And God said, let there be a firmament in the midst of the waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters. And God made the firmament and divided the waters which were under the firmament from the waters which were above the firmament: and it was so. And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the morning were the second day.

I don't remember how I got to the mountaintop or when but Jesus, who was now dressed as a carpenter, was standing next to me on Mt. Ararat.

"This is where my favorite story occurred," Jesus said, "the sons of Noah were really cool guys-even the black one-the one Pop cursed after the event-but we hung out together a lot here on the slopes of Mt. Ararat."

Christ waited a beat as he took in the entire scene. "That's where Japheth set up the picnic basket-he even baked a ham and the boys rocked in laughter for hours about that one until Ham, the son of Noah, picked up the porker and tossed it off these very slopes." Jesus peered over the edge of the abyss, "I used to think I could see the shank down there, even though I'm sure the wolverines must have devoured it as soon as it hit the ground."

"But I digress," Jesus said. "It's harder for me to concentrate now that the three of us are dying!"

I stood aghast for a moment before I could even close my mouth, swallow and think through my thoughts.

"Dying?"

"Gods must be worshiped," Jesus said, "and with me hanging out on Bimini for the past two hundred years and Pop ripping a hole in the fabric of time to create a dozen new universes and the Spook all caught up with the Martha Stewart Halloween apparel venture, we've lost touch with all our worshipers."

"So, you're fading into the blackness of the universe? Like Apollo? Like Mithra? Like Osiris?"

"'Afraid so," the fading Christ said as his halo dissipated and the glow in his eyes faded into mere moon beams.

"How much-" I was unable to mouth the word 'longer' and, instead, just stared at the crag we stood upon, afraid to lift up my eyes unto the eyes of the Savior of the known Universe, to explore Jesus's face, his lips, his body. . . to look anywhere but down at my own two feet which at the moment felt as if they were disappearing into the rock.

"You are not Peter the Rock," Jesus said. "You must have no fear."

"I fear for you, Jesus," I said, "I've-"

"I know," Jesus' smile lit up the entire mountain and radiated through the towns and villages a hundred miles away, "You've fallen in love with me."

I blushed.

"I have," I said, "but, don't fear: it's merely infatuation!" Jesus the living Christ said. "You don't worship me, you don't adore me, you're not even in awe of me. . . not yet anyway."

Jesus turned into a polar bear, and it didn't surprise me in the least. "No," I stumbled for a moment, stammering for the right phrase-trying not to piss of the polar bear or the son of God or the man I first met in that cardboard box in my alley in what seemed like a million years before. "I'm an atheist. I-" again I stumbled for words.

"You were born again on August 24, 1954, at the Wheaton Bible Church rally for Me in Wheaton, Maryland, in that circus tent Ernie Farrell and Pastor Walter Kirk erected-the one with the wooden benches and the sawdust on the ground."

"You know about that? I've never told anyone-"

"I am the Son of God, remember! I know everything you've ever done, every thought, ever desire.

"Yes," I said as I watched the polar bear turn into an iguana-a green and blue iguana with a long purple stripe down its back and what seemed to be a wasp dangling in its mouth, as the Jesus iguana devoured the insect and licked his gnarly lips.

"I know, but, and here's the rub," Jesus turned into Marilyn Monroe again sensing she was my favorite of all his personas and her dress flew up revealing Jesus's hairy balls and foot long schlong. "You race doesn't worship me anymore, it doesn't 'believe' in me anymore . . . or trust me anymore, but, because I love you, I'll share a secret with you, in fact, I'll share the secret of universe with you. . . and with you alone: the human race is so insignificant in the realm of things that they can't comprehend this, even though I know you might: there is no eternal life, there is no such thing as life after death! There is nothing outside the void-outside the fading hermaphrodite god you see in front of you-you and your species will fade away in time, of course, even though you'll create a few more gods before you pass over into oblivion. You need us-you need the concept that there is a power higher than you-something to be your 'guiding light' and help you and protect you and sheath you from the darkest fears you've ever imagined."

Marilyn Monroe morphed into Rose O'Donnell, smirking at me in her loud obnoxious way.

"So, everything's a dream? And life is nothing more than a dream? You are our creation?"

Jesus kicked the pebbles a bit, glanced down the mountain for one more quick eagle eye search for the ham hock, his mouth watering, his eyes glistening and scratched his left arm pit, "Pretty much," he said. "But we weren't talking about us gods-or your race's animalist beliefs or your inability to expand your evolved monkey brain, we were talking about Noah and his family and Pop and the Spook and I used to look down from Betelgeuse and laugh our fucking ass off at your antics."

"It was a hoot watching what Ham, Shem and Japheth were up to-how often they screwed their wives. . . and each other. . . and laughing our collective asses off each time the boys drew straws to see which one would have to clean out the stables-you have no idea how much shit all the species of all the animals of the world can produce in the year long voyage of the Ark."

"But here's a secret no one knows but me: Ham and Shem were the smartest ones of the bunch (which ain't saying much if you get my drift) so they always made sure Japheth pulled the short straw. Japheth's eyesight wasn't good-cataracts, actually-and considering that he was over 400 years old at the time of the sailing, that wasn't a bad thing, but he couldn't see anything as big as a 2 inch straw-luckily his eyesight was strong enough for him to see the piles of elephant crap and animal poop-and it kept him so busy that Ham had the opportunity to screw Japheth's wife every afternoon during high tea for the entire duration of the voyage."

"High tea?"

"Of course, high tea," Jesus became human again-and I swear he was a doppelganger of Brad Pitt when he played Achilles in the movie Troy, and my heart throbbed and I blanked out for a few moments until I examined every inch of Brad Pitt's eye candy body.

"-and that's the reason for Noah's search for the perfect cup of tea. You see, he was aiming to land in the Himalayas-and set up a tea plantation in India, but the waters receded a tad too early and Noah and the boys and their wives and 325 children ended up here on Ararat."

"Three hundred children?"

"And twenty-five and multiplying every moment but it got worse, when after the flood you buggers started multiplying and multiplying-that's when I took my first extended trip to the Islands-back then it was just me and the critters and the sun."

Jesus continued, "You humans made such a colophony of noise that you chased all three of us away."

"That's when you guys really got into the entrepreneur business-making golden idols all over creation-some of them weren't bad, I'll give you that. And the Spook used to send me a few ever month by UPS. . . ha!" Jesus laughed, as a memory came to him, "That's when I flew off to Easter Island-that's where those monoliths came from. . . just in case you ever wondered. I brought them there."

"But I digress again," Jesus was a Native American now-naked-bronze skinned with hair hanging down to his shoulders. "But I tired of the Pacific too quickly. There were no monkeys back then-none of your ancestors-just me and the sea-and the sun-and after a thousand years or so-even though time goes by in the twinkling of an eye-I moved on. Bored, I guess. Don't look at me like that. Even the Son of God gets bored."

"That's when I discovered the New World-and lived for a while in Terra del Fuego with the naked natives, cavorting on the beach with the greatest sex god I ever met: Ulumani-a man who pleased the gods . . . and men, as we frolicked together naked in the surf, freezing our asses off in the winter as the Pacific winds howled up from the South Pole, but I grew tired of watching naked people and, of course, dying and resurrecting so many times."

"What?" I asked. "You only died once."

"Au contraire," Jesus said. "I had to die for each damned religion-long before your own was thought of by you mortals."

"Have you already forgotten our discussions of Mithra and Adonis? Those were just two of many. How about Osiris and Odin?"

Jesus the Christ wailed a "Well, once you die and resurrect, and die again and resurrect again. . . and die a few dozen more times, coming back from the grave each time, it's hard on the viscera-let alone the bed sheets-I mean can you imagine shooting out of your mother's womb a dozen different times?"

"I thought . . ." my voice trailed off a moment, nonplussed before it became angry, "Why are you asking me? I can't answer a question like that. Besides, how could I possibly remember being born, but . . . LET ME TELL YOU THIS: It can't be that fucking hard."

