Saturday, December 11, 2010

Scene from A Supermarket...

This morning I had reason to do some food shopping at a local ShopRite store. Normally, I don't do the grocery shopping around here, except for the occasional "Ooops! We're all out of X!" kind of shopping, but my Mother is recovering from her knee replacement, and so this duty now falls upon me.

I was armed with a list, and a bad attitude, that left me very little patience for anyone this morning, as this is something I really don't like to do, but hell, I like to eat, too.

So, there I am, looking the douchebag, pushing a shopping cart up and down the isles very carefully following the list (because if I forget something, or get the wrong thing, I have to listen to a symphony of whining and complaining, because I'm a useless retard, you see. Mother doesn't actually come out and say that, but from her demeanor you know she's thinking it. The older she gets, the more aggravating and ungrateful she becomes. Anyways, while I'm re-enacting my Hunter-Gatherer heritage in the modern day, air-conditioned landscape of the supermarket, I caught sight of "Bertha".

Now, I don't know if her name really is "Bertha"; it's just that when I saw this incredibly massive lump of humanity, that's the name that popped into my head for her. She looked like a blob of raw cookie dough on thick, stumpy I-think-you'd-call-them legs. Easily 150 pounds overweight, she had more chins than a Chinese phone book, and she quite possibly might be the only women in the world that could make a cement floor creak. You could hear her thighs rubbing together as she stumped past. I never knew denim could make that kind of sound, or was that heat-resistant. I could have sworn that she might burst into flames from friction at any moment.

Bertha has four children in tow. Two of them, probably 8 or 9 years of age, are the sort one might associate with a Charles Dickens novel; they are dirty, given to outbursts (with especially-foul language for children so young). They are dressed shabbily. The older of the two, a boy, looks the sort who tortures animals for fun, and one day will grow up to be a convicted felon. The second, a girl, appears as if the words "toothpaste" and"dentist" are not to be found in her vocabulary. She has a set of protruding buck teeth that hang over her lower lip, and if you really had to, you could probably open a beer bottle on them.

The two younger children (perhaps 4 or 5 years old), have a hunted appearance. They are sullen, and silent. One is a habitual nose-picker, and the other has the most grotesque birthmark (I should hope it's a birthmark!) that covers the left side of his face from ear to cheekbone. They too are filthy, and appear underfed.

"Bertha", however, is resplendent in that trailer-park-ghetto sort of way; she's got bling. She's got cornrows festooned with multi-colored beads, a gold tooth or two, and has more rings than Saturn. She's also wearing a gold medallion on a chain that reminded me of a hood ornament. The Bluetooth headset hangs from her ear, and she's talking a mile-a-minute, jabbering in the Urban Patois, sprinkled liberally with the word "muthahfuckah". I would say "muthafuckah" and it's variations constituted every third or fourth word in the one side of the conversation that I could hear.

I would see "Bertha" and her herd every few minutes. Perhaps five or six times during my meandering up and down the isles. She's always talking, stopping only occasionally to threaten one of the kids who's misbehaving, or perhaps just to stop for breath. The little kids are riding on the wagon's rails, until she swats them off because, she complains, she "can't push this muthafuckin' cart with your asses hanging all over it." The older boy and girl are breaking packages open as the little brood wanders the market, pilfering food when their...ahem...mother...isn't looking. The smaller boy manages to bring an entire case of apples down when he grabs one from the bottom, spilling them all over the Produce section's floor. He's about to take a bite when he gets slapped across the face. Not because he's stolen something, mind you, but because he's "embarrassed" her in public by making a mess that the store manager might make her pay for.

I run into "Bertha" again at the checkout counter. She is in the next isle. Still talking, still spraying the "muthafuckahs" between short intervals of yelling at her children, who are now into the candy at the register. "Bertha" has $211.00 of groceries. She "pays" for them with Food Stamps, and leaves, while I'm still being "rung up".

