In the nooze

The internurdz and the teevees are all abuzz with the Obama bin Landry story this week. Everyone is talking about.

You know what NO ONE is talking about? Bacon socks.

Dear Jesus,

Please make them all see the error of their ways and start talking about bacon socks. And if they don't, then smite them. Smite them real good.

Yours in You,

Smokey

This Week in Jesus-Related Advertising

It seems like every other day, some quaint and cuddly, blasphemy-themed chain restaurant from New Zealand is messing with Texas. And by Texas, I mean Jesus. This time it's Hell Pizza, which is running a billboard campaign that, at first glance, only appears mouth-watering. It's only when you look a little closer that you start to see all the offensive, Jesus-related things going on here.

Keep looking if it doesn't jump out at you right away, everybuzzy. It took me a few hours to figure it out, too.

Limited time??!?! Earth to Hell Pizza: Jesus is with us always and everywhere. And his buns, unlike yours, totally rule.

Honestly, I think I'm getting quaint-and-cuddly,-blasphemy-themed-chain-restaurant-from-New-Zealand-messing-with-Texas-and-by-Texas-I-mean-Jesus fatigue. And apparently, I'm not the only one. Church peeple are getting seriously peeved about all this meanness directed at Our Lord and Savior. For realsies!

Anglican Church media officer Lloyd Ashton said the campaign was disrespectful to many religions and the people who followed them.

"They [the billboards] join a long line of advertising that's in questionable taste that slings off [at] things that lots of people hold precious.

"It's disrespectful to what a lot of people hold very dear."

- New Zealand Herald

I've always been an admirer of Anglican Church media officer Lloyd Ashton's work, but I have to say, I really don't get how this campaign would be disrespectful to many religions. Since when is there more than one religion? I thought there was just Christianity and then 6.4 billion people who are totally wrong about everything.

Whatever the case may be, though, it's worth pointing out that for as long as We've been Buddies, Mister Jesus has pretty much always been able to handle His own fights. I mean, no offense to Anglican Church media officer Lloyd Ashton or anything (if that's even his real name), but The Dude can walk on water and turn three fishes into enough food for like six hundred frillion peeple. Plus, He literally IS the only way to get into heaven!

I think if Jesus's Feelings are hurt, He's probably capable of letting Hell Pizza know where they can stick their buns. In fact, I have so much faith* in Him that I'm not even going to mention the Hell Pizza thing in this letter I'm about to write to Him.

Dear Jesus,

What's up, Dude? How's It hanging these days? Things are pretty good down here, I guess. There was a weird smell in the break room the other day, but I don't think it's worth wasting a prayer on. Probably it's just a dead aminal or something. (I hope it's a unicorn!)

Hey, how about those Cincinnati Reds? 5-0 to start the season, huh? I know that was totally You, and not just because Joey Votto and Drew Stubbs keep looking up at you every time they cross home plate, either.

Hope You're having an awesome Thursday!

Piece,

Smokey.

Beware Of Unicorns

What you CAN see in this video are two orphaned baby bears from China playing with a tiger cub:

What you CAN'T see are the unicorns lurking in the shadows, fostering and nurturing this unholy alliance via their Chinese minions. It's the unicorns who are pulling the strings here, peeple. Don't be fool'd. This isn't about cute, cuddly baby aminals, this is about the beasts of the field reasserting their dominance over the human race. It's gonna be just like Middle Earth up in here, back when Sauron and Voldemort and the dinosaurs were the Head Lizards in Charge. And mankind will once again have to look to Jesus to take up the One Ring and defeat Voldemort and Sauron and the rampaging hordes once more, just like He defeated them in the popular young adult book series, The Bible.

We need Jesus now more than ever. Which of course means that old Smokey is gonna have to get involved.

Dear Jesus,

Long time no talk. Sorry, (Son of) Man. Totes my bad.

Listen, I need to ask You a flavor, on behalf of humanity. Would You mind chatting with Your Dad and seeing if this tiger-bear alliance thing can be stopped in its tracks? I'm not saying kill the cute baby aminals or anystring, I'm just saying it's pretty obvious that this is unicorn handiwork, and I know those conniving bastards got left off of Noah's Ark for a reason. (Part of Your Dad's Divine Plan™, I'm guessing. Wink, wink.)