Jesus's voice boomed and I swear to God the heavens darkened, and a mighty wind nearly blew me off Mt. Ararat. "YOU DON'T REMEMBER! But I do. I Am the Lord God of the Universe. Picture me, returning to LaLa land after each of my deaths-picture me fighting off fourteen million other gods, all of whom want to sit in my vinyl yellow beach chair, shoving their fat asses onto my throne, their throne, our throne. DON'T YOU REALIZE THERE'S A WAR AMONG THE GODS? After waiting in line for eons in the nothingness of LaLa Land, we all want to sit in that fucking plastic beach chair because we're the gods mankind created in its own image . . . your own Myself be damned image!"

"What the fuck?"

"Watch your language, Scot! You should be on your knees bringing me a fattened calf and offering its bones and lard on a flaming altar."

"What?"

"Don't make me say it twice. Sit!"

I sat on a rock which had suddenly transformed itself into a three-piece sectional-covered in flaming red cowhide, so soft and cozy that I didn't think I'd ever want to get up.

"Why must I keep reminding you: You people created us," Jesus Christ said, "not the other way around, we've been over this before-is your mind in your own personal LaLa land?"

"Do you honestly think we gods give a shit about humans-we're just after that damned pink beach chair-that's all we ever wanted-and I was fine there, until your people came along and split me out of Jehovah, boiling out of his body as steam came out of my ears, creating the Spook."

Jesus Christ looked like he was going to cry.

"And now, when we do sit there, in our lovely vermilion chair-"

"I thought it was pink!"

"It's what the fuck color I want it to be. This is my story."

Jesus turned vermilion, then chartreuse, then magenta, then onyx color, and for a brief instant I thought he had physically morphed into that self-same vinyl chair he was describing-there were even three ass-sized indentations in its seat.

"It's three asses fighting for the same twenty-four square inches of vinyl," Jesus continued. "Well. . . two and a half asses actually, your ancestors envisioned the Spook as a ghost, so he only has half an ass-and that's on a good night-more often than not, he's just a dim, no, he's not even that-he's like piece of plastic-sometimes hard but always something you see right through-and sometimes bump into because you don't know it is plastic-or in this case the freaking Holy Spook!"

Jesus was no longer the vinyl chair-now he appeared to be Ganesha-India's half man, half elephant god, as he trumped in a snarly elephant sounding voice, "But at least you gave us some pleasure, Pop and me, that is, because we have no end of fun reminding the Spook how half assed he really is."

"It's a regular hootenanny! But that's an in house joke so don't pass it on, okay?"

I gulped, still trying to reason why my people had created so many gods-let alone this bipedal long trunked elephant God who seemed hell-bent (pardon the pun if Jesus is reading over my shoulder) on going home to LaLa Land and fighting with the other 14,000,000 gods about the possession of a vermillion-or pink-or whatever the hell color it is-cheap assed, with two and a half ass indentations, plastic chair.

"Do you think the gods went looking for Adam in the garden? You created us as half blind, totally stupid gods who enjoyed eating the lard, bones and skin of the animals you killed-how fucking generous! You ate the meat and forced us Gods to chew the damned fat-and to add insult to injury, you turned that despicable fat into your offering-so fuck you and your shitty Judaic-Christian religion."

Jesus plopped down next to me and I now saw five-well, actually four and a half-ass indentations in the sofa."

As if reading my mind, Jesus said, "Yes, we have five asses! Me, Pop, the Holy Spook, Ganesha and Shiva. Shiva, by the way, is Ganesha's old man and feels sorry for him now that's he's beheaded his boy and stuck an elephant's head on his remains!"

"On top of that you and your freaking monkey brained mentality devised a hundred different systems of worship, complete with insane rules and dietary restrictions that no human could ever follow . . . Then you added sin and guilt to the mix. And to further stir up the melting pot, you evil monkey bastards spent millennia filling up tomes of religious gobbledygook, weaving tales about your gods, how we came from outer space, how we support the earth on the back of a turtle as it floats across the ocean of time and space, how we fuck and suck each other ad infinitum, how we love to drink and whore, how we love to dance the tarantella at parties, and how much we love to be cruel and heartless. In short, you created us in your exact imagine . . . human! You little fucks!

"Have you ever wondered why the gods couldn't just be their carefree cavorting selves, running around in LaLa waiting their turn to sit in the cheap plastic chair? Don't you know even Walt Disney is a god in LaLa Land? He spends half his time selling tickets to the expedited short line to sit on the vinyl throne and the other half pinning mouse tales on newcomers."

"No, of course you couldn't." Jesus continued to talk but for a few moments I thought he was a ventriloquist throwing his voice to and from the other ass indentations in the sofa and I swear to Jehovah, I heard the distant sound of an elephant trumpeting as if Ganisha was angrier than the living Christ.

"Yea though I walk through the valley of death I will fear no evil. My rod and my staff they comfort me," Jesus spoke without moving his lips-the sonorous sound of lapping water and a singular avalanche echoed off a distant mountain.

"What pervert wrote that?"

"David," I said. "Mighty King David, whom God loved above all other humans . . . other than yourself of course in your incarnate life, that is."

The middlemost indentation disappeared, leaving just two and a half ass prints and I surmised that one of the other gods had gone out for tea, guessing it was Jehovah because he had the fieriest temper and he was the most British of all the gods, so obviously, a tea drinker.

"You ramble, Scot." The voice didn't come from Jesus or from the sofa-it was coming from out there somewhere, but it remained mellow, gentle really, as if it had lived too long and just wanted to end the God-charade and move on with its life. "David's rod and staff were synonymous with his cock, which he fondled long and hard," the voice cleared its gravely throat, pleading a mea culpa, "pardon the pun," it said, "but David's rod was always hard-remember he had more wives than anyone except Solomon-and it stayed hard unless he was bonking a half dozen soldiers at a time. Davey wrote most of the psalms one-handed as did his boy, Sol. That should be obvious from the sexual innuendo there in in the Song of Solomon-perverted pieces of trash, actually-not as bad as the Devi Mahatmya or the Mahabharata or the Vedas, but nearly as bad as Leviticus and Deuteronomy!"

Jesus took up the conversation from his Old Man, "Have you really ever read Our Holy Word-or the Kama Sutra-or the Koran-or the glorious Book of the Dead, the one ancient book that honest to Myself shows you mortals how to gain entry into LaLa Land?"

Jesus didn't wait for an answer to answer himself, but I didn't expect him to. It was rhetorical.

"David's stories, indeed, all the religious stories were woven by story tellers who held their dicks in one hand and a stylus in the other." Jesus laughed mightily for a moment or two and then added, "Psalm 101, 102 and 138 were all written by the end of a cock and perhaps that's because ninety-nine percent of the stories in the Bible are sexual fantasies created by impotent men trying to create an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-forgiving, all virile god . . . or gods."

Jesus took a breather and the other indentation evaporated from the sofa as we all stood and readjusted our jockey shorts.

"I guess I should have stayed in Bimini. . . not necessarily to release the sons of bitches who thought they were in purgatory, but the guys there really turned me on-they were almost as fucking hot as you are, Scot, besides that the snorkeling was freaking unbelievable, the swimming was the best this side of Galilee, and the sex, Oh Myself, the sex was superb-almost as hot and glorious as ours is, Scot, when you and I fucked that entire week in Paris, or the weekend we spent on top of Bariloche in Argentina on that ski trip where you ended up naked on my shoulders as we skied down what was it a three thousand foot race to the bottom-thankfully I found your bottom before we reached that other bottom." That's when we both broke out in laughter, wondering why we got so caught up in that damned chair in LaLa Land or bothered about the other gods-for us, it was seldom sex, but when it was, it caused earthquakes on both sides of the globe.

"I just wish you had been with me from the beginning. In a place in which we could both fuck all night and then swim naked all day. Can you picture it? Bimini. 1952. A full moon rising over the watery horizon. Me shucking my duds on the beach and racing to the water. Men and women envying my schlong and brother did I get a few oohs and aahs from the pre-pubescent boys and girls, along with a red-faced matron, and an old Indian whore peeing her panties as I sauntered into the ocean, my penis slapping up and down in the cool Atlantic waves. That's always been my favorite way to spend an evening, Scot-allowing the flock to visualize my schlong-speaking of dicks-yours is growing nearly as big as mine but back to the script: You should have seen the faces of the homos when I pranced my naked ass to the beach-they all came and it was a flood and it was glorious, Oh Myself, even the women and small children envied me but the highlight of the event was watching the homosexuals peaking up and over their wives' thick breasts."