My last sight of "Bertha" was in the parking lot, as she drove by in her tricked-out Navigator, complete with what I like to call "Ben-Hur hubcaps"; those chrome monstrosities that have a sort of spiked hub protruding from them, and of course, the counter-rotating food-processor-like blades on the interior of the wheel. I can see the seat-back DVD players...plural. The last sight I get of them as they leave is the nose-picker, his face plastered against the glass of the rear passenger window, and he's got that Thousand Yard Stare that one normally associates with an infantryman in combat.

It struck me, for perhaps the ten-thousandth time this year, that "Bertha" is probably what democrats call "working poor". People who use food stamps, and utilize more social services than one might imagine actually exist, but who somehow manage to afford cellphones, Navigators with DVD players, and enough bling to finance a small country. They're so "poor" that they're grossly obese, their distended bellies the result of too much KFC instead of the ravages of malnutrition.

We have the first generation of "poor" on Planet Earth who are overfed, and suffering from diabetes and food allergies, I'll bet.

The Welfare System in this country no longer exists to help people in need, or to provide for people who cannot do so for themselves; it now subsidizes a lifestyle in which it is no longer necessary to even make an attempt to provide for yourself, and the neglected children you've borne, while you go out and somehow (probably illegally) obtain the means to load yourself up with gold and luxury automobiles.

"Poverty" no longer means deprivation; it's only a relative comparison of obvious material wealth. The "Rich" and the "Poor" all have the same things: automobiles, cellphones, fattening food, cable television, air conditioning. It's just that the "Poor" don't have to work for it, and the "Rich" are compelled to provide it for them by the State.

The problem with all this "Tax Cut" talk in Washington these days isn't that the Rich "have too much". It's that the "Poor" can't be maintained in the lifestyle to which they've become accustomed, complete with SUV's and free food, if the government can't take (steal) enough money away from those who earn it.

Just don't expect that simple truth to be told during the "debate" over the "Bush Tax Cuts", which itself is a serious -- and deliberate -- misnomer.

Thursday, December 09, 2010

An Open Letter To Teenaged Drivers on Staten Island...

Especially the three young...I hesitate to call them"men"...who treated me to lunch this afternoon while I waited to cross the street at the intersection of Richmond and Amboy Roads.

I did soooo enjoy the chocolate shake -- and what appeared to be the remnants of a Whopper-with-cheese -- and was especially grateful for the means by which they were delivered, i.e. the passengers in the front and rear of a vehicle waiting for the light to turn green opening their windows wide and throwing this bounty at me, while Douchebag Number 3, behind the wheel, floored the gas just as soon as the light changed.

You laughed. You also called me a nasty name as you ran off like thieves. Little girls, more like it. But that's okay; I can deal with an unflattering epithet, and I'm certain that from your point of view, your actions were rip-roarin'-pee-in-your-pants-hy-sterical. People without the same sense as a brain-dead Golden Retriever typically find such things funny.

Except that you forgot one thing. Actually, because I'm a reasonably-observant person, two things.

The first problem is that I have the license plate number of the car involved. On the off-chance that you idiots may actually read this (I question whether you can read at all, however, at least one of you managed to pass the notoriously-easy New York State Driver's Certification exam, which I'm told, has been constructed so as to allow illegal Mexican immigrants with 3rd grade reading skills to obtain a barely-passing grade) I would like you to know that I'm not going to call the Police. Because that would be too easy.

No, instead, I'm going to use some of the mad computer skillz at my disposal and track down the address attached to that license plate. It's ridiculously easy to do, and it can be done legally. No, I don't want the cops involved; I'd rather settle this personally. See you soon.

Your second mistake was committed by the passenger in the back seat. If you wish to remain anonymous, you really shouldn't wear a (local High School ) varsity football jacket. Especially one which has your uniform number embroidered on the front with four-inch-high numbers. Numbers easily seen by someone standing about 6-8 feet away. Someone other than Santa might be dropping down your chimney this year, Asshole.

I won't be violent, I promise. I will simply ask you to clean or replace the clothes you've messed up/ruined, and to be given the opportunity to return the favor, i.e., that I be allowed to throw food at you. Mind you, I'm not much for chocolate shakes and Whoppers; I prefer good Whiskey and Steak, and if you're really lucky, I might remember to remove the former from the bottle and defrost the latter before I launch them -- with as much velocity as I can muster --in your direction.