Let's keep the unicorns where they belong: in cans.

Thanks in advance, Dude. You totally rule.

Yours in You,

Smokey Robinson

There. YOU'RE WELCOME AGAIN, HUMANITY.

The Retirement of Amanda Bynes: Day 2

It's still hard to believe it's over, that she's gone and she won't ever come back. I really thought I had enough to deal with this week, what with the BP Oil Spill hitting the two-month mark and the death of sausage legend Jimmy Dean. But no more Bynes?

In the immortal words of the intranetz, "fffffffuuuuuuuuuuuu." And also, "lolcats."

This is what you're missing, world.

It's what we're all missing.

Dear Jesus,

Don't do this, man. Give us back our Amanda Bynes. Give us that Bynes!

Love and pickles,

Smokey.

Hello from Beyond

Hey, everybuzzy. Please forgive me for the frowny-facedness of this here blurg post here, but the thing is that I, Smokey Robinson, am now dead.

I'm kind of ashamed to admit it. It's not the kind of thing you proudly show up at home one day and you're like, "hey, guys, guess what? I'm dead! Hello? Guys?" It's mostly like in the movies, where you're either a zombie and some "vigilante hero" is trying to hack you to bits with a chainsaw, or else you're invisible and inaudible to everybuzzy who isn't Whoopi Goldberg (who, by the by, makes really amazing oatmeal raisin cookies.)

The actual dying part is kind of a gruesome story. I was sitting in the Cannery one day at Dole Fruit, reading The Loving Bones, which is this book by Alex Sebold about a teenage kid who is actually dead for the entire book, which they tell you on page 1 without even writing SPOILER ALERT. (Speaking of which, spoiler alert: I die at the end of this paragraph. See how easy it is?) Anyway, Rebecca Goodman (our token Jew) must have overheard me saying "I wish I could know what it was like to be dead," because when I stood up, my shoelaces had been tied together, but in a very Jewish way. Next thing I knew, I fell over the railing and then tumbled ass-over-elbows into a very inconveniently placed pineapple slicer.

Those pineapple slicers are a real bitch to clean, especially when the guy who regularly cleans them is beginning to ooze out of one of them. Rex "The Supervisor" Hymen kept yelling and yelling, "Smokey! Where the [censored] is Smokey [censored] Robinson, god[censored]?!" I would gladly have told him where I was, except that one of my lips was, at that very moment, about to drip onto his right shoe. Also, the living can't hear the dead without the aid of the aforementioned Ms. Goldberg. But at the time, I didn't know that.

Anyway, hi!

This whole dead thing really isn't that bad. Did you know that in heaven, Bill Clinton is still president, and the Democrats enjoy sizeable majorities in both the House and Senate? And that ALL the bears are named Lollipop the Bear and drive around on Vespa Scooters with skull-and-crossbone stickers and holsters for their AK-47s? Also, the only meal is Kraft Cheese and Macaroni too, because it's the cheesiest. This place is gratest. It really is!

(Psych! It isn't really. This place is the worst - not "the wurst," like a hot dog, which would really go great with all the mac-and-cheese, but the WORST, as in the most miserable place I've ever been. Every time someone calls up Dole to complain about finding one of my eyeballs or a tooth or a fingernail fragment, I have to sit there while Patrick Swayze and the guy who originally played Dumbledore laugh at me for like three hours, which feels like eternity. Also, it takes like four minutes to press a single key. I have been writing this blog post since December 30!)

By the way, I was wrong: there is a God. He wears a turban and He doesn't speak English, so nobody up here understands what He's saying, and most people think He's a Terrorist. He is also in no way affiliated with My Buddy (and Friend of the blog) Jesus Christ. God is actually the Assistant Night Manager at a convenience store called Seventh Heaven, which is supposed to be a clever reference to "Seven Eleven," but nobody gets that without having it explained to them. Some say He really is all-powerful. I say He pours a mean cherry Icee - easily the third-best I've ever tasted.

Anyway.