Suddenly, we were back home in my backyard. Mt. Ararat came and went as easily as I could have blinked my eyes. Even the cardboard refrigerator box with the Best Buy logo was still in the alley, although it had been overtaken by a family of squirrels and a small coterie of children throwing a tea party but, and yet, apparently, it was none the worse for wear.

"I think it started that sunny Good Friday afternoon, when the short togaed Romans nailed my ass to the cross," Jesus voice was mellow now-more mellow, more somber, more sullen than it had been in our relationship and I did as I always did when he was in one of those moods, I wrapped my arms around his waist and kissed every part of his body from his tummy to his lips-and OMG, if you've never seen or touched or caressed or kissed the lips of the Savior of the Universe, you have no idea of the power, the glory, the ecstasy you have missed.

Jesus' mind slowly came back and he continued with his tale of his crucifixion almost jokingly, but certainly not as somber as he had been when he began.

"Well, as they pounded and pounded and pounded those rusty nails into every part of my body, I had to have something to fantasize about, didn't I? What better way to die than with a raging hard on? Ah, I see, you think I'm a masochist, that I enjoyed the pain. Nails hurt you know-especially the ones they drove up my ass."

"Excuse me. Are you telling me they nailed your naked ass to the cross."

"More or less, yes. Romulus was much more sadistic than the Scriptures recorded. Do you think you've heard the real story? The honest to Myself real story?"

"Ha. That tale's been expurgated more times than Chaucer."

"I can't imagine what it would be like to be naked in front of your enemies, let alone being nailed up the wazoo," I said.

Jesus Christ laughed, turned around, and spread his ass cheeks. "Look! I still have the wound marks. Three of them. No, no, get closer. I'm not going to fart. Look deep inside. Spread my cheeks. No, that's not a hemorrhoid. It's the scar from the deepest nail they drove up my ass, twelve inches. Sealed my asshole shut they did. Said they wanted me to die a virgin. Even Thomas refused to put his hand up there!" Jesus Christ laughed so hard he topped the two-hundred-year-old oak tree in my front yard. I saw it slice across the driveway, smashing my neighbor's Toyota into dust, and watched as my two-bedroom, one bath Cape Cod shivered from the impact. "Little did they know," Jesus Christ's laugher died down. "I lost my cherry when I went to the temple to drive out the money changers as a twelve-year-old. . . His name was Thaddeus, not the Thaddeus I chose later, although he reminded me of him, just Thaddeus, my first-but not my last-pick-up stud."

"I bet you thought a bar mitzvah was a time when a young boy became a man? Well, there are ways to become a man and there are ways to become a man." Jesus' eyes watered and for a moment I could sense his mad impulsive desire to time warp back to his prepubescent years and link up with Thaddeus and do whatever it was they did in a time loop for all eternity.

"Back then. Back in the Roman days, sexuality was much more open."

"We didn't give a rat's ass about homosexuals or transsexuals or even hermaphrodites-just filling whatever holes we could find as deeply and as often as we could. And what we did was nobody's business, but our own. PERIOD."

"It's all about your religious leaders here-your Trumps, your fake religion, and FOX News-they've sanitized the power and glory out of my Holy Word-tried to rewrite the Scriptures in their own vocabulary-with their own sense of greed and power blended together.

"But I digress. Mine was a religion of peace and love-not of the intolerance I see today."

"Except for those sweet Catholics priests, of course. They know how to turn boys into men and once they make men out of them, they'll remain in the church for the rest of eternity."

"In the name of Me, Myself, and I, I bless the Roman Catholics for having the balls to enjoy life and the joie de vie to prance around the cathedral in the all-together the moment the lights go off!"

"You're kidding, right?"

Lightning didn't boom, but I thought I saw the fizzle of a sparkler as Jesus said, "The Lord Myself never kids. Hang around some evening. Hide behind a second-row pew at the Cathedral of Simon the Ingrate and take a gawk. You'll see a half dozen holy priests prancing their asses around the communion table-rimming the holy Eucharist out of each other's butt holes."

I stared down at Jesus Christ's feet, which were now shod in a pair of satin slippers doused with sequins, and as I lifted my gaze, I noticed his bare legs, hairy crotch, and hirsute chest matted with thick wires of dark brown fur. "Why do you keep getting naked?"

"Actually, I keep getting dressed for you, Scot. I've only worn clothes a couple dozen decades-just enough to keep me this side of the law, if you get my drift."

"You know what they say: You came into this world naked and that's the way you're going out."

"Ah! The crucifixion! I get it. You were naked on the cross. That's what this is all about!"

"With my asshole nailed shut and my heels, hands, and nuts nailed firmly to the cross . . . you have no idea about how naked I was! And the cheap-assed Romans got both of my balls with the same frigging nail!"

I glanced down at Jesus Christ's nut sack, looking for scars.

"Don't be a Doubting Thomas," Jesus Christ said as he grabbed my hands and forced me down to his knees and shoved his balls deep in my mouth.

"Cough," I said, without thinking, as I pulled away and then went down on his cock.

"The Son of Me, Myself and I doesn't cough on command," Jesus said.

It doesn't matter to me, I'll lick, kiss, suck or fuck any hole large enough-for me there is never a right hole. I thought.

When I stood back up, Jesus Christ was wearing a Roman soldier's tunic, brown leather sandals, and a Playtex Living Bra.

"I wear the bra for my transsexual friends," Jesus said.

"Would you like to come inside awhile and have something to eat?" I asked as I withdrew my hand from the ever-widening hole in Jesus Christ's left nut.

"Actually, I'd prefer to have someone wash my feet. No one's washed my feet since the early 1950's . . . except for that horrible moment in Joseph McCarthy's broom closet. What a fag, but-" Jesus turned around, I surmised to change outfits again because he gloriously transfigured himself into a horse's ass for a moment before reverting to his favorite self: a speedo-clad surfer in Bimini is for Lovers T-shirt and his Harvey Milk Visor. "I do miss the fifties, though, it was a much more innocent time. My worshippers were devout back then . . .with all that ass kissing and foot washing and shit.

"You want me to wash your feet?"

"Yes, the Catholics used to do that daily but that was a millennium ago, back then the men would wash my feet with their tears and the women would wipe them with their hair, but then something happening-the church began to get too political, I think, caught up in daily bingo games and raffles, and it became more concerned with causes than with me and the other one and a half gods."

"You mean your Father and the Holy Spirit?"

"Whatever turns your churn."

I took his hand, lifting him up to my level, staring into his deep set brown eyes, realizing I'd have to do something about his breath, his body order, the fetid follicles he called hair. "I'll wash your feet," I said, "but I'm an atheist-so you won't feel my tears."

I ripped off the piece of cardboard I'd scribbled my notes on, covered it in Big Block Letters: DELIVERIES IN THE REAR and put my hand around his shoulder, steading him, as we staggered toward my house.

"I like it," Jesus the living Christ, said, it has a certain homo-erotic twist to it."

I looked back at my sign and noticed that these Hebrew words were now emblazoned underneath my scrawl:

???? ?????? ???

"I'm joking with you, boy, but loosely translated out of the mouth of God-it says: 'cum up my ass.'"

I was fucked-not literally thank the two and a half gods but figuratively. Jesus was toying with me, enjoying my double entendre in the same way I had when I was a young man in the 60s and such terms were one of the few ways we could communicate with fellow homosexuals.

"It's okay," Jesus said, "just remember my asshole has been nailed shut for the past two thousand years and if I had not been born a top, my soul would never have left hell."

I wanted to say, 'you must be full of shit' but Jesus laughed before I had a chance to mouth the words.

"Yes," he said, "truer words have never been spoken-but most of the other fourteen million gods are just as constipated."

We both laughed. I was beginning to like this man as a friend more than I had ever liked him so many years ago as my personal savior.

