Jesus is Someone

And so are you.

Jesus is an artist.

"I’m not an artist," said Jesus.  "But this is your gallery show," prodded the reporter.  "Maybe," replied Jesus, and walked off towards the buffet table.  "Did you see that?" asked a young girl, rushing up to the reporter.  "See what?"  "The way he challenges our pre-conceptions! how he avoids being labeled in this title-frenzied world where what’s the real use, anyway, in a title anyway, but something to put on a resume to join an industry, knowing that the industrialization of culture leads to its commodification which is just ruining the artistic landscape, don’t you think?  I think it’s just great what he’s doing."  "You mean telling people he’s not an artist, at his art show?"  "Yes."  "That’s nice."   

— 1 year ago
Jesus is a class warrior.

"Look at that yuppie bastard, in his suit and crew-cut of death."  "Yeah," said Jesus to his girlfriend Wynona, "another merchant of poverty, doling out the dole!"  The two were camped out in the Financial District, playing punch buggy with yuppies in the place of cars.  "There’s another!" shouted Wynona, jumping up excitedly and giving Jesus a dead arm.  "Hey, you!" she taunted, "have fun at your country club tonight!  Bastard!  Eating shrimp with your cronies while shrimping on the rest of us!"  "Good one," said Jesus.  The man being heckled walked over to them.  "Wynona, shut the fuck up," he said.  "Oh my goodness," said Wynona, taking a step backwards, "Tim??"  "Yeah, it’s me.  I got a haircut and some new clothes, so I could break into that building and flyer it."  "I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize you," she said.  "You’re a noble warrior, Tim!" said Jesus, as he hunched over to discreetly hit his pot pipe.  "Yuppie!" shouted Wynona, punching both Tim and Jesus in their arms.  

— 2 years ago
Jesus is a thug.

Jesus leaned his back against the Roti shop window and took in the block.  ”Ayo ma!” he yelled out to a group of women passing by.  ”Ayo, shorty on the right!” he continued.  They kept walking.  ”Man, bitches, man,” he said to his friend.  ”Yo what’s Ryan doing?” asked his friend.  ”Yo, you ain’t hear?  He tried to stick up some art-student and got stabbed with a compass.”  ”The navigational device?”  ”Nah, b, the shit you do circles with.”  ”Oh word, word.”  ”Yeah, gnomesein?”  ”Yeah, no doubt, damn.”  ”Ayo, son, lookout!” exclaimed Jesus.  ”Oh, excuse me,” said a pedestrian passing by with their labrador.  ”Ayo, that’s a big ass dog, nahmean yo?”  ”Ha ha, yes, she’s pretty big, I suppose!” said the owner.  ”It nice?”  ”Oh yes, it’s very nice.  Stupid, but nice.”  ”Oh shit,” said Jesus, “if it’s stupid I definitely ain’t fucking with it.”

— 2 years ago
Jesus is a blue collar Italian alcoholic.

"You’re Dino, and I’m Frank, and Paul is Sammy, and that’s the score, bay-bee," said Jesus, firing his hand like a pistol at his drinking pals.  "Why do I gotta’ be Dino?" asked Vinny, "You be Dino, I’ll be Frank."  "Not a chance, pal," said Jesus, "I’m the Frank of this operation."  "What operation?" asked Paul.  "Shaddup, Paul," said Vinny, "We’s talking.  Jesus, if I ain’t Frank, I ain’t staying."  "Vinny boy, it’s me.  I’m the Frank.  You’re the Dino.  You’ve always been my wingman."  "Oh, so that’s what it is?  You think you’re in charge?  Well let me tell you, Frankie wasn’t running the show.  It was Dino."  "Please, Frankie was the boss and the others followed."  "Frank was not the boss and the others did not follow!"  "Aw, what do you know, Dino?"  "I know that you might get hit if you keep this up!"  "Well come on, then.  Let’s get it over with."  Jesus and Vinny walked outside and exchanged blows in the street, for the ghosts of Frank and Dino.  Paul sat inside and watched sports on the TV.  

— 2 years ago
Jesus is an advertiser.

Jesus and the others sat around the conference table.  They were listening to the client on speakerphone.  One of the writers dramatically pantomimed masturbating onto the phone.  Another was shopping online.  Jesus interrupted the client: “Let me stop you right there.  We’re selling a feeling, Bob.  You don’t come to us because we sell shoes.  You sell the shoes.  We don’t.  We sell a feeling about that shoe, and that’s what they buy - Bob, you’ve been in this business for forty years, do you still think the shoe is what matters?  It wears out, it tatters, it begs for replacement.  But a feeling, an empowerment, a new idea for self-worth - that’s what your customer is buying, your shoe is merely the caveat.”  ”Don’t say my shoe is merely anything,” interrupted Bob.  ”Forgive me, but I hope you understand my point.”  ”You make a good argument, Jesus.  Go ahead and run the Bob’s Shoes Make You Better At Everything print, let’s see what happens.”  

— 2 years ago
Jesus is a math teacher.

"The kids are very, very bored," said Jesus, sipping coffee from a styrofoam cup in the teacher’s lounge.  "Ah, Mr. Jesus, finding trouble for once," replied Mr. Sneeze, the geography teacher besotted with tweed.  "Don’t be bitter," interjected Ms. Twitch, "your class is basically an Ambien."  "And your class is no better, Ms. Twitch; it has been said that the only lesson you teach is how to induce a coma, should you not fall into one."  "Please," interrupted Jesus, "neither of you struggle as I do; my children refuse to take an interest in the subject."  "Welcome to teaching, Jesus," said Mr. Sneeze, "what you describe is about the only thing you can count on in a math class."  