I recently met Dan Fogelberg, who was quite touched by the flattering obituary I wrote him. We were sipping cherry Icees around Christmas with Carol Channing, and the two of them told me that there's actually a way for me to come back. Are you ready to learn what it is? All that has to happen is that a single cell from my former body has to be ingested by a human male, get metabolized, undergo meiosis, get broken down into amino acids (they're the building blocks of protein!), and finally, be converted into a sperm cell. Assuming I don't then end up in a sock or a drainpipe, it's a simple matter of racing the other sperm cells to an egg cell, become a zygote, then an embryo, then a fetus, then get born in Detroit, have a successful career as an R&B singer, and move to New York City at 68 years old to work for a middling fruit concern.

Piece of cake.

So here's what I need from you, dear readers: eat Dole Fruit Factory brand pineapple.

I'm sure the slicer where I met my end was probably very thoroughly scrubbed before the next batch of pineapple went in. Dole Fruit Factory has very exacting standards of hygiene, after all. But even the most exacting standards must have left a cell or two of mine behind, right? (Don't think about that too long, or else you won't want to eat the pineapple anymore.) Presto. We're halfway home already.

This, obviously, only applies to my male readers. Ladies, for once, this isn't about you. (Until I get back to the top of the charts, that is!) Let's get eatin', dudes! We're just 70 short years from being able to start this whole bloggerizing operation up again!

And just to be on the safe side:

Dear Jesus,

A little halp, (Son of) Man?

Thanx,
Smokey

P.S. Can You catch me up on what I missed on YouTube?

A letter to an Old Friend

Dear Jesus,

Hi!

So I know You and me haven’t really talked since Angelina Jolie took over Your spot as my spiritual adviser and frozen yogurt buddy. I mean, You kind of had it coming after You spent the entire summer on Fox News telling people to bring their guns everywhere and blasting “President Hopey McNobel Prize” (Your words) for trying to horn in on Your healing-the-sick game. Let’s just face it: I needed help, and You were Nowhere to be found. There were no sets of footprints in the sand.

Between You and me (and Your Dad, since He/She knows All), I think frosting me at the ESPYs was a little bit juvenile, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt like the stigmata. You certainly know how to cut me, Lord. Angelina and I can’t seem to find our footing as spiritual adviser/advisee and fro-yo enthusiasts either. She always insists on meeting up in LA even though she knows I can’t fly without potentially lethal doses of horse tranquilizer in my system. Also, she likes Pinkberry even though that shit is disgusting. (Nice job fooling the masses on that one, BTDouble-You. That abomination has Jesus written all over it.)

But that’s not what I’m writing to talk about today. I’m writing to talk about Japan, the benighted land that You and Daddy obviously either forgot or gave up on, as evidenced by the country-wide obsessions with sushi, Godzilla, Scooby-Doo, and being teeny tiny. I strongly suspect Your Abandonment is also why the Japans have to keep inventing so many technologies there so they can keep up with your chosen people, the Americas, where Hummers and M&Ms plain chocolate candy and Motorola-brand cellular telephones rain from the sky, and where free syringes full of Your magical healing essence periodically wash up on the shores of Long Island and New Jersey only to be “mistaken” for medical waste (probably to fool the poors into being afraid to eat the syringes themselves, right? Thought so.).

The Japans have none of that, except the cellular telephones. But their cars are much more smaller, and M&Ms there have a distinct octopus flavor. (Okay, I don’t know for certain that it’s Octopus, but it’s definitely the flavor of some kind of underwater cephalopod.) And according to this miraculously preserved piece of video evidence from YouTube, the Japans are also evidently forced to walk around at a fraction of normal human speed.

Wasn’t Your Mother Jewish? How do You not feel just the teensiest, Japan-sized amount of guilt for this?

You disgust me, Jesus. That is the opposite how Renee Zellweger made Tom Cruise feel in the hit ABC sitcom Jerry Maguire. But since I need some delicious fro-yo STAT, and since we don’t really take breaks from canning during the pre-holiday rush, can You possibly pick me up some? And please don’t forsake me with the atrocity that is Pinkberry.

Yours in David Schwimmer (he played Ross on the hit ABC sitcom "Friends", in case You forgot who he was or thought he was a Japan or something),
Smokey

This Ex-stinks.

These two news items remind me of this great stegosaurus place I used to know on 9th Avenue, back in the Mesozoic era. Damn, I haven't been there in ages. Boy, could I go for a nice, medium rare stego-steak right about now...

Anyway.

Item 1:

A rare Worcester’s buttonquail (Turnix worcesteri), a probable female, which is also locally known as the Philippines quail, is shown being photographed while being held by a bird hunter in Caraballo (above).

The bird, thought to be extinct, was photographed for the first time in the Philippines, and then sold to a poultry market as food.

from cryptomundo via boingboing

Item 2:

Fishermen in the Philippines accidentally caught and later ate a megamouth shark, one of the rarest fishes in the world with only 40 others recorded to have been encountered, the World Wildlife Fund said Tuesday. The 1,100-pound, 13-foot megamouth died while struggling in the fishermen's net on March 30 off Burias island in the central Philippines. It was taken to nearby Donsol in Sorsogon province, where it was butchered and eaten, said Gregg Yan, spokesman for WWF-Philippines.

from Yahoo!, also via boingboing

Now, I realize I might have Easter on the brain (you should too, Christians...), but isn't this a little bit like if the apostles had tried to take a bite out of Jesus when he reappeared? It's like, "oh, hey, Son of Man, we totally thought You were extinct! We're so glad You're back! And have You been working out, because That Flank of Yours is looking pretty tasty... no, wait, come back!!"

They don't call him the Lamb of God for nothing, folks. Am I right? Who's with me?

What's with all that gathering lightning?

Dear Jesus,

Zap.


Marshmallows and lollipops,
The Smoke Monster.

Look out, Jesus.

All right, check this dude out:



And tell me that hair doesn't make your chest go all thumpy-thumpy like in the cartoons.

Blam. You have been hypnotized.

This is Paul Anderson, and he is like Jesus on stilts. Which makes him better than Jesus, because Jesus didn't walk on stilts. That takes talent, the kind of talent you would definitely read about in the Bible, which covered every single detail of Jesus's life in the kind of detail that only Michael Phelps and Barack Obama can appreciate.

In fact, there should be a Bible of stilt-walking, and it should star Paul Anderson. (INTERNET: THIS IDEA CAN BE YOURS, FREE OF CHARGE. YOU'RE WELCOME.)

Instead, there's this.

How to Add Multiple Levels to Your Stilts -- powered by ExpertVillage.com

I kind of wish I could go back in time and vote No on Proposition 8 in California so that I could gay marry this man's hair and stilts and his cool, cool glasses too. The rest of him I could kind of take or leave, especially after 22 episodes that all start with that "...and here we are!" line.

Look, Paul Anderson: just because you're in the circus doesn't mean you have to talk like you're in the circus, you know what I mean? You're better than Jesus, dammit. Start acting like it.

Dear Jesus,

Move over, Son of Man. There's a new heartthrob in town. Barack Obama has brought the change we need, and his name is Paul Anderson.

You are officially Yesterday's News, Jesus. You are the Pull-My-Finger of Messiahs.

Peace, love, and Freedom toast,
Smokey.

Hitting the Links

Dear Jesus,

from Slog

I freakhog LOVE THIS.

I thought You were maybe slightly offended with my idea for what to do with the host wafers. But this tells me You're ready to put a whole new spin on the marketing ideas for "body of Christ."

Now maybe You and me could get together and make that Sausage a little "Smokey," if you know what I'm saying. (I'm implying that We should have teh gay sex.)

Toodles,
Smokey Robinson

Clusterflock.com? More like Cluster-steal ideas from other blogs just because noboody reads them so it's easy to get away with.com

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Some smooth Jesus love

Dear Jesus,

Two hearts, two of a kind
Love at first sight, why do they say love is blind
Slow down, We don't have to move fast
‘Cause the love that is real is made to last

Take it one heartbeat at a time
Close Your eyes and let Your Holy Spirit unwind
Sooner or later it'll all fall in line
If We take it one heartbeat at a time
One heartbeat

Ooh...