It's bad enough the authorities seem to give a drivers license, and stupid parents a deadly weapon, to every irresponsible walking bag of zits and baby fat on this island. It's even worse when you all do the same stupid shit: talk on your cell phones, run lights, race each other in and out of traffic, and play that God-awful-I-hesitate-to-call-it-music of the sort that sounds like a migraine must feel, and which causes every loose piece of metal to vibrate on your vehicle. You certainly don't need to be throwing things out the windows, too.

And certainly not at unsuspecting a joke.

Be warned: I will find the little bastards who did me this way today, and they will pay for my dry cleaning bills.

I'm Thinking of Marrying Her, Seriously...

I get the weirdest e-mail. Most of it, of course, is utter crap -- adverts, people telling me I'm an asshole (yes, I know...and proud of it, too, thank you), lots of updates from the various news sites and organizations that I subscribe to (Dear Dick Morris: all these e-mails are starting the get creepy. It's almost like you're stalking me!), and this past two months, the absolute worst of e-mails related to the 25th anniversary of my graduating high school class.

No, I did not attend. Nor did I answer any of the literally hundreds of "Hey, what are you doing now?" requests, or do anything more than delete all the senseless chatter that cluttered up my inbox. The truth is that I viscerally hated about 95% of the people I went to high school with (they were mostly Guidos, and wanna-be Guidos) back in the mid-80's, and of the remaining 5%, a good number of you are already dead, sadly (including one young man, a close friend, murdered before his 24th birthday. When his body was found and reported to the authorities, it turned out that it was his detective brother who was first on the scene to investigate. It's a sad tale all around). I seriously don't want to see you people, especially not after 25 years have passed and you've all become uglier and dumber, just so I can hear about your three divorces and two prostate operations over your eleventh drink.

I'm off track. Anyway, suffice to say that my mailbox simply overflows with spam e-mails, on a good day, and I ignore every last scrap...unless there's one that's just too damned good to pass up. This morning, we happen to have what may be one of the better Spam Scams I've seen to date.

For I have received an e-mail from Miss Adeliza Justin Yak. From the Sudan. Of course you've heard of her; her father is...or rather, was...the Minister for SPLA Affairs and Special Advisor to President Salva Kir of South Sudan for Decentralization, a man killed in the prime of his life, in an unfortunate plane crash. We've all heard of him, of course. I remember the people crying in the streets of Cleveland, Ashtabula, Chillicothe, Intercourse and East Reacharound when the illustrious Minister Yak was killed. Why, I almost have to dab a tear or two from the corner of my eye just thinking about it now.

And just like John F. Kennedy, I'm sure people all over the world will very soon begin playing that game. You know the one;

"Where were you when the Minister for SPLA Affairs and Special Advisor to President Slava Kir of South Sudan for Decentralization was killed?"

Anyways, it seems that Minister Yak left a fortune in a foreign bank to his daughter, who seems to pray a lot (First Red Flag!), and then attempt to contact complete strangers over the internet (Second Red Flag!), who will then sponsor her so that she can emigrate to the West (Third Red Flag! She's in it for the Green Card!) with $5.6 million bucks.

Here is the e-mail in question (I have edited out the hyperlinks for safety):

My Dearest one,

Hi, My name is Adeliza Justin Yak, 23years old originated from Sudan. I decide to contact you after my prayers, I really want to have a good relationship with you. My father Dr. Justin Yak was the former Minister for SPLA Affairs and Special Adviser to President Salva Kiir of South Sudan for Decentralization. My father Dr.Justin Yak and my mother including other top Military officers and top govaernment officials had been on board when the plane crashed on Friday May 02, 2008. (Link to news article on this crash removed by me)

After the burial of my father, my uncle conspired and sold my father's properties to a Chinease Expatriate and live nothing for me. On a faithful morning, I opened my father's briefcase and found out the documents which he have deposited huge amount of money in one bank in Burkina Faso with my name as the next of kin. I traveled to Burkina Faso to withdraw the money so that I can start a better life and take care of myself. On my arrival, the Branch manager of the Bank whom I met in person told me that my father's instruction to the bank was the money be release to me only when I am married or present a trustee who will help me and invest the money