"There's only one step, but you'll have to lift your feet up really high-the back porch isn't up to code-so it's not legal. I did the work myself."

"I can see," Jesus Christ said, as he glanced down, brightening the stair with his aura. "I haven't been a fan of bureaucrats since they sent me to hell for three days.

The step leveled and evened out to the legal nine-inch height as the color of the paint changed from mud-cake brown to hemoglobin. We reached the kitchen and I helped Jesus Christ to one of the vinyl yellow kitchen chairs-without realizing the pain I was causing the living God of the Universe-how he much have ached to have been sitting in his own yellow or pink or aquamarine) vinyl throne in LaLa Land.

The screen door closed quietly on its pneumatic arm, and I turned around to lock the heavy wooden door tightly shut. When I turned back around, Jesus was wearing a Calvin Klein charcoal three-button suit with a yellow vest, a light blue Brooks Brothers' Golden Fleece End-on-End Hairline Striped French Cuff Dress shirt with a pair of fourteen carat Picasso cufflinks, and red leather Gucci moccasins-the ones with tassels and the embossed Gucci script logo. I couldn't see his socks. . . and thinking about what type of underpants Jesus Christ wore, made me blush.

"Behold. . . in the twinkling of an eye," Jesus Christ said as he sat and his shoes and socks disappeared and I witnessed the abnormally disgusting fungus on toes.

I picked up the little plastic scrub brushes to have a go at it, but the only brush I could find was the green one that Woofie, my miniature schnauzer, used to nibble on each time I washed him-but Woofie was gone now, dead of apoplexy, and his brush was the only thing I had available for such a dirty job.

I filled the bucket with warm water and got out the Ivory, a wash cloth and a clean towel and when I turned around, Jesus Christ was naked-except for a pair of Brubaker's paisley boxer shorts. His eighteen-inch schlong was hanging down and thumping up and down on the cold marble floor, keeping time to the mambo beat that emanated from my computer in the other room (and yes, I always had music playing somewhere in the house-it was a hold-over from the time I had spent in solitary as a prisoner in Viet Nam, when the Kong inundated my very soul with the screeching sound of Asian music. So, never able to delete the Kong soundtrack of screechers, I always kept soft "happy" music playing in the background, twenty-four seven.

"I'm sorry about my schlong," Jesus said, "It's too big to fit inside my briefs and I don't know why I bother wearing boxers-ever since those Romans nailed up my asshole and hung fifty-pound weights from my schlong and, well. . . the pleasure was far exceeded by the embarrassment of having to live with something like this." Jesus paused a moment in what seemed like time suspended and I swear I saw a tear roll his face so I sat up and grabbed him, hugging him like no man had ever done before and I kissed and kissed and we cried in sheer unadulterated bliss as that cock danced the tarantella .

"I used to buy my undies at Best Buy and take a ruler with me-but that was fruitless."

"You measured your undies?"

"Yep, but none of the Best Buy boxer shorts was ever more than nine inches from the crotch down. I kept calling in prayer requests to the Praise the Lord Club, but they banged the phone down as soon as I told them Jesus' schlong was too big for his boxers. After about the one hundredth call to those fundamentals, I just went commando."

"I've always loved you, Jesus, but now I truly adore you," I was blushing like a teen-aged sailor would during his first visit in a whore house and I tried not to look up-or to the right at the dangling schlong-as I washed Jesus' feet-but it was impossible not to sense the throbbing battering cobra a mere inch from my lips. . . but as I washed and wiped Jesus' feet, I noticed that his fetid piss-assed alley smell had changed to rosewater, and the gardenia foot-washing water was as clear as a mountain stream when I dumped it in the kitchen sink.

"Thanks." Jesus Christ purred. "That's the closest thing to a foot massage I've felt since Luke gave me the full treatment back in XXXIII A.D."

"Don't you love how they named the millennia after me? Anno Domino . . the year of Me, Myself and I. It's so hot it makes my ass cheeks quiver."

When I turned around Jesus Christ was wearing a pair of 401's, a blue and red flannel shirt with a string tie, a pair of snakeskin cowboy boots and a ten-gallon hat.

"What are you for Christ sakes? A quick change artist?" I blushed at my inappropriate use of his name, but he laughed and said, "Of course, I needed something exotic to try while waiting in line all those years in line in LaLa Land you should have seen how my artwork impressed not only Michelangelo but Leonardo as well-and more modern people-Salvador Dali nearly shit himself with glee watching my antics as he stood in with me one eternal day.

"So now you know how exciting line-waiting can be-try it sometime you're in a long non-ending, worthless, meandering boring line-not by changing clothes but merely by changing attitudes or behaviors, right now by the way, while you were digging out that fucking funcus from my big toes, Dad and the Spook came to watch. Can you feel one of their hands on your right shoulder and the other hand on your left?" Jesus said, "would you like to see all six of our hands?"

I didn't have to open my mouth before I felt four hands sliding down my shoulder as their corporal souls moved in front of me-their glory-their brilliance-their light was more than I or any other human could normally stand but today it filled my soul-three gods here in my kitchen, touching me, and suddenly I felt kisses-three of them two on my shoulders and one on my feet but then the kisses changed as I heard a rustling sound and felt the three gods moving all around me and I relaxed and was "in heaven" right there in my kitchen being loved, caressed, cared for, respected and honored like no human had ever come close to achieving. I shivered in delighted and thanked each god, one by one, looking him in his face-and yes the Spook has a face-she says she doesn't reveal it often-but it is a Mona Lisa Face-silly me-now it's a Marilyn Monroe face and then an Eleanor Roosevelt and then-of course she was honoring me for washing Jesus' feet in the best way you could-and Dad was suddenly behind me grabbing my shoulders and heaving me joyously high in the air over the kitchen chair so the hairs on the top of my head gently wafted along the top of the ceiling. Then that god dropped me and it felt as if I was falling from the top of Mt. Everest-falling, falling, feet first into an abys until up, up, he pulled me and I was siting in the Golden Throne in LaLa Land but no, then it was my kitchen and I knew all three gods were honoring me-me, Scot Walker, author, teacher, playwright, activist, world-traveler, gay man and my heart nearly exploded with their love and their joy and their eternal power.

Then they were gone and I was non-plussed and turned to Jesus and he smiled his quirky grin and said, "LaLa Land awaits for all of us-you do know that by now, don't you Scot? One day soon you will be in that line and once you sit on the real plastic chair you will know what eternity is all about."

I took three deep lung filling then lung emptying breaths and forced myself to come back down from my high, as I concentrated on the god in my kitchen and said, "I like you dressed much better than seeing your sorry nailed up asshole! You do know that you look quite charming when you dress casually."

"What you see is what you get," Jesus Christ said, "You must remember that first and foremost I'm a nudist-all three of us are-but I didn't get into nudism until that unfortunately crucifixion incident. At first they just pulled back my loin cloth to nail my nuts to the cross, but Felix, that sadistic Roman centurion who gambled for my clothes, decided I'd be more vulnerable if I was naked-so he ripped off my linen underwear and to add insult to pain, he auctioned them off to the mingling crowd-they are currently in Turin in a sacred box opened every of my earthly 'birthdays' and sniffed by all the priests."

"I heard later that he originally sold it to the Church of the Blessed Loincloth in Milan and that pilgrims still come there every Myselfmas Eve to kiss it and pay homage to their Lord and Savior, yadda yadda-but it went from church to cathedral to townhall for so many Myselfmas Eves that I gave up thinking about it until today, Scot. Anyway, the smell's gone after two millennia and, quite frankly, I don't see the point of anyone sticking their nose in my drawers unless it's got some of my LaLa Land stench left in.

When I glanced up at Jesus I noticed he was now wearing nothing more than a gold tank top from my alma mater: Wheaton High School with a raised crimson "W".

I tried not to glance lower but couldn't help noticing the shadow of his gigantic schlong dancing in the morning light.

"My Wheaton High logo brings back such happy memories-you know, I never thought of this-but you were with me back then, weren't you?

