Author's Note: This column was composed on the morning of the 23rd and was scheduled to be my Monday offering but, you know, Trump.
It is the morning of the scheduled Apocalypse, or possibly the Rapture, as I sit here, and so far, the doom planet Niburu has not appeared beyond the clouds to smush our earthly home to bits.
Nor has anyone been Raptured, as far as I know, but it is only 8 AM and I have not yet left the house. Possibly in other dwellings someone has awakened and found their spouse or children gone, slurped up into Heaven by the siphon-tube of God’s mercy, while they are left to endure the Final Days in sinful solitude, but not here. That’s no surprise, really—I am a rotten old bastard. I am even wearing my “Marinated in Sin” t-shirt just to make sure some archangel doesn’t come by and mistakenly swoop me into eternal bliss.
And my girl is not going anywhere, because she’s Jewish.
So I can’t be sure about the Rapture, but I suspect strongly it is not going on. Why? Because my personal religious icon, Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus, has not given me a sign that the End Times are upon us.
I came into possession of DSCJ by divine Providence—my son saw Him in a 99 Cent Only store in Vista, California, and was inspired to fork across a dollar of my money to make a present of Him to me. The icon currently rests on a shelf in my library, next to a bottle of rubber cement that I have never opened and a few mismatched cufflinks that I never use, watching over me like the holy hunk of plastic that He is.
And yes, I do have books in my library, but like any object in my home that offers a flat surface or two, its shelves are used for general storage as well as literature.
So far, DSCJ has not given me any sign that the last moments of our earthly abode are upon us. No tears have appeared to run down His tiny, olive-colored face. No stigmata are dripping blood from his hands, although He is wearing little weight-lifter gloves, so I guess they could be concealing a discharge from His wounds.
You heard me when I said “olive-colored.” Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus is not a Northern European, although He does have distinctly Caucasian hair. This compromise in His ancestry was no doubt due to the wisdom of His makers, although giving Him the correct skin tone was the only gesture they made to historical accuracy. Camouflage had not been invented when He walked the streets of Jerusalem, and neither had pants.
DSCJ wears knee pads, making those long sessions of prayer to His Father more comfortable, I expect. He carries a grenade and a canteen on His belt. The canteen can be filled with either water or wine, depending on His whim.
Some theologians tell me I shouldn’t depend on this icon to give me forewarning of the Apocalypse. DSCJ is too geared up and butch to start weeping like some wussie statue of the Virgin, End of Time or not, they say, and if I want to see some blood flowing, I’d better get me one of those relic chalices that have been fondled like they were altar boys by the saints, and mysteriously fill themselves with red liquid on Holy Days and long weekends.
But I persevere in my faith. If the Rapture does indeed come upon us, I expect I’ll get a sign. Maybe on that appointed day, I’ll come into my office and see Him kneeling on those kneepads, and know the time of Final Tribulation is upon us.
If that happens, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, don’t cash in your IRA.
It is the morning of the scheduled Apocalypse, or possibly the Rapture, as I sit here, and so far, the doom planet Niburu has not appeared beyond the clouds to smush our earthly home to bits.
Nor has anyone been Raptured, as far as I know, but it is only 8 AM and I have not yet left the house. Possibly in other dwellings someone has awakened and found their spouse or children gone, slurped up into Heaven by the siphon-tube of God’s mercy, while they are left to endure the Final Days in sinful solitude, but not here. That’s no surprise, really—I am a rotten old bastard. I am even wearing my “Marinated in Sin” t-shirt just to make sure some archangel doesn’t come by and mistakenly swoop me into eternal bliss.
And my girl is not going anywhere, because she’s Jewish.
So I can’t be sure about the Rapture, but I suspect strongly it is not going on. Why? Because my personal religious icon, Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus, has not given me a sign that the End Times are upon us.
I came into possession of DSCJ by divine Providence—my son saw Him in a 99 Cent Only store in Vista, California, and was inspired to fork across a dollar of my money to make a present of Him to me. The icon currently rests on a shelf in my library, next to a bottle of rubber cement that I have never opened and a few mismatched cufflinks that I never use, watching over me like the holy hunk of plastic that He is.
And yes, I do have books in my library, but like any object in my home that offers a flat surface or two, its shelves are used for general storage as well as literature.
So far, DSCJ has not given me any sign that the last moments of our earthly abode are upon us. No tears have appeared to run down His tiny, olive-colored face. No stigmata are dripping blood from his hands, although He is wearing little weight-lifter gloves, so I guess they could be concealing a discharge from His wounds.
You heard me when I said “olive-colored.” Dollar Store Camouflage Jesus is not a Northern European, although He does have distinctly Caucasian hair. This compromise in His ancestry was no doubt due to the wisdom of His makers, although giving Him the correct skin tone was the only gesture they made to historical accuracy. Camouflage had not been invented when He walked the streets of Jerusalem, and neither had pants.
DSCJ wears knee pads, making those long sessions of prayer to His Father more comfortable, I expect. He carries a grenade and a canteen on His belt. The canteen can be filled with either water or wine, depending on His whim.
Some theologians tell me I shouldn’t depend on this icon to give me forewarning of the Apocalypse. DSCJ is too geared up and butch to start weeping like some wussie statue of the Virgin, End of Time or not, they say, and if I want to see some blood flowing, I’d better get me one of those relic chalices that have been fondled like they were altar boys by the saints, and mysteriously fill themselves with red liquid on Holy Days and long weekends.
But I persevere in my faith. If the Rapture does indeed come upon us, I expect I’ll get a sign. Maybe on that appointed day, I’ll come into my office and see Him kneeling on those kneepads, and know the time of Final Tribulation is upon us.
If that happens, I’ll let you know. In the meantime, don’t cash in your IRA.
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