I have chosen to contact you after my prayers and I believe that you will not betray my trust. But rather take me as your own sister. Though you may wonder why I am so soon revealing myself to you without knowing you, well, I will say that my mind convinced me that you are the true person to help me. More so, I will like to disclose much to you if you can help me to relocate to your country because my uncle have threaten to assassinate me. The amount is $5.6 Million and I have confirmed from the bank in Burkina Faso. You will also help me to place the money in a more profitable business venture in your Country.

However, you will help by recommending a nice University in your country so that I can complete my studies. It is my intention to compensate you with 10% of the total money for your services and the balance shall be my capital in yourestablishment. As soon as I receive your interest in helping me, I will put things into action immediately. In the light of the above, I shall appreciate an urgent message indicating your ability and willingness to handle this transactionsincerely. Please do keep this only to your self. I beg you not to disclose it till i come over because I am affraid of my wicked uncle who has threatened to kill me.

Sincerely yours, Miss Adeliza Justin Yak

I'll bet that right this very second, there's some extremely desperate loser reading that message, and masturbating over it. He's probably also trying to work out how many plastic blow-up dolls and how much Vaseline he can purchase with that half-a-million bucks, to support his chronic masturbation habit. That's the sad part.

You know, I can honestly say that I've always wanted a wife from a Third-world shithole where swatting flies and dodging bubonic plague were the national pastimes. Especially one who probably prays five times a day, and has a death squad on her tail.

I'm smarter than that, but I have absolutely no doubt in my mind that there are millions of people stupid enough to actually buy this line of crap, and who will respond to that e-mail. Most of those responses will be along the lines of "How big are your tits?"or "What are you wearing now", which means that some douchebag in the African criminal enterprise that originated this scam has to wade through a few thousand cell-phone-quality dick pictures before he finds that one asshole who finally takes the bait.

There are people alive that are, in fact, that dumb; I know, because I used to work for them at Citigroup.

But what I really find strange about that particular message (and disturbing, too) is that Google saw fit to mark it as Spam (and perhaps as dangerous) before it even entered my mailbox...but then they sent it anyway. What the fuck is up with that?

By the way, Fellas, although she sounds like an absolutely fabulous catch, I don't think Miss Yak really exists; she's just a part being played by some dude in Nigeria, probably. Hate to burst your bubble that way, but what can I say? I care.

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Insane Blogger Becomes Caregiver...

...and reaches for his gun.

My mother left the hospital yesterday, having had a knee replacement surgery on Friday, and subsequently whining for three days that she wanted to go home and "be comfortable", as if it is possible to be comfortable with several pounds of titanium alloy with gears and hinges, and 20 or so staples in your leg.

Anyways, the incredible banshee-quality whining of the hospital bed (It's too hot, it's too cold, the food stinks, there's nothing on television, they didn't give me my pain meds ten seconds after I asked for them, 'The Other One' in the next bed kept me up all night, etc, etc.) was soon replaced by the shrill keening wail of a whole new range of conditions to complain about (the medical transport driver deliberately hit every bump on the way home, the seat belt is too tight/too loose, can you turn the heat down then back up, and so forth). And that's before we even got into the house.

I am caring for my mother during her recovery, and I must admit, I'm not exactly equipped for this job. For a start, I have very little patience for whining. I understand that this sort of procedure usually results in the most monumental waves of pain known to anyone not interred at Gestapo Headquarters, but hell, it was an elective surgery, so I don't want to hear it. I already know, and your constant harping on the subject just wants to make me drug you up; I can't do anything else about it.

But, someone has to deal with it, right? I can, to a certain extent, suck it up and soldier on, but it's only been 24 hours and I'm ready to burn the house down.

To begin with, My mother is, and always has been, all of the following;

a. A drama Queen
b. Neurotic and given to bouts of acute anxiety.
c. An attention whore.
d. A sympathy junkie.