"I've always been with you, sweetheart, before your conception, during your birth, sensing your first breath and hearing your first ga ga ga ga gurgles as one of the fourteen million omnivorous, omnipotent, omniscient gods, I CHOSE YOU!" Jesus Christ said as he chewed on the word 'omnivorous' for what seemed like half an eternity. "I am the beginning and the end. In short, Scot, I read you like a book and know more about you than you know about yourself."

"You won your high school letter for academics and sports," Jesus Christ said. "Not many students were that accomplished. What do you owe your prowess to?"

I gulped. "I'm not the one with prowess," I said. "I didn't die on the cross, or suffer, or start a religious movement with a billion followers," or walk around my God damned house naked dragging a twenty-inch-long schlong behind me, I thought.

"Don't freak out every time I run around in the all together, okay? You've got to get used to the Lord your God Yadda Yadda naked in your kitchen, otherwise you'll be damned and go to hell."

I paled.

"For My sakes, Scot, get a life! I'm just jerking your chain. You've got to remember, the first time I landed here, I hung out with a dozen men in the downtown Jerusalem YMCA-and you'd better believe we saw each other's cumquats from time to time. It's just no big deal, okay?"

"And when I say hung out, I mean we all hung out. And Thaddeus and Bartholomew had the hottest locks, stocks and barrels I've ever seen outside the celestial gates!" Jesus paused and I saw his eyes glow, "For that matter, why do you think I chose those particular twelve disciples? Twelve hot boys who jumped at my command. Twelve hotties who put on drag shows, danced in the light of the moon, and entertained me with the wildest stories since Scheherazade!"

I watched Jesus Christ's eyes glaze over.

"Bartholomew was the biggest horn dog-Bart Simpson was modeled after my Bart-silly, immature, always pubescent in his behavior and attitude, and even today, when I watch Matt Groening's creations, I get a hard on thinking about my hot sweet, short, brown-skinned dark-eyed Bartholomew!"

Jesus went off into LaLa Land for a few moments-or hours-I'm not sure which, fading in and out until finally, all I saw was his just his schlong and a half dozen curly pubic hairs. I guessed schlongs weren't needed in LaLa Land and that Jesus was taking a side-trip there and that's why he had left his 'thing' dangling from the yellow and shit-stained vinyl chair in my kitchen. Too bad, I thought, the Mormons and Muslims won't be very happy in LaLa land-even with a dozen virgins. . . they just won't be happy with the elephant god and the King of Kings prancing around in the all together.

Slowly Jesus Christ returned to my kitchen. This time he was wearing a McGregor kilt and carrying a complete set of Highland bagpipes.

Your bags are entertaining enough without bringing those, I thought.

"I am the entertainment," Jesus said. "Have you forgotten what Matt said about me in the first book of the New Testament?"

My eyes gazed over. I knew the Scriptures as well as any graduate of the King's College. I had minored in Bible, memorized countless verses but had no clue what Jesus meant.

"Don't hide your bagpipe under a bushel." Jesus said.

As I started to interrupt, the living Christ continued. "There have been far too many mistranslations of my holy words," Jesus said. "And of the lives we led back then-and of the real meaning of my life . . . and my death."

"What was the real meaning-"

Jesus ignored my question.

"All in good time," Jesus said, "all in good time."

Jesus took another beat, blew into his bellows and played me a Scottish highland tune that haunts me to this very day-so sweet, so sonorous, so beautiful that the moment he blew into the pipes I felt as if I was transported into the very LaLa Land Jesus had just left.

"Bart had three male Canaanite prostitutes on the side, along with a wife in Cana and a whip-master in Caesarea Philippi, but he was the first bisexual human I ever met."

What other types of bisexuals are there? I wondered.

"Bisexuality is common to all animals-as well as to the gods, so is homosexuality-it's only in the Modern Age that man has found everything dirty about sex-even the missionary position is dirty now." Jesus wept. "We don't have that problem in LaLa Land. Sexuality is whatever you want it to be, whenever you want it to be . . .as long as you perform it with a consenting god-or as in your future case, a human who is so amazing, so delightful, so joyous, so full of life and kindness that he becomes a god." Jesus' smile illuminated my entire house!"

"But, back to Bart-everyone thinks Peter was my favorite or John, but, nope, they wrote Scriptures immortalizing themselves, and of course humans never really saw the real Bart, they never saw him as the skank he was-the whore-the fun-loving-always-laughing-son-of-a-bitch-crazy-assed-lunatic that he was. My amazing, glorious Bartholomew!"

"I can still remember how often he loved to cavort naked at our dance along with the Twelve Apostles dinner parties and theatre events, waving his tiny four thing around like it was a licorice stick. I remember those nights when we'd all play strip poker-except for Judas-he'd hang back at the table, lifting up the folds of his robe and jerking off like a lunatic while the rest of us ran around the dining room table as naked as jaybirds, giggling like schoolboys during spring break."

Jesus Christ was now wearing a black leather jacket, like a Greaser from the 50's. His halo was encompassing half the kitchen, and I was consumed by his aura. You look like James Dean I thought, always forgetting that Jesus Christ read my every thought, and knew my every move.

"My hero," Jesus Christ said.

"Did you see Rebel Without a Cause or East of Eden?"

"Of course, but Giant was his best: he was an Academy Award winner if ever I saw one."

"I bet you mailed in your vote but it got lost, right?"

Jesus Christ laughed so hard he knocked three nut hatchers off my bird feeder. "You're catching on fast," Jesus Christ said. "If you keep it up, I'll include you in my personal gang of gentile disciplines."

"I'm an atheist," I Said.

"Aren't we all?" Jesus Christ said, but we sure had fun making up religion. Let me tell you." Jesus Christ's mind seemed to wander. I saw his brown eyes turn to blue and then to deep green as though he was recreating two thousand years' worth of memories, compiling them into a single thought. "And then there was that night when we drank just a tad too much from that Myself damned gem-encrusted chalice. Oh Myself! It took three of us to hoist that sucker back up to the table and I was bloated and cramped for days," Jesus sighed. "Actually, I was hung over while I hung on the cross-and I guess that was a good thing. The nails didn't hurt all that much. . . at least not until they hammered that last spike up my asshole, but I think the memory of the vomiting and heaving during our Last Supper-from all twelve of us-was the worst moment of my life . . . that, and the loneliness of knowing I wouldn't be able to binge drink anymore. Drinking of anything other than Ambrosia and apple juice is strictly forbidden in LaLa Landi," Jesus grinned as he continued, "Remember a squig of apple juice every day keeps constipation away."

"You are God, right? I thought God could do anything."

"I can . . . we can, but, we do have our orders. We're not the top gods you know. There are forces we must obey-way, way about gods."

"What forces? What, what are you talking about?"

"We have to obey the laws of physics: there's Dark Matter and pus green molecular arbitrations, and scallions-I know these are new terms to you-but future generations will discover them . . . if they're not eaten by the Polycromes first . . those are the real three gods you worship the most-"

"The real three gods?"

Jesus paused for a beat, as though he was gathering his thoughts, trying to dummy down his deified explanation.

"The three of us gods your people worship the most are limited! We weren't just produced out of nothing, you know. We were created, as well-just like all things in heaven and in earth."

"That's the great mystery you folks have never deduced: who created the gods? Once you learn that, Me, Myself and I can surge away into the blackness of the unknown-smoke a Cuban cigar, sit back on our rocking chairs and chew the fat with the ancient more powerful gods. Gods like Adachigahara, the Japanese goddess who loved children. She's Goddess A."

Jesus laughed.

"She was armed with a knife!"

"And then there was Chac. He's the Mayan God of agriculture, fertility, rain and lightning; he's also one of the alphabet gods known as 'B' because his real name is Bursting Clouds."

"Chac is a reptilian critter with fangs and a rather droopy snout. His hair is a permanently knotted tangle of confusion, which we find quite endearing. He's still worshiped and he sends rain into the world by weeping from his large benevolent eyes. He's very good at that, and for a dollar ninety-eight you can buy his ebook: 'The Ancient Secrets of Corn Farming Revealed for the First Time . . . in Ten Easy Lessons.'"

