Easter... the other April Fool's Day

I've done a lot of stupid things in my life. Never prayed to a carpenter though.

"I've come to save the world! I'm the Son of God. God & Son Contractors, come to save the world. I'm pretty sure we can have this project done by... ummm... Easter I think."

But he didn't save the world, did he? And we know why. Cause he's a fuckin' carpenter. I can see him now, sawing a two-by-four in the hot Israeli sun, sneaking swigs of Budweiser while the crack of his ass peeks from under his Wranglers.

"Jesus, when you're through fiddlin' with that two-by-four, take this here piece a wood and tack it crossways-like to the other one, ya hear me boy?"

"They made Jesus build his own cross," some of the kids in Sunday school used to ejaculate. "Why would they make him build his own cross?" I know why. He was a fuckin' carpenter for crissakes. They wanted to see him actually finish a job.

And what did Jesus do while on Earth? Not much. He never got married. He never fathered a child (that he was aware of) and he never visited a major city, not even to get nails. Like Clinton, he never served in the military and he never made a scientific discovery or created a work of art. He never even wrote a book. He had young boys do that for him.

He did trash a church once. And he liked to speak in riddles. His voice, they tell me, sounded exactly like Christopher Walken's.

"Whosoever is lukewarm, I shall spew thee from my mouth," Jesus said. And then with a cock of his head he added, "Do you like my hair?"

Wait! Jesus could heal people. He could make the blind see, the lame walk, the deaf hear, the meat-eaters vegetarians.

Or so said the local press who suffered under the same deadline pressures and need for creative storylines as they do today.

Christianity's got the big hook, you know? "Believe in me or burn eternally in hell." That's compelling stuff like, "Fuck with me and you die." Christianity is the Mafia of all religions. It even gets the non-believer's attention.

Recently, a guest on Politically Incorrect -- I forget his name -- said he didn't mind Christmas as a national holiday, even though he's Jewish. He said it was understandable, since our country was built by good god-fearing Christians who came over on the Mayflower and brought their unwavering faith and some STDs to the New World.

Maybe he's right. Maybe we need to hearken back to our Christian roots. And while we're at it, let's bring back slavery. I think we could get the Yugoslavs and Arabs to bend to our will.

It's not that I don't believe Jesus exists. I've been to the laundromat. I can read the nametags. I just don't believe god's a carpenter.

"But it's like the musical question from that song," a friend told me. 'What if god were one of us? Just a slob like one of us? Just a stranger on the bus, tryin' to make his way home?'"

Musical answer: Then we're fucked.

(By the way, the lyrics to the above song are copyright 1997-1999 by someone other than Joan Osbourne.)

And what did Jesus say when he left? "I'll be back to finish the job. Got another bid on Jupiter I've got to look into. I'll be back."

EASTER ICONS!!!

Easter Eggs: This is your brain. This is your brain on Jesus. Now let's tie-dye it.

 

Ham: Nothing says, "I'm not Jewish," like a big plate of ham and a glass of milk.

 

Chocolate Bunnies: Got to have something to lure the kids in.

 

Howard Johnson's: Got to have something to lure the elderly in.

Do you remember how Central Texas Law Enforcement officers spent their Easter this year? Searching a farm for the remains of Madalyn O'Hair, the missing leader of the atheists.

Now that cracks me up.

The owner of the farm loved the media attention and kept posing for the cameras. I forget the farmer's name. Yasgar, I think.

"As a Christian, I think this is pretty ironic. Looking for a dead atheist on Easter."

Yeah. It's a little ironic. Me? I want more bang from my irony buck. I wanted the police to find what they thought were the rotting remains of O'Hair only to get a telegram from her Easter Sunday.

"The rock. Look under the rock."

LET'S STRING 'EM UP!!!

Unfortunately, I missed the big Easter ceremony in Austin. At the Baptist church on Koenig Road the pastor serves up a Living Crucifixion. He takes three volunteers, dresses them in diapers and ties them to sturdy crosses. The one with the longest hair gets to be Jesus. True believers swarm the church grounds and watch these guys freeze into the night. All the while, the pastor -- wielding a bullhorn -- bellows passages from the scriptures such as, "I'll be back. Trust me. I'll be back."

I attended the ceremony three years ago and one question plagued me: What in the fuck do the satanists do to top that?

Look. It's not like I'm sold on other religions, you know? The people who really kill me are those who believe in reincarnation. "In a past life, I lived in ancient Greece. All I remember is that I was on my stomach a lot."

Get over yourselves. We all plug into the same outlet. Claiming you were someone in a past life is like a microwave oven saying, "In a previous life, I was a toaster." It's all ego.

Still, I'd like to believe in something. I want an avuncular god who says, "Do whatever the fuck you want. I'm god. I created you. You have no free will. I'm all-knowing, all-seeing and all-powerful. When you die, you get to go to heaven. All of you. And heaven is filled with martini fountains and topless angels. You'll love it. So go ahead. Eat another helping of chicken-fried steak. Smoke a cigar. You worry too much."

But that's giddy optimism on my part. There probably isn't a supreme being at all, just an overburdened and ill-funded bureaucracy. Earth is probably some high school student's failed lab project. He lost interest in us some time ago when he discovered girls and sports. He got a job and raised a family. It'll be several millenniums before he climbs up the attic to take another look at us again.

But if you listen closely you can hear him sawing.

STANDARD DISCLAIMER: This column aims to be funny. If you can read anything else into it, you're on your own. Copyright 1999 by Mike Jasper.