And Saint Carol the Martyr, heir-apparent to the Virgin Mary (btw, most Italian mothers behave this way), is making certain she milks this situation for all it's worth. That's when she's not engaging her other great skills in never having a positive word to say about anything, and complaining about everything under the Sun. Oh, and for speaking in sentences which always contain at least two variations of the personal pronoun (I, Me, My, Mine, and so forth).

If you read this blog regularly, you can probably see that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree in many respects. But really, I got help...

Truth is, there was never any pleasing her, and now that she's helpless and in need of care she has taken this most distasteful personality trait to new and dizzying heights. I'm seriously contemplating murder, but won't do it if only because the insurance company would get suspicious when the required paperwork never turns up and might leave a message on the answering machine.

I'm not even expecting as much as a "thank you" when her recovery is complete. That's just the way she is. It's expected that because she gave birth, I'm supposed to be at her bedside 24/7/365. I'm to take my impending galley-slave existence gracefully and maintain the proper attitude.

Except that She's a Pain in the Ass, and the process of taking care of her is an even bigger Pain in the Ass. It's only 24 hours, and I'm already discovering:

1. That I'm seeing parts of my mother's anatomy that I haven't seen since the day I was born, and which no Son past the socially-acceptable breastfeeding age should ever see. This is embarrassing, uncomfortable and just fucking creepy.

2. My mother is an expert whiner, complainer, and petty taskmaster. If you were to give her a winning Lottery Ticket, a Pot of Gold, and a Ferrari, she would bitch about why you didn't pick any of her favorite numbers, why it's only one pot, and really, couldn't you have gotten a better color and automatic transmission? Whenever she requires something, the dreaded phrase "as long as you're up" is uttered, shadows cross the floor, and a feeling of impending doom overtakes me, because I now know that the simplest of tasks will now become a torrent of petty make-work-for-her-comfort projects that will eat up the majority of the day.

And overnight, she'll be thinking of more stupidity to lay on me the following morning; The Sun is too bright,please close the curtains...oh, as long as you're water is too wet, I need you to rearrange the seven pillows on the bed, and find a way for me to sit at a perfect 90-degree upright angle so that I can watch television and split atoms simultaneously. Oh, and find me some atoms, too.

If that doesn't drive you batshit insane, there's the myriad of tasks that need to be done every day that remind you that being human is often a humiliating and disgusting experience, full of the most unpleasant aspects that we barely think about...until we have to wipe someone else's backside, and there isn't a diaper or a 4 a.m. bottle feeding involved. Don't get me started on the problems inherent in sponge-bathing your own mother.

I'm also discovering that the battery of cuss words at my disposal is quite limited. I once would have thought this absolutely impossible, being able to swear like a sailor at the drop of a hat, and often for no reason, at all. I'm a New Yorker: we use the F-word as a noun, verb, adverb, adjective, and often like punctuation, so imagine my surprise when the usual litany of curses muttered under my breath just doesn't seem to cut it, anymore. They don't seem adequate to express my feelings and frustrations, and I'm seriously going to reach for a Thesaurus so as to find newer expressions of fundamental disapproval. I may even have to learn another language.

It probably sounds terrible for a Son to speak of his Mother in this way -- and on a public forum for all the world to see! -- but there is a point to all of this; I'm beginning to have a new and healthier respect for caregivers....even the unionized hacks. They must bump up against the most miserable people in the world every day, and people who are normally unpleasant and then burdened by sickness must be the absolute worst. Like Nazis in heat, I would imagine.

Either these are the most patient and loving people on Planet Earth, or they all go home, drink themselves silly, kick the dog and beat their kids, just so that they can present the miserably ill with a plastic smile and the impression that they actually enjoy this kind of work. Considering that would make them even more miserable than the miserable bastards they often have to care for, I find that idea highly unlikely.

So, I will simply have to conclude that they are much better people than I am.

I will persevere. I'll get through this, and get Mom back on her feet so that I can go back to my overarching goal in life since the age of 14; finding a way to put as much distance between us as I can possibly manage.