"Then there's God 'C', I see your confusion. Remember the gods are not bound to your system of alphabetization." Jesus grinned, "Actually we have our own scripts-God Roman and Linear G," Jesus giggled as he changed outfits before my eyes. Now he was dressed as an Inuit, snuggled in a parka trimmed with outward-facing fur; an inner jacket lined with inward facing fur; a hood trimmed in wolverine; knee-length pants made out of polar bear; sealskin leggings; Caribou fur boots; fur-lined stockings; mittens and a goggle-like mask made of walrus tusks, caribou antlers and pine tree bark.

"Aren't you roasting to hell," I asked.

"Nope, I already turned your air conditioning down to forty and the allusion to hell isn't the best to make to one of the few gods who spent three days in Na Na Land. . . It's not as picturesque as you might believe."

I wished I had not brought up the subject and Jesus shouted, "Game on!"

"Let's play script poker!"

"Script poker. . . don't you mean strip poker?"

Jesus roared in laughter, "I'd be the clear winner if we played strip poker, besides script poker is what we play most in LaLa Land-besides croquet of course. . . and Go Fish."

Now I was laughing and we both rolled on the floor-and as I saw Jesus Christ like a human dust rag, wiping up all the dust from my kitchen floor I thought we should keep on rolling. So, we did, into the dusty living room, the bedroom, and finally into the inner sanctum: the library, where I do all my writing (including this story). Within an hour my house was spotless, and I wished I could hired an Inuit dressed in fur to work for me part time, but then again, I thought I guess it wouldn't work-I'd never be able to shake out an Eskimo Dust Bunny on my rear deck without all the neighbors coming to holly hell-or LaLa Land, depending on their proclivities. Nevertheless, the thought lingered in my mind for many years after that glorious moment with Jesus in his parka and the countless number of cat hairs clinging to his bosom.

We finished toasting each other with a six-pack of Dr. Pepper. "Just think," Jesus laughed raucously, "a few minutes ago this was tap water."

Now I rolled on the floor. Jesus had changed the tap water into Dr. Pepper and what I thought was funny about that I've never been able to figure out unless it continues to make me whine.

"I'm glad you're beginning to understand my godless sense of humor," Jesus winked, his brown eyes flashing, "There may be hope yet for your immortal soul."

"Pop, Spook and I just may be able to get you into heaven on a Section Eight, that's how most of the rest of the gods gained entry-we call it the 'Greek Approach.'"

"The Greek Approach?"

Jesus roared in laughter, "Think about Greek love. . . it may take a second, but you'll get it."

I got it-most of the gods had snuck in through the back door. Very funny, I thought, in a sick perverted way.

"Anyway, after the Greek gods fucked themselves and each other for countless generations their flabby asses made it to the Emerald City of LaLa Land but let me tell when they left all their old lovers something happened to their schlongs. Mine is a Vienna sausage compared to theirs, but" Jesus looked down at me and saw my schlong through my now invisible pants, "schlong size is not a pre-requisite."

"Praise the Lord. . . I mean Praise You!" I shouted.

"But I digress," Jesus said, we were discussing the Trinity in LaLa Land, where did I leave off?"

"God A is the female Adachigahara," I said, "God B is the Bursting Clouds God, whom we know as Chac."

Jesus broke in and I could tell he was pleased I had remembered, "And God C is the Celtic God," Jesus said. "But we're all too addlepated to remember her name most of the time, you'll probably know here as Morrigan and her sisterly accomplices, right?"

I looked at Jesus stupidly.

"I take it that means, no."

"She's my favorite-a woman with many titles: The Megalithic Mother Goddess and the Phantom Queen, but don't let her name fool you. She is not a goddess to mess with."

"She was one of the original members of the Tuatha-de-danann, also known as People of the Goddess Danu, who chose Ireland as their headquarters . . . and yes all the gods had 'chosen lands', Pop's was Palestine, of course, but mine was Utah which wasn't my choice-I was Godnabbed in my sleep and railroaded there by Joseph Smith and could only escape by promising my new friends they could marry as many women as they wanted, and the Spook's chosen city, of course, was Salem-he felt very comfortable there with the other spooks and witches."

I tried to assimilate half of what Jesus was telling me, but my brain was exploding faster than I could think.

"Anyway, Morrigan and her coven needed to prepare for battle and shenanigans . . .and what better place to fight shenanigans than in Ireland where they all began . . . because they had to beat the holy crap out of another collection of gods, the Fir Bolgs."

Stop, I thought, stop. I can't handle any more of this.

"You haven't heard half of it, Scot, chill a bit-" he snapped his fingers loudly and said alakazam and giggled as my glass of water turned into a Zero Coke. Then Jesus continued "Have you ever pondered about how difficult it was for the Eskimos and Hottentots to understand My glory as they drank My blood and ate My flesh when they knew it was really just a walrus, and wondered why your people felt compelled to converted the entire world into believing in a LaLa Land god? had converted them into cannibals."

"Money, power and glory, have been the usual answers."

Jesus ignored my thought, and continued with a smirk, "Anyway, as a shape-changer Morrigan can turn from a ravishing beauty to a hag and this has caused no end to the confusion among careless mythologists and innocent God checkers. It got so bad that Pop, Spook and I had to get on her case: she thinks she's a Holy Trinity all unto herself. Well, let me tell you, we put an iron in her triangle and tinkled the hell out of her because of that utter nonsense." Jesus paused as he was transfigured again-this time he was wearing an Indian headdress, moccasins, and a loincloth.

I like you this way, I thought.

"That's why I did it," Jesus said, "You turn me on, big boy, and as soon as hit our bed tonight, I'll put something very special in your pair of size six moccasins.'

"But back to shape-changing Morrigan, I don't think that put her down for long-she still goes around LaLa Land handing out wafers and wine and claiming to be us. . . it's gross with a capital G."

"Anyway, those Irishmen just keep compounding spirituality when they create gods. Morrigan had two sisters: Badb and Nemain and they almost always joined her in her battles. And then there were other shape changers, as well: Fea and Fotla, for example. I never understood why humans demand that we gods change shapes so often. Seriously, think about it, Pop was a Pillar of Fire and a burning bush. I've been a lamb and a lion-how insane is that . . . and as far as the Spook goes, Myself only knows how many incarnations he's undergone-did you know he was Our Lady of Fatima and Our Lady of Guadeloupe? Pop and I teased the hell out of him for that, we must have called him a Pussy Whore a thousand times before poor silly Spook broke down and cried and went to play with the Greek gods for a thousand years. . . we just got him back in our fold before I shot myself down to Bimini."

"I'm not going to bore you to death with tales about Morrigan, just picture her as a constant battler-The Queen of Connaugh hired Morrigan in her battle against Ulster and rather than slaughter everyone, Morrigan and her forces used fear itself as a weapon rather than adding to the slaughter. . . Somehow the Queen of Connaugh paid the bitch goddess, but that's an entirely different tale."

My ears grew tired and they literally yawned-how b boring is that for gosh sakes.

"I don't want to bore you to death, Scot, but these are your Irish ancestors and their gods I'm talking about. I thought I was doing you a service."

My ears perked up and I felt ashamed of myself for zoning out, "You are," I said, "it's just that my brain is on overload. Want to play gin rummy?"

"Yes," Jesus said, but you need to know just one more thread to the Morrigan story. Morrigan has a loving side to her nature, I don't want to leave you thinking she was a heartless Scottish bitch goddess, no offense on your Scottish heritage. My friend. Morrigan chased the Irish hero, Cuchulainn for years, trying to make love to him, but he just wouldn't listen. And that's why . . . wait for it Scot, there's always a punch line to a Jesus Christ story," Jesus grinned, "that's why Cuchulainn is commemorated as a statue of a dying warrior with a Morrigan raven sitting on his shoulder, who said nothing but 'nevermore,' over and over again. Who knows what she could be saying to him?"

Now both Jesus and I both laughed. My grandmother had told me the legend of the Morrigan raven when I was a small boy, now all that happiness and the joy of seeing my grandmother's face, filled my soul. "Thank you, Jesus," I said, "You have a long-winded way of telling a tale, more like a Southern Baptist preacher, but it does bring joy to a man's soul when you finally finish."

