SEE Magazine
Copyright © 1998. All Rights Reserved.
UP FRONT
BY CHRISTOPHER ZOZThe knocking on my front door was of such an urgency, I leaped out of my embarrassingly single bed and opened it with what most doctors might well call a stiffy. (Assuming they'd rolled and smoked what I had the night before that is, or at least something similar. Hands off my stash, doc.)
Now, when I say I opened my door with a stiffy, I'm not saying I'm romantically involved with the damned thing, perverts. I may use my fire hose for many a dark, dirty thing, but a crowbar is low on the list (not counting the time I couldn't find the remote and my hands were in traction, but that's a fantasy and, let's face it, a pretty poor throw-away joke; on the other hand, how much did you, fair reader, dish out on this ish of SEE? Your future silence is appreciated in advance).
Back to my steam of ultra-consciousness. Standing there in my Calvin Kleins, Grasshopper gut pouting over the elastic edge, I met with a smile a pair of suited suitors attempting to woo me over to their fascinating religion, where wearing a dark suit on a hot day and keeping the dames at home goes hand-in-hand with black plastic name-tags, and thrusting out strangely-written magazines, rife with watercolors of cosmic dolphins and little black girls sitting on docile tigers while dad contemplates how great it all is under the nearest oak tree.
You can see where this cocktail is heading. Better make it a double.
Now, I'm not about to criticize (further) the ramblings of a pair of thumpers who believe God Himself came down and handed off the keys to the car on brass plates a few hundred years back, but you should have seen the looks on their faces. Pure gold and, in my book, ironic proof that their beliefs may have some heavenly support.
After all, if they propose that universal peace is on its way shortly after the next No. 9 crosses the High Level, and that all race wars, space wars, star wars and animal instincts (such as that of tigers to eat little girls poised conveniently on their backsides) are going to be swept away in the new world, post great tribulation, I say let them in! Sounds like a hell of a party.
But the funny thing in all this is, neither neatly trimmed chap seemed to have any interest whatsoever in coming into my swinger's pad, despite the fact a number of God's greatest creations, from apathy to incense to the latest Smashing Pumpkins CD, live like kings freely inside.
Further to that point, our jolly Jehovahs seemed downright eager to get the hell off my front step. Now who's ever heard of that?
Later, flipping through their generous leaflets, I happened to notice that while a neatly coiffed Jesus Christ held his arms open to people of all sorts of skin colors in impoverished surroundings, few and far between were the children's-Bible-in-doctor's-office-waiting-room-style paintings of hung-over writers in their boner-filled ginch with a head of slept-on hair best described as zheeesh.
Looks like the Kingdom will have to wait, brothers. But in the meantime, I figure the chances of my being woken up ass-first on a Wednesday morning have gone down by a few thousand per cent.
And that's worth a few hallelujahs, let me tell ya.
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