But, damn, if it isn't enough to make you psychotic...

UPDATE: The response to, and popularity of, this post has been amazing. Thanks to everyone who continues to forward it to everyone they know! If you're interested in what's happened since this was originally posted -- plus many more observations related to taking care of the sick folks -- then please click the "Caregivers" label at the bottom of this post!

The Wisdom of Professor Hanson...

...and the Pious Hypocrisy of the Libtards.


Monday, December 06, 2010

The Word of God...Or Performance Art?

It must be my face. There is, maybe, something on my ugly mug that says "Come on, you can talk to me...Let me hear whatever insanity it is that's rattling around inside your head. I'll give it a fair hearing, and won't laugh or get hostile, honestly!"

Scene from the Staten Island Ferry, approximately 8:30 P.M., Sunday, December 5th, 2010;

We find our hero (that would be Me) engrossed in his book -- The Peloponnesian War, by Donald Kagan. The story so far: the Spartans have the ball on the Athenian's 35 yard line, down by 6, no time outs, and under two minutes left to play. Sparta's veteran quarterback, King Archidamus, unfortunately died after a vicious blind-side hit (no flag on the play!) in the 2nd quarter, and so the Spartan side must depend upon career bench-warmer, King Pleistoanax. Elsewhere, Cleon and Diodotus are locked in a heart-wrenching custody battle over the renegade Mytileneans, with Cleon believing they only really require a stern, disciplinarian father-figure, while Diodatus believes the poor waifs just haven't been properly nurtured, and are perhaps eating too much sugar. In the meantime, the Athenian Pnyx (sort of like the Glee Club, only slightly less gay, and with the power to make law in Athens) has decided that the Mytileneans are just irredeemable, and despite the fact that they might be cute-as-the-dickens, they should still be slaughtered wholesale.

On the other side of Greece, Thucydides writes about Rainbow Ponies and Purple Unicorns in his frilly and fruit-scented diaries, waiting for the days when his thus-far unrequited love for Pericles oif Athens will finally bloom, and bring forth a New Day in the Ancient World, and so he idles away the time writing "Mr. and Mrs. Pericles...Mr. and Mrs. Thucydides-Pericles, Mrs. T. Pericles of Athens...." and thinking he will just D-I-E if Pericles doesn't call soon.

I can't wait to see how it ends. They should make a Lifetime made-for-TV movie out of it. But I digress...

Anyway, there I am, reading quietly, all by myself in my own little corner of the ferryboat, not bothering a soul, perfectly content to imagine that nothing outside those written pages before me exists, when HE shows up.

"He" is something of a puzzler. At first glance, I can't tell if he's a recovering alcoholic (nah, can't be. Not enough stitches in his face), an ex-drug user (no sign of trackmarks, seems to have most of his original teeth), or just an idiot. Then "He" opens his mouth, and the mystery has been solved. Yep, idiot.

Excuse me, Sir. Have you heard the Good News?

Did the Yankees resign Derek Jeter?

*Chuckle* No, nothing like that. I meant have you heard that He Has Risen?

Oh, that. Listen, I don't mean to be rude, but I'm not really interested in discussing religion with you at the moment. Perhaps there's someone further up the boat that needs saving? Good evening.

There are none so blind as those who will not see.

There are none so bloody as He who won't take a hint and scram.

I'll pray for you, Sir.

Yeah, you do that, Numbnuts.

And there it should have ended. But it was not to be. For having decided that there was at least ONE soul on this ferry that was in dire need of saving, Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News decided to set up shop not 10 feet away. The Lecture had begun. He began to pour forth a load of rubbish that was so from left field (even for those in this captive audience Washed in the Blood) that even those who DID want to hear what he had to say were like "What page in the Bible was that on, Dude?".

For you see, we had before us the absolute worst of the Godbots; the ones that combine the contradictory gobbledeegook of the Gospel with the absolutely bulletproof stupidity of conspiracy theory. This was too good to ignore.

