked up dream myself. This is a real dream that I just woke up from. Somehow I broke the big toe on my right foot, a distal fracture, one of the realistic details. I visit the foot doctor and it turns out to be PK.
Where the fuck did this come from?
Anyway he keeps delaying the surgery repeatedly until the toe finally just kinda healed on its own.
Weird.
Only in dreamland.
I am not surprised that PK kept putting off the surgery. He only thought he thought it was needed.
The biggest takeaway from this is the fact that you don’t like Cool Ranch Doritos. What kind of devil-spawned monster are you?
This may be the Girl Scout Cookie Wars all over again!
Ranch as a flavor is just foul in any form. There, I said it. #CondFlaWa
Upon recommendation from Trevor, I just tried ketchup-flavored potato chips. I did not not like them.
Ketchup flavored potato chips are disgusting. So are hot dog flavored potato chips, which we have in Australia. They just taste like ketchup and mustard. We have lemon thyme chicken potato chips though, which are amazing. They’re like the popcorn flavored Jelly Belly beans, in that you keep eating them because you can’t believe how much they taste like the thing they’re supposed to taste like.
Maybe I should do a rundown of Australian snack foods.
@WhyEaglesWhy
I’ve had a hankering for makering some lamingtons lately. I’m going to have to do that.
However, if you want to send me some National Confectionary Company gummi treats, I’ll gladly–BRING ON THE TRUMPETS!
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AK4d9FNohTU
Ranch is for people who can’t handle blue cheese.
Down! Down! Down with ranch!
I would enjoy hearing about Aussie snack foods.
I’m thinking about adding a new segment where I review various restaurants in L.A.
Father’s Office anyone?
I never made it to Father’s Office during my time in LA, but I’d love to read your hot takes on hot food.
Phylicia Rashad’s Cherries Jubilee is the SHIT! But Theo always comes over to mooch some. True fact.
I thoroughly enjoyed this. I won’t ever be able to shop the chips section at the grocery store without expecting the chips to fly open.
Nice job.
Hope all is going well down under mate.
Damn glad you’re aboard.
Makes me think of one of my favorite jokes.
So, this guy named Peter, a fat sack of crap water-carrying stooge posing as a sportswriter, one day dies, and his everlasting soul ends up sinking down to Hell (because he’s the worst). Well, Peter wakes up in Hell, in a three-star hotel room. He knows it’s Hell because, well, you know those sorts of things when you die, but he finds the room to be adequate, but not really posh–the bed’s fine, the sheets smell clean, the coffee isn’t instant, and the water stays warm for long enough. He opens the blinds to see a decent little town around him, and as he looks down, he sees Mephistopheles himself pulling up in a sensible mid-sized sedan, waving Peter down in a friendly way. “When in Rome!” thinks Peter, and heads on down.
Good ol’ Beelzebub takes him for a ride, showing him the little place they’ve built in an underworld. There’s a tw0-screen movie theater, some pretty good local brew pubs, a vintage bowling alley, some delightful parks, a few mom-and-pop stores with Hell-themed knick-knacks, some used book stores, and, wouldn’t you know it, some natural hot springs.
“Now,” The Devil says, motioning around him, “We’re proud of what we’ve made here, even if we realize it’s not exactly Heaven. Sure, they have the massive multiplexes with living-room style theaters, all the new Broadway shows, fuggin’ ‘Gastropubs’ and ‘Molecular Gastronomy’ and even one of those all-trampoline parkour gyms or whatever, but I really think we’ve transformed this place into something respectable.”
At that moment, they crest a hill, and off in the distance, Peter sees an apocalyptic hellscape with a lake of molten lava and a giant dark thunderstorm cloud raining blood and bodies down into the lake, which is filled with so many souls wailing and gnashing their teeth and crying out in eternal pain. Peter turns white as a sheet, which Satan notices.
“Oh, that,” He says nonchalantly, “Don’t worry about that. It’s only there for the Catholics. They insisted on it.”
I kept waiting for PK to complain! When are we gonna get to the fireworks factory??
Joke’s on you. The Devil gets so tired of Peter that he “makes a deal” with him to send him back to earth to torture us with his writing in hopes that we’ll all repent our awful ways.
I have just seen a vision of hell that I cannot unsee. It is the hell of being stuck on Earth with Peter King after the rapture when the only building with functioning electricity and plumbing is a Starbucks, the TV remote has been stuck on ESPN, and I’m subjected to ten things PK thinks he thinks about what Brett Favre is doing in heaven.
Truly, a dystopian future awaits.
As a lapsed Catholic this is fantastic.
I’ll stick with your PK theme.
On his way to dine at an Applebees in Wichita, Peter King was involved in a crash and killed instantly. He awoke in heaven at a reservation desk. “Mr King, we’re so glad you could join us. You must be weary so let me get you right over to your new suite.” They strolled across the lobby and Peter tried to take it all in.
As he was let into his room, his jaw dropped. Gorgeous, obviously enthusiastic women were lying in various positions around the room. In each of their hands, a cold sweating bottle of Allagash White, not yet opened. “This is incredible! I just can’t believe this is heaven” Petey mumbled. “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” said his escort. “What ever gave you the idea this was heaven? You see all those frosty cold bottles? They all have holes in the bottom. You see all those women? They don’t.”
That’s awesome!