Maybe this was a result of BLM activist Shaun King’s call to topple statues of “white Jesus” as symbols of racial oppression. I was cool with this, since, even though I am white, statues of Jesus had had been omnipresent during my childhood, when, despite my European-Americaness, I was regularly oppressed by ruler-wielding nuns belonging to the Order of St. Theresa the Not Even Remotely Attractive Sadist.
Or maybe it was a result of the Cantaloupe Dope’s threats against statue-topplers, in which he claimed that people, most notably Shaun King, were threatening to yank down statues of the Savior in which he was depicted with Caucasian features. Intimidated by Trump’s threat to imprison anyone who toppled a statue for thirty years or so, his enemies decided to start small by toppling DSCJ, because He is only about seven inches tall, base included.
Ironically, Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus cannot be 100% percent confirmed as white. Although His features are Caucasian, his skin color can be described as a light caramel. His knife, automatic weapon and combat boots are the same as an American soldier of any race, patrolling the parched corners of the Middle East, drawing a bead on Muslim children and keeping a wary eye out for IEDs, set to suppress any threat to American freedoms with a withering burst of small-arms fire, even while holding the Dove of Peace in His hand.
My head spun when I saw Him lying there. While we have a couple menorahs lying around the house and a mezuzah on our doorway because my Significant Other is Jewish, DSCJ is the only reminder of my Catholic boyhood that I keep in our home. The only other representation of the Christ that means anything to me is a huge statue of Him on a peak above the toll road to Ensenada, which I reverently refer to as Great Big Fucking Jesus (GBFJ). A feeling of numinous joy always envelopes me at the sight of Great Big Fucking Jesus, because that means that I am halfway to that picturesque seaside town, brimming with cold, creamy cervezas, excellent restaurants, and abundant sportfishing opportunities.
How the angry mob got in my front door without waking me up remains a mystery, although it was a weekend night, and I am prone to spend those sampling craft brews. They even made it past my Chihuahua, Cujo, who ordinarily is whipped into a barking frenzy if the Amazon person so much as rustles a package on the doorstep. He’s getting old, though, and I might have slipped some CBD oil into his kibble for his arthritis.
Or maybe it was just an earthquake. It remains a divine mystery at this writing. I just propped Him upright again and went to make the coffee.