— 2 years ago
Jesus is a resource.

"In the basement of the HyperCorp Tower, down an abandoned hallway and past a fake wall in a tiny supply closet, you’ll find a stairway that leads deeply underground into a top secret manufacturing and research facility, where a team of heavily armed soldiers guard the production of today’s wonder drug, Jesunol, the cure for any ailment in a single pill.  How is it made?  Good question.  Why is it guarded and produced in secret?  Another good question.  The answer is simple: Jesunol is made with an extract of the saliva of Jesus Christ.  To continue drug’s massive popularity, HyperCorp has taken Jesus hostage, and quietly imprisoned him in this subterranean laboratory, where scientists have put him in a near comatose state in order to drain his saliva around the clock.  I know this because I was one of those scientists, but I escaped…  Ok, they’re here.  Not much time left.  I knew they would come.  I see them coming up the stairs on the intercom.  This message needs to get out quickly.  Jesunol is a mistake.  Go to HyperCorp.  Stop this drug.  Save Jesus.  The world is happily popping pills and murdering him in the process.  And when he’s dead?  And the Jesunol runs out?  Then what?  Then wh-" [the sound of gunshots.]

— 2 years ago
Jesus is a Ghostbuster.

“I’m tellin’ ya’, when will these Art Deco bozos stop putting up buildings that ghosts obviously enjoy terrifying people from?”  ”Hey, without those bozos and their architectural conjurings, we’d be out of work.”  ”Are you saying that ghosts prefer Art Deco-”  ”Please, we’re here.  Outside that door, on that roof, is one pissed off barber from the 17th Century.  Jesus, you ready?”  ”I am.”  ”Ok, go get ‘em buddy.”  Jesus stepped out into the howling winds and saw the barber.  He was really, really pissed off.  ”Barber, do you know me?” yelled Jesus.  The ghost appeared unexpectedly in Jesus’ face.  ”Yes, I do.  You are Jesus.”  ”I am, and you are a barber a long way from home!”  ”RAAGHGH” screeched the barber, “I have no home.”  ”No, you don’t, and without a tooth brush you never will, but I can put in a good word for you if you’ll let me.”  The other Ghostbusters had their ears pressed against the roof’s door.  The moment was near.  ”RAAGHGHFLAHHNGHUR” screeched the barber.  ”Does that mean you’re in?” asked Jesus, “Just come downstairs and we’ll file your paperwork.”  ”Jesus,” asked the barber ghost, collecting his thoughts, “can you really get me home?”  ”Would I lie?” asked Jesus, smiling earnestly, “I’ve got a ride for you right now.”  That was it.  The Ghostbusters burst onto the roof with the ghost trap and the barber, caught off-guard, was sucked in.  ”Did he say something about betrayal as he went in?”  ”Not that I could hear.  Boy, Jesus, it sure has gotten easier with you around.”  ”Yeah, Jesus!”  *cue theme music*

— 2 years ago
Jesus is a Jedi.

If it wasn’t for the surfing accident, none of this would have happened.  Jesus and his girlfriend were enjoying the South Beach waves when a surfboard came detached from its dude and careened into his leg.  He had to get a cane.  His girlfriend bought a neon green one, trying lighten the mood and salvage the trip.  The two walked back to their hotel, past the convention center where a live action role players convention was taking place.  Suddenly, a gang of larpers swarmed them.  His girlfriend was pulled away by two storm troopers.  A hooded man approached Jesus, brandishing a sturdy looking lightsaber.  ”The time has come for you, Jedi!” he exclaimed.  ”Wait, what are you people doing?” asked Jesus.  The man swung his lightsaber.  ”No!” cried the girlfriend from afar.  The red stick bashed into the freshly wounded leg of Jesus, and he crumpled to the ground.  The crowd of larpers cheered.  Jesus rocked back and forth on the ground, clutching his leg.  The hooded man raised his lightsaber up high and yelled a number of battle cries.  When that finished, and Jesus didn’t get up, and his girlfriend had broken into the circle and was now comforting her wounded man, a silence passed among the larpers.  The hooded man removed his hood and knelt beside Jesus.  ”Hey, um, man, are you ok?” he asked.  ”Why?” asked Jesus, still wincing in pain.  ”Wait, what?  Are you like, not a part of the convention?”  ”What convention?”  ”Oh, shit, um, wow, I’m, uh, sorry dude, I saw your light saber-”  ”That’s a cane,” interrupted Jesus, pointing to it.  ”My minions,” said the hooded man, rising to address the crowd, “he’s not a larper.”  Murmurs rippled across them.  They began to walk back inside.  ”Hey, where are you going?” bid Jesus’ girlfriend, “you can’t just leave this.”  ”This is our weekend, lady,” said an ewok passing by, “sorry.”

— 2 years ago
Jesus is a cigarette smoker.

"Wow, they sent you out?" asked a young man, dressed fancily outside of a nightclub with a cigarette dangling from an ivory holder.  "Yeah," said Jesus, leaning over to light a cigarette.  The two were huddle together within a larger group of smokers, constrained by a velvet rope that boxed them into an extremely narrow section of the sidewalk.  "Yo, smokers, be quiet," shouted a bouncer from the door, "we got neighbors, be considerate."  

— 2 years ago