Pop star turned Presidential candidate Kanye was chilling at home, looking at his shoes worth more than a reliable, late-model used car, and thinking how fine they would look under the Resolute Desk, when Jesus appeared to him.
“Do you have an appointment?” West asked.
“I’m Jesus,” Our Lord said tersely. “Check the halo.”
“I’m Yeezus,” Kanye replied. “Check the shoes.”
“Oh, Me, I knew this was going to be difficult. Kanye, this is about you running for President.”
“I accept Your help, My Lord, especially in getting my name on the ballot in all fifty states. There are some deadlines, apparently, that the greatest genius of this generation can’t be bothered with. If You would just inscribe my name on all of them divinely, and then, on Election Day, point it out to every voter with a glowing Finger from Heaven, I would probably win a few more votes. In return, I will let you play my music in eternity.”
“We don’t listen to your music in Heaven, Kanye. It’s one of the things that makes it Heaven. Don’t take it personally—there’s lots of musicians we don’t listen to in Heaven besides you. Huey Lewis, for example. Nickelback, natch. Justin Bieber. And any soul who even starts to so much as hum “The Joker” is cast into the fiery pit, where they have to listen to Ted Nugent for all eternity.”
“What kind of music do you play in Heaven, then, Jesus? And how can it be Heaven without my music. After all, who is more talented than me?”
“Well, Bach, for one. Beethoven. The classics are always good. I make the band play ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’ whenever I make an entrance into a party. But other tunes are cool. Miley Cyrus is one of my faves. Alanis Morissette. Warren Zevon.”
“Who’s Warren Zevon?”
“Werewolves of London, baby.” Jesus then rocks out and lip syncs the first few bars of WW of London. “But we’re getting off the subject. I want you to quit running for President and go back on your meds.”
“The white pills? I hate the white pills. They make me think I’m just a spoiled rich black guy who says cringey things like My greatest pain in life is that I will never be able to see myself live, who fulfills the fantasies of hundreds of millions of men whenever I do my wife doggie-style, and who will inevitably end up playing for years in some showroom in Vegas when I haven’t had a hit in a decade or two in order to pay off a lifetime of debt.”
“You got it, Kanye. Reality. In My wisdom, I made it to suck, and you have to live in it.”
“But being President?”
“Nope. America is not my favorite nation, but I've already given them a black President and a hoebag first lady. No need to combine the two."
“Do you have an appointment?” West asked.
“I’m Jesus,” Our Lord said tersely. “Check the halo.”
“I’m Yeezus,” Kanye replied. “Check the shoes.”
“Oh, Me, I knew this was going to be difficult. Kanye, this is about you running for President.”
“I accept Your help, My Lord, especially in getting my name on the ballot in all fifty states. There are some deadlines, apparently, that the greatest genius of this generation can’t be bothered with. If You would just inscribe my name on all of them divinely, and then, on Election Day, point it out to every voter with a glowing Finger from Heaven, I would probably win a few more votes. In return, I will let you play my music in eternity.”
“We don’t listen to your music in Heaven, Kanye. It’s one of the things that makes it Heaven. Don’t take it personally—there’s lots of musicians we don’t listen to in Heaven besides you. Huey Lewis, for example. Nickelback, natch. Justin Bieber. And any soul who even starts to so much as hum “The Joker” is cast into the fiery pit, where they have to listen to Ted Nugent for all eternity.”
“What kind of music do you play in Heaven, then, Jesus? And how can it be Heaven without my music. After all, who is more talented than me?”
“Well, Bach, for one. Beethoven. The classics are always good. I make the band play ‘Thus Spake Zarathustra’ whenever I make an entrance into a party. But other tunes are cool. Miley Cyrus is one of my faves. Alanis Morissette. Warren Zevon.”
“Who’s Warren Zevon?”
“Werewolves of London, baby.” Jesus then rocks out and lip syncs the first few bars of WW of London. “But we’re getting off the subject. I want you to quit running for President and go back on your meds.”
“The white pills? I hate the white pills. They make me think I’m just a spoiled rich black guy who says cringey things like My greatest pain in life is that I will never be able to see myself live, who fulfills the fantasies of hundreds of millions of men whenever I do my wife doggie-style, and who will inevitably end up playing for years in some showroom in Vegas when I haven’t had a hit in a decade or two in order to pay off a lifetime of debt.”
“You got it, Kanye. Reality. In My wisdom, I made it to suck, and you have to live in it.”
“But being President?”
“Nope. America is not my favorite nation, but I've already given them a black President and a hoebag first lady. No need to combine the two."
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