A flash of lightning filled the sky and thunder boomed.

"I hope that's a sign of jubilation," I said.

"Totally," Jesus said. "I love you, Scot, I totally adore you. You're not like those sick-assed fundamentalists who don't understand me or religion." Jesus Christ enveloped me in his arms, kissing me and hugging me and for the first time in my life I was at peace.

"The universe is filled with gods who visit your planet-are worshiped and adored by you; and you, my friend, seem to comprehend us all! Power to you!"

"And you, Jesus Christ, are more special to me than I ever thought possible. I've been an atheist for a decade, but I can see more power and sensitivity in you than I thought was possible in any other god."

"What makes you think the three of us are any different? You'll love us for a season-perhaps a season and a half and then dump our asses and pick up a new god . . . or go back to your beliefs that the fourteen million of us in LaLa Land don't really exist at all. . . although I must say, I think your race has done pretty well-you started with a panoply of natural gods and gradually allowed yourself to cast off the graven images-now you merely picture us as the destroyer-in the form of the devil and the creators of the universe in the form of Me, Myself and I. Congrats."

"But it's still sad," Jesus continued, "sad, because Pop, the Spook and I are only lesser gods in the panoply, just tiny peep squeaks in the Milky Way."

"Yes, that's right, we're not even allowed to leave this galaxy-we've never journeyed off the earth or out of LaLa Land, except for a brief excursion to hell. Don't you think we get bored? Don't you think we're tired of serving our sentence here?"

"You sound like you're a prisoner."

"See! You've finally hit the nail on the head. That's exactly what the fourteen million of us are-creatures created by your ancestors, bound to your theology, unable to fly away out of LaLa Land into the glorious quiet of the rest of the universe."

Do you know how many people have spiritual awakenings when the voice of God comes to them in the middle of the night? Well, it was like that . . . or at least I suppose that's how others feel-but I felt the hand of the Lord touch me and cover me and protect me and all I wanted to do was fall on my knees and worship and adore him.

"Don't become another worshiper, Scot. I am not who or what you think I am."

"My Lord."

"I am anything but your lord. We've only begun our journey together, give it time before you come to any conclusions, okay?"

I felt so consumed by the love of God that I didn't want to break our embrace.

"Scot, I've only mentioned the gods in LaLa Land-not the other gods flying around out there in the billions and billions of universes? In the String of universes that exist-the unending, ever moving space of eternity!"

"It boggles my mind," we both spoke simultaneously.

And Jesus said, "Now you understand! Praise Myself!"

"It absolutely boggles my mind," I said.

"So, you see, there's something out there far greater than Me, Myself and I-something so encompassing that even we can't fathom it. My fellow gods and I know it as the greatest power and strength in the universe-the power that created all, ends all, controls all, and enjoys all."

"I like the enjoy part," I said.

"Which brings me back to that dang blasted dining table. You know the one Leonardo made famous, along with the Salvador Dali version where all my cohorts look like flamers and I'm more transparent than the Spook.

Jesus Christ paused for the longest moment until a radiance overpowered him. "And then there was my apostle: Philip! Sweet, hot, with an ass that was almost as glorious as yours, Scotr. Phil wanted to be a dentist, but he was toothless by the time he fell in love with me and a toothless dentist carried no weight back then-I mean how confident would you be to go to a toothless dentist?"

"Anyway," Jesus was glowing more beautifully now than I had ever seen him-not with that artificial halo we've all seen, not with those 'glorified' portraits of him painted by the masters, but an honest to God glow.

"But when he saw me at the fishery, recruiting boys to 'follow me', Phil got the biggest bulge I've seen since well. . . d" Jesus admired his own schlong which more than rose to the occasion and I had to back five feet away from the Savior of the Universe to keep myself from being rammed to death-which in retrospect would have been a glorious way to die.

"Philip knelt in front of me and whispered his love, "I have no teeth, my Lord, I don't bite. Pick me! Pick me!" Jesus Christ laughed. "How can you turn down an offer like that. . . I mean when Phil's reincarnated soul came back as Monica Lewinsky, don't you think I was first in line to shove Bill Clinton off to the side? The female version of Philip was much more butch than he was but she was still out for a good time, looking for a father figure-a power figure-a god. . . or a president."

"I think Monica ultimately settled for a canon manufacturer in Detroit-though to get your mouth around, but great if you're into role play or fantasies."

Jesus Christ laughed again and I was falling in love with him more and more every minute, probably not as wholeheartedly as Philip had but in my own way, I had new respect for this man-god-for his laughter as much as for his sometimes dark brown, sometimes hazel like mine, sometimes Frank Sinatra baby blue eyes.

"And then there were the women. Oh Myself, they were so turned on by seeing their favorite carpenter walking down the highway naked."

"It all started on that night I was set upon by robbers, stripped naked and left at the side of the road. It was so frigging hot I begged Dad to let me do it a few more times, but you know dad's right. Pop always has veto power . . . he's the Mighty Father, the big high mucky-muck, yadda yadda. It's not easy living with a Pop with so many incarnations: He's Jove, he's Ra, he's Vishnu. . . but he's really not. He's really just Henry Popovich, which I guess is why so many think of him as Pop, the Father."

Thank God, Jesus Christ took a long quiet moment to reflect. I had no idea what the hell he was rambling about-why was it, I wondered, that this man, this god, this Savior of the Universe could be so enchanting and so lucid one moment and so fucking off his trolley the next?

Jesus's Schlong was still stiff and I kept my distance. The beads of sweet oozed down his forehead and his palms were sweaty as well. . . and his pits. Well, let's not go there. His long shaggy pit hair hung down to his calloused elbows, and I wondered how on earth anyone could get callouses there. His hands, yes, but his elbows? This man God was becoming more than I ever imagined, a paradox of God and man and time and universe. Hopefully our time together, no matter how long or short, would reveal his true nature and true form. And just as I wondered and worried what could possibly happen next, Jesus turned around three times and when he landed on his toes in front of me, he was wearing a tuxedo with tails, a high beaver skin hat and Dorothy Gale's ruby slippers.

"I thought if I could click these together three times I could go back to LaLa Land but I guess that only worked for Dorothy."

Jesus looked sad. Honest to God, Jesus Christ looked sad and I had never seen a man sadder than he.

"Pop and I don't really get along. I bet you didn't know that did you? Spook doesn't talk to me and Pop hurls lightning bolts at me every time I cross his path. Look at this."

Jesus lifted up the back of his tuxedo tail, revealing his leather chaps and his bare ass which was covered in lightning marks.

"I normally hide the marks with a little bit of salve, but I'm tired of covering up the terror and misery Pop causes me. I thought that sooner or later I should reveal it to man I would be with for the rest of eternity-and that would be you, Scot Walker."

Jesus Christ had accepted me as his friend! I was nonplused. How on earth could the Savior of the Universe accept me as his friend? Did that mean we were equals?

"Of course, we're not equals, Scot. The gods have never been equals to humans-we're your creations and as such, we're your inferiors-remember, you created us!"

I gasped. This was going to take more than a moment to sink in.

"So we're the ones with the power?"

"Not at all. You abrogated all your rights to power and control the moment you began creating us-all 14,000,385 of us, as a matter of fact. Even the ancient Egyptian god, Mehen, the Defender of the Sun Boat, has more power in the smallest of his metacarpals than your entire race has held since the beginning of time."

"And yet it amazes me-it amazes all of us how high and mighty your race has become. Why, you've practically deified Mary Magdalene-who was nothing more than a two-bit whore. The only thing she had going for her was her hips. Jesus paused a moment, sweating and gulping, his heart palpitating. "And Oh Myself, you should have seen me the first time I saw her walking down the Jericho Road. She was carrying two large jugs of water on her head, and both sets of her jugs were bobbing up and down so alluringly that I nearly pooped my pants-which is hysterical considering the fact that I was in the all together." Jesus laughed again, even louder than before, "I guess your generation would have said, 'I was just letting it all hang out,' but that didn't deter Mary Magdalene. She was drawn to me like honey to a fly."

"Don't you mean…?" I laughed the moment those three words popped out of my mouth.

"Like I said before, you and I have the same perverted sense of humor. I'm glad to have you as part of my life, Scot."

"I thought I was supposed to say that about you. After all I'm neither a god nor the savior of mankind."

"Again, words that your race has put into effect. . . just because a human says it, doesn't make it so."

I decided not to press the issue-obviously the concept of Jesus being the Savior was something he didn't want to handle-or couldn't handle and our growing friendship wouldn't grow stronger if I pushed the issue. I'll just leave well enough alone, I thought. . . and besides, as an atheist, I don't care one way or the other, all I really want is for this Jesus man to be my lover for all of eternity-and I was pretty sure the feeling was mutual.

I decided to switch gears and talk about something in which I was very familiar: the Bible. I had minored in Bible Studies at the King's College in Briarcliff Manor in the 60's and was a Bible scholar in junior and senior high school-reading the tome over and over again and memorizing vast sections of it. "What can you add to the story of King Nebuchadnezzar?" I asked.

"Nebuchadnezzar? What has he to do with anything?"

"I've always wondered about him," I paused. Nebuchadnezzar had nothing to do with Jesus, he lived and died thousands of years before the Savior of the Universe. "I know he was an historical figure but always wondered about the passage in the Bible that talks about him eating grass like an animal in the field. Did that really happen?"

"As far as I know, nothing is true in your Bible. Remember Pop and I didn't write it-and the Spook wasn't even invented until after it was composed."

"You race wrote the Bible-Jewish men who had nothing else to do except sit around and expostulate on their past and future and to create wonderful stories-most of which, by the way, were copied from other religions. Jews were no more the chosen people than they were the gifted people-they were just craftier than others and had a nut-hold on their society, a nut-hold tight enough for them to do anything they wanted. And don't even get me going into what sacrifices they offer to us gods in LaLa Land."

"Fat! Fat for Myself's sakes! Can you believe than any god would savor the smell and taste of burning fat on an altar? Of course not," thunder boomed over my head and sixteen lightning bolts shot from the sky, destroying everything around me. I was in a T. S. Eliot's Wasteland.

"Is that what you think gods want for breakfast, lunch and dinner? Hell no, we eat like the rest of you-red meat mostly but fish and poultry and an occasional salad or apple pie. . . but not fat. Fat was the dross, the garbage left over after a sacrifice and that's why your ancestors-all of them-not only the Jews-decided that it would be wise for them to eat the meat and give the gods the fat. Check your history books, look at the sacrifices the Greeks made to the gods, and the Phoenicians and the Romans and the Persians-always the fat to the gods. Some kind human beings you are. You created us-all of us-and sent us off to sit in one damned vinyl chair in LaLa Land and give us nothing to eat-just the disgusting smell of burning lard. How dare you! How fucking dare you!"

I hoped Jesus would continue. I really wanted to learn more about King Nebuchadnezzar and had no idea what led him into this tirade.

"I'm sorry, my friend." Jesus Christ said, "Your house and all your cattle and your children and your he-goats and your she-goats and your bulls and your rams and your oxen shall be restored unto you."

"I am not Job!"

"You are better and wiser than Job, Scot, and, if you wanted cattle and children and he-goats and she-goats and bulls and rams and oxen, I would give them to you gladly."

"But you don't. So, in the meantime," Jesus waved his hands like he was the Great Oz, and "I restore your home and your mix master and your microwave and your side-by-side washer drier and your antique chine and your Farberware and all your worldly goods."

I was standing exactly where I stood before Jesus Christ lost his mind. I wondered how I could escape now, what I had to do to get this raging maniac out of my home and back to LaLa Land where his cute hot ass should be sitting in that plastic vinyl yellow yard chair.

"I'll leave you soon enough, my friend, but you asked about King Nebuchadnezzar, let me expand on the story, it seems you have more knowledge of that story than I do."

"I do not," my voice assumed an 'edge', "I wasn't there, remember?"

"Don't get flippant with the Trinity, Scot! I could cut you down faster than Pop and I cut down King Nebuchadnezzar. If you know your history, you'll remember that we had that jackass eating grass for seven years."

Jesus Christ grew to over ten feet high, bumping his head on the tin ceiling, as his aura filled the entire kitchen: "Remember our holy words as recorded by the great Prophet Daniel, in chapter four, verse twenty-five," Jesus Christ said in a voice that reminded me of Father Kerry at St. Peter's Catholic Church in my neighborhood parish on Capitol Hill. "And I quote, 'You shall be driven away from mankind and your dwelling place shall be with the beasts of the field, and you be given grass to eat like cattle and be drenched with the dew of heaven; and seven periods of time will pass over you, until you recognize that the Most High is ruler over the realm of mankind and bestows it on whomever He wishes."

"You can imagine the case of indigestion he had when we finally brought Nebuchadnezzar back to his senses."

"Remember," Jesus Christ continued, "you created us, not the other way around, so for seven miserable years, Pop, the Spook and I grazed alongside Neb, devouring grass, spitting out crickets and worms and grasshoppers-hating every minute of that seven-year long period of vegetarianism almost as much as we hate the damn fat your people offered us for so many generations."

"It is not fit for the gods to live on grass alone. Deuteronomy, chapter forty-one, verse nineteen."

I don't know that verse, I thought.

"Of course you don't-it as redacted from the King James Version of the Bible over four hundred years ago."

"Remember, your people constantly re-created the gods-and the Bible-and the churches-and the ceremonies-so often that not one of you figured it out: it was all a lie-a despicable nasty cruel lie. I fear someday Pop, the Spook and I will end up selling Teflon products door to door with the Tupperware ladies who all were sent to your make-believe hell, by the way."

I belched, thinking about the spinach salad I had eaten for lunch the day before, that was bad enough, I thought. "Sorry, I said, I never realized it was as hard for the gods as it was for me."

"Do you want me to wash your feet again?" I asked.

"Perhaps a tongue bath on my nuts, later," Jesus Christ said. "You have no idea how bad they ache after all these years. Those Romans really knew their stuff, and you have no idea how much it angers me that your history books and the revisions you made to the Bible cleaned up my crucifixion. Pete, Jack, Lukey, Marco-all wrote about those nails sealing up my asshole and tacking my nuts against the cross, but your expurgators removed them all. Such a clean crucifixion. Such ignorant and mean-spirited scribes." Jesus Christ sighed and I saw his balls retract for a moment-seeking the safety of his rectum.

Just then, Jesus Christ yawned. "Are you tired? When did you sleep last?" I asked, hoping to change the subject to anything other than his huge dangling unwashed nuts.

"It's been years," Jesus said.

"Come with me, to my bed, to safety and a good night's rest. Are you sure you don't want to grab a bite first?"

"No, I haven't bitten anyone since I teethed."

"I mean are you hungry?"

Jesus Christ looked at me with the strangest look. "I've been speaking English for over eight hundred years. Your vernacular is familiar to me. You've got to lighten up, before I beam you up, Scotty!"

We both laughed as we pictured me beaming through time and space and I felt his power gently lifting me a few feet of the floor as I floated across the room.

"Is that what it's like-do you feel like you're just beamed from Bimini to your vinyl chair to the alley behind my house, mindless and senselessly by those of us who rewrite religion?"

Jesus begged the question and I felt as if I had overstepped my bounds. "Even your gods have a sense of humor, you know, after all we did create Robin Williams in our own image, and Robin certainly took a bite out of your drab lives, didn't he?"

"Are you hungry, Jesus?"

"Not yet."

I could tell Jesus was bored. "Jesus, if you could have a dinner party and invite any eight people who were living or who had ever lived, who would you invite."

"It sounds like a parlor game," Jesus Christ said.

"It is."

"Well, actually the Spook and I held several-right after the crux-I was wounded, you know, and abandoned by all twelve of my chosen apostles, so Dad had left me here on earth for a journey of two thousand years and I seldom had anyone to play with or anything to do. . . so periodically, the Spook and I got together to 'fill the void,' so to speak and play games."

"And?"

"The first fantasy dinner party was the best. Remember we could conjure up anyone who