We paint a picture walkin' down the street
Leaves are fallin', Baby Jesus, so are We
Hand in hand, that's the way it should be
How could somethin' so easy make me feel so complete

Take it one heartbeat at a time
Close Your eyes and let Your Holy Spirit unwind
Sooner or later it'll all fall in line
If We take it one heartbeat at a time
One heartbeat

Take it easy, ooh
I want o feel Your every emotion
Shh...don't talk
And We'll be makin' love in slow motion
Ooh...slow motion, J.C.
Ooh...slow motion, Baby

Take it one heartbeat at a time
Close Your eyes and let Your Holy Spirit unwind
Sooner or later it'll all fall in line
If We take it one heartbeat at a time
One heartbeat

One heartbeat at a time (slow motion, Baby)
One heartbeat (oh, slow motion, J.C.)
Sooner or later it'll all fall in line
If We take it one heartbeat

One heartbeat (yeah)
One heartbeat (ooh, Baby)
Sooner or later it'll all fall in line
If We take it one heartbeat...

Whaddya say, Jesus? Wanna take it one heartbeat at a time with me?

Anxiously,
Smokey.

Another high water mark for American diplomacy

Word on the street is that Mr. President W. Bush ended a meeting at the G8 Summit in Japan with the following farewell:

"Goodbye from the world's biggest polluter."

In terms of proud moments for America in Japan, I think this ranks just below President Bush I upchucking on the Prime Minister's lap in 1992, and just above Jerry Lewis's performance in the movie The Geisha Boy. (Sorry for that one, Tall Redhead. I had to.)

But there are two reasons I'm offended by this.

Reason 1: Do you have any idea how hard we've been playing the World's Biggest Polluter angle for the Oscar '08 campaign? I have gone to extraordinary lengths in the past several months to personally solidify America's standing as the preeminent contributor to global warming and environmental damage, just to make people feel more at home with a President who lives in a trash can. In April, I instituted a three-point plan to increase the size of my carbon footprint:

Smokey's Three-Point Plan to Increase My Carbon Footprint:

1. Buy a 1970s VW Bus and leave it idling all day, every day.
2. Print out all emails I receive, read them once, then burn them.
3. Wear really large shoes made out of carbon.

See? A three-point plan! My plan has points! Those points are threefold! And now this monkey-faced yokel is taking all the goddamn credit!

Reason 2: According to its charter, the stated purpose of the G-8 is "a renewed commitment to investment in the development of fruit and vegetable canning technology," so what the hell is President Goofus doing talking about pollution? Is he trying to score points with the Chinese by gently deflecting the fact that they have overtaken our polluting hegemony? Or is this part of some larger plan to keep the Candidate in the Trash Can down?

I see right through you, George W. Bush. You are as transparent as a window with no glass, or a doorway with no door, or a great big empty patch of unpolluted air above a country other than the U.S. or China. Also, much like my idling VW Bus, you stink.

Dear Jesus,

Please smite George W. Bush.

Thank You in advance for Your assistance with this matter.

Very truly yours,
Smokey Robinson.

Jesus 233, Santa 180

I'm not one to complain about the weather, but I am one to write a blog post about how I'm not one to complain about the weather and then complain about the weather. If that doesn't make sense, ignore it and move on. It's sort of a "duh" joke, like "what's the difference between a hamburger and a cheeseburger?" (Answer: the cheese!) or "why does it frequently smell like fine smoked Gouda on the blocks surrounding Grand Central Station in the early evening?" (Answer: also the cheese!).

Getting back to the topic at hand, though, I'd like to take a moment to complain about the weather.

I don't mind the heat. True, my apartment lacks options for ventilation on two sides, which makes things extra steamy. But it's a small price to pay to avoid having the neighbors see me gallivanting around in my underwear and screaming "Another One Bites the Dust" at the top of my lungs while they walk down the hall. And let's face it, the nuanced art of imitating Freddie Mercury is bound to make a person a little sweaty regardless of whether it's 19 degrees outside or 90.

Of course, the art of imitating Freddie Mercury is also the kind of thing that's bound to cost me major points with the ladies. So if you're a lady, please ignore everything you've read so far and start reading after this paragraph.

(LADIES, START READING HERE)

Hello, ladies. As the men in the audience can tell you, I'm in the midst of a complaint about the weather. So far, I've established that I don't have a huge problem with the heat.

My problem is with the, quote, "severe thunderstorms," end quote. And yes, I am aware that I just wrote the words "quote" and "end quote" in addition to writing quotes around "severe thunderstorms." It was to emphasize that I'm being sarcastic when I say "severe thunderstorms." Because I don't see how 30 minutes of thunder, lightning, and 60-mile an hour winds can possibly be considered severe.