Because Jesus was an alien being, you see, and he was sent -- in human form, really he looked like something akin to a squid with an erection, I gather, a feat only made possible by the advanced scientific knowledge possessed by the inhabitants of Andromeda -- on a super-secret mission to Save the World, but he was killed before he could truly warn Mankind of it's imminent, galactic danger, and so the secret has been lost.

Except for people like Mr. Have-You-Heard-Good-News, who have had the entire inside story revealed to them in a series of visions, presumably broadcast from another galaxy and picked up on the fillings in his teeth.

You see, the Romans knew who Jesus REALLY was, and there's Scripture written to prove it. So long as you play with definitions and torture meanings.

This douchebag recited that "Scripture that Proves It", word-for-word, and if you listen carefully, the "clues" in all of these passages are evident when one bumps up against a"deliberate mistranslations" (all part of the conspiracy to obscure the Real Truth, you see) of Scripture from Aramaic-to-Greek-to-Latin-to-Vernacular. Jesus was "set up"; the Romans sent spies to see what he was up to, and then they framed him on a fraudulent tax charge (the whole "Render unto Caesar..." routine). Almost like Al Capone. The systematic re-writing, and re-editing of Scripture through the years is all part of the sinister plot (that's why there was a Martin Luther, you know. He was an alien, too, who was sent to finish what Jesus started, but he was easily lead astray and the Truth was further obscured by the Reformation).

Just who is this "They" involved in this conspiracy, and why they should do what "They" have been accused of doing, is never stated, naturally.

Anywho, the Romans had discovered the True Origin of the Extraterrestrial Savior, performed crude medical experiments upon him (related in the Bible, through "deliberate mistranslation" of course, as "scourging"), and then Crucified him, under the mistaken impression they had rid themselves of someone who was capable of destroying the Roman Empire single-handedly. How they discovered this, and how Jesus was supposed to achieve this destruction is covered by at least five verses from both Old and New Testament that must be"re-interpreted", and the"deliberate mistranslations" expunged, in order to make sense in this context.

So, Jesus is crucified, but three days later is "Resurrected"; another deliberate mistranslation, for it was really an impostor who was Crucified, and Jesus was held in the Roman equivalent of Gitmo, only secret-er, for three days, until he escaped by utilizing his amazing alien scientific knowledge to manipulate and transform matter -- powers mistakenly described as "miracles"; the water-to-wine routine, the really neat loaves-and-fishes trick, and let's not forget the perennial favorite, walking on water, just for example. He's "beamed up" by the"Mother Ship" when his Alien Overlords decide this species is too stupid to be told The Truth, never to return.

It gets worse from there, believe me. The story had so many holes in it that it was in danger of taking on water. Ignoring the pleas of the captive audience to "make some fucking sense, Dickwad!" (we New Yorkers are so polite!), our intrepid Alien Acoylete simply plowed onwards.

So, what, exactly is this "imminent" danger that has threatened to wipe out Mankind (so imminent that 2,000 years later it still hasn't occurred)? Fuck if I know! We never got that far, you see. Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News was too busy explaining all the nuances of the Conspiracy Theory and ran out of time, so that he never got to this Cosmic Truth that only he and his (presumably dumber and crazier) friends apparently know. The ferry had docked, and it was time to leave.

I walked away, quickly, trying to leave before I had to listen to more of this insanity. Mr. Have-You-Heard-The Good-News was following folks down the passage to the gangway, continuing his nonsense.

That's when Mr. Have-You-Heard-The-Good-News did, indeed, finally get his bloody nose; He got it when he walked face-first into a bulkhead, so busy chasing and haranguing the crowd hat as he turned to follow a knot of folks there was no time to avoid that protruding steel flange. I was almost on the gangway when I heard those immortal words:

Jesus Fucking Christ! I think I broke my fucking nose!

I have never laughed so hard at anything in all my life. I saw him talking to the Police inside the Ferry Terminal a few minutes later. It turns out that this idiot is an aspiring actor who does this kind of shit to both to make a few extra dollars, and to polish his mad acting skillz.

Too bad Alien Jesus couldn't use his powers over time, space and matter to save this douchebag...from a broken nose. That's gonna fuck up his glossy head shots, for sure.