Let's see if we can make a hypothetical analogy. Okay, say there's this President of the United States who is a Republican. Then say one day, his brain starts working for like half an hour, and he has a GOOD IDEA. (I know, it's unrealistic, but bear with me. This is fiction.) Does having his brain work for half an hour automatically disqualify him from the Republican party?

All right, that was a severely bad example.

How about this instead: say there's this one area of midtown Manhattan that periodically experiences incidents of "severe Gouda cheese aroma," and that the incidents last for somewhere in the neighborhood of 30 minutes. Does that mean that, during those 30-minute instances, that the entire island is once again under the jurisdiction of the Netherlands, and that all the spellings revert to their original Dutch (Nieuw Amsterdam, Breuckelyn), and that weed and hookers are temporarily legal? Because if so, a) sign me up, and b) I think we can get Eliot Spitzer reinstated as governor.

Wow, that's also terrible. There's no analogy to be drawn between legal weed and the weather at all. Sorry. And not apropos of me at all, I have somehow ranged off topic again. Which begs the question, if I managed to avoid digressing for 30 whole minutes, would that make me a severely better writer than I am now? It doesn't seem like it could hurt...

When I was a kid, we had SEVERE STORMS - the kind that threaten to rip the roof off the house and land it on the playground of a nearby elementary school. We had storms that made the sky turn yellow and sent people racing for basements and jumping out of moving cars to hide in roadside ditches. We had storms that blew beach balls and tricycles onto our lawn that belonged to kids who lived three blocks away. Those storms lasted for hours, or sometimes, entire days.

My parents used to tell us the storms were Jesus and Santa Claus bowling, and when the storm got loud, it was because One of Them just bowled a strike. (We always assumed it was Jesus, since Santa bowls like Barack Obama.) And when the storms lasted for a long time, my parents told us it was because Santa kept getting drunk and wanting a double-or-nothing rematch so he could get his money back. But, of course, Santa never won his money back because Jesus never had any money. Jesus was just a Broke Hustler.

My point is that, for all the damage wrought to power lines, rail systems in Connecticut, and my friend Laszlo's house in New Brunswick, New Jersey, I'm not sure I'm sold on the word "severe" for last night's thunderstorm. It sounded more like a handful of practice frames, or maybe a single game where Jesus wiped the floor with Santa, 233 to 180. Mathematically, Santa couldn't have had more than like three Miller Genuine Drafts. Ergo, not severe.

But check out these pictures of Laszlo's house anyway. This could happen to you four years after I move out of your house too:





Rumor has it that Laszlo might end up with a new bay window when all is said and done. I don't know, that sounds pretty "not severe" to me.

Dear Jesus and Santa,

Try harder next time. Your bowling matches are lame lately.

Turkey,
Smokey.

Put a Banana in Your Ear, Banana King

Though mankind clearly reached its cultural zenith with Zac Efron's perfection of the popular "shaggy do" last year, there are still occasional bursts of ingenuity and art that stand out like pimples on the otherwise pimple-free and art-free landscape of human achievement.

There is, for instance, the banana. And the fine cinematic work of judd rinefart the blah, who seems to have no interest in whether I ever start capitalizing his name or calling him Judge Reinhold again. (For the record, all it would take is for him to endorse someone other than Bill Richardson, so I can know what to think.) There is also the unicorn. And broccoli salad. And the banana. And the paper clip.

It's also true that the unending quest of our species for self-actualization and greatness has occasionally produced some very decent television as well, as proven by the first 18 seasons of Little House on the Prairie. But then again, we've also managed to produce Ted McGinley, a force of nature so powerful and so deadly that he has his own category on jumptheshark.com, a website that, in an ironic twist of fate, jumped the shark during a very special episode starring Ted McGinley.

This, of course, all leads back to Zac Efron's hair, which has been strangely and sadly absent from major news cycles for months now, leaving us to focus on the aforementioned pimples.

And wow, did I just find a juicy one.

Feast your eyes on Charlie the Unicorn. And please pay particular attention to what happens at the 3:44 mark, as it is relevant to my cause of action against you under the Freedom of Information Act. Also, because it is awesome.

Dear Jesus,

Yes! We totally did it, Man! Or should I say, Son of Man! You can come back now and judge us. I think we finally have You beat.

Your pal in You,
The Smoke Monster.

P.S. Why does www.unicorn.com redirect to the IBM website?

Wishes Can Come True

I held my breath as I stepped off the train last night into the thickly falling snow, and gradually let my brain awaken to the potential consequences of slipping on my way home from the Ho-Ho-Kus train station and sliding headlong down the hill into a parked car or a curb camouflaged by the snow. I should mention that I have very good balance. Also, that I was wearing sneakers with decent traction. Both of these facts concerned me greatly.

Am I a (devastatingly charming) fatalist? Maybe so, but good shoes and superhuman balance are the sort of things that promote overconfidence. Also, and this part was crucial to my worry, it was Tuesday. And not Super Tuesday either, just regular old vanilla-flavored Tuesday.

I suppose it might have dawned on me that it was also the birthday of Abraham Lincoln, emancipator extraordinaire and author of the epic book, Who Freed The Slaves? (I did, I did!): the Autobiography of Abraham Lincoln (Smokey Robinson Press, 1864, $19.95 US/$24.95 CANADA, also available in eBook format from amazon.com). It's just that it was snowing, and I wasn't in a very Abraham Lincoln-ey mood, if you know what I mean. I know it was only two days before Valentine's Day, and I should have been fully in the spirit of the holiday by then, but I just couldn't get it going. I don't know what was wrong with me.

I think I'm going to have to blame Jesus for this one.

Dear Jesus,

Thanks for making it snow two days before Valentine's Day, Jerk. And don't go blaming the Easter Bunny like You did last year. You should awaken to the potential consequences of slipping on my way home from the Ho-Ho-Kus train station and blah blah blah whatever puke.

I hope You get struck by lightning.

Kiss my shiny, caramel-colored butt,
Smokey Robinson



Above: Jesus Christ statue in Rio de Janeiro gets struck by lightning. Not pictured: the butt-kissing.

Another reason not to mess with the Lord

Okay, so first, I read this in the New York Times:

Just about any sports movie, airport paperback or motivational tape delivers a few boilerplate rules for success. Believe in yourself. Don’t take no for an answer. Never quit. Don’t accept second best.

Above all, be true to yourself.

It’s hard to argue with those maxims. They seem self-evident — if not written into the Constitution, then at least part of the cultural water supply that irrigates everything from halftime speeches to corporate lectures to SAT coaching classes.

Yet several recent studies stand as a warning against taking the platitudes of achievement too seriously. The new research focuses on a familiar type, perfectionists, who panic or blow a fuse when things don’t turn out just so. The findings not only confirm that such purists are often at risk for mental distress — as Freud, Alfred Adler and countless exasperated parents have long predicted — but also suggest that perfectionism is a valuable lens through which to understand a variety of seemingly unrelated mental difficulties, from depression to compulsive behavior to addiction.

I immediately fired off a quick email to Jesus, the alpha and omega of perfectionist jerkwads.

From: Matt [commander-in-chief@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: Jesus H. Christ [superstar@whatwouldido.org]

Dear Jesus,

Way to go, Jackass. This is what happens when You come along and be all perfect and set the bar way too high for everyone. You spoil everything for the rest of us and give us mental problems. Forget about the fact that Your never-say-die-(except-for-that-one-time) attitude was indirectly responsible for competitive athletics and the hit song "We Are the Champions," You know who You remind me of? You remind me of Sensei John Kreese from The Karate Kid, that's who! I bet You probably rooted for those Cobra Kai assholes the whole time.

And by the way, what the fuck is with the chocolate bunnies at Easter? How does that pertain in any way to the supreme, set-the-bar-too-high, give-all-of-mankind-mental-problems sacrifice that You made?

I don't know what to say to You anymore. Suddenly all that dying for our sins bullshit seems as hollow as one of the aforementioned chocolate bunnies, doesn't it? I hope You're satifsied with Yourself.

Oh, and if I don't talk to You, have a great birthday!

-Matt

But then, right after I hit SEND, I found this little chestnut in the archives of The Straight Dope:

What's up with the "lost books of the Bible"?

04-Sep-1992

Dear Cecil:

I am currently reading a book entitled The Lost Books of the Bible. Being interested in Bible history, I thought it might be an interesting diversion, but I was not prepared for what I found. It claims that when Jesus was young, he killed a couple of boys and a schoolmaster because they displeased him. Jesus comes off as an arrogant bad seed in these supposedly ancient texts.

My question is: were these books truly a part of the original Bible, and if they were suppressed for obvious reasons, does the Catholic Church, or any church for that matter, acknowledge their existence? How do they explain Jesus's bad temper? Is this why there is very little about Jesus's youth in the current Bible? --Dan Olmos, West Hollywood, California

Cecil replies:

No question, the kid portrayed in the "lost books" isn't exactly the Prince of Peace. After recounting three murders in two pages, one passage concludes, "Then said Joseph to St. Mary, henceforth we will not allow him to go out of the house; for everyone who displeases him is killed."

Jesus H. Christ!

I think it's enough with the letters to Jesus at this point. It seems safer just to write to Santa Claus, even though that fat bastard knows if I've been bad or good. With Jesus, you can hide it. But at least with Santa, all you get for being bad is coal, not the business end of some hipster's axe planted in your skull.

But because I'm afraid of having my emails intercepted, I had to get help.

From: Smokey [clowntears@piealamodeproductions.com]
To: S. Claus [Santa84883@gmail.com]

Dear Santa,

For Christmas this year, please protect my friend Matt from Angry Jesus. In exchange, I will let you play a game of Michael Jackson and the Eight-Year-Old Boy with me. I'll even be the eight-year-old boy this time.

Love and kisses,
Smokey Robinson

O, Sweet Lord, Grant Me In Thy Infinite Mercy a New Pair of Kicks

Dear Jesus, et al.,

Unlike most people, I don't buy my shoes to provide comfort and shelter to my feet (or my "hands of the south", as I sometimes call them), I buy my shoes for the express purpose of jamming up the butt of my many, many, many subordinates in order to get them to work harder. In other words, I need to stay fashionable, which is why I always shell out top dollar during Macy's sales to make sure I have the finest patent leather pumps that money can buy.

And then comes the love affair. Every new pair of shoes inspires me to want to buy shoe trees and an ecologically responsible shoe polishing kit, because it's gonna be different this time, I swear. I know I can change. Please, give me another chance!

Only I can't change. I can get as far as using a shoe horn to horn my "hands of the south" into my "mittens of the south." For a little while. Then, inevitably, expeditiousness takes over, and I start stepping on my own heels to release myself from the leathery confines of the mouths and tongues that have swallowed my feets, boa constrictor fashion.

Here's the kicker. (Get it? Because this is a post about shoes? Kicker? It's a pun!) Stepping on the back of my shoes has the tendency to put a great strain on the relationship between the shoe itself and the massive rubber sole from which I derive an additional six or seven inches of height, when combined with my unusually tall hair.

(Okay, can I just take a minute to apologize for that last parenthetical aside? The one about the kicker? I just reread it and thought it sounded a little bit snippy and condescending. That was not what I meant at all. And while I could have just deleted it, I really thought it would do better to let You, Jesus Christ, and you, my dear readers, see what a humble and self-effacing person I can be, and also how modest I am. I'm reasonably sure I'm the most modest person in the tri-state area. You can even pick any three states! On with the show...)

The point is that, even though I didn't mean to, I caused the breakup of the individual components of my shoe. I am now wearing what have been loving Lee described as "flappy wappy pancake shoes," which I object to because these shoes are actually constructed of 98 percent leather and 2 percent breakfast sausage. There isn't a trace of pancake to be found. Whatever. I need new shews. And some whiskey.

I want you all to know that I blame the writers' strike for this, also known by its other name, the Broadway stagehands strike. And also all the tourists in New York City who are constantly commuting to their jobs right in my way when I'm trying to commute to my job. No, wait, they're not called tourists. I meant gays. I blame the gays.

Settle the strike already, will you? I can't afford to keep buying new shoes without the residuals from the DVD sales of this blog.

Love and kisses,
Matt

P.S. Hey, Jesus, tell Your Dad hi from me. And ask Him where the $36 is that He owes me, that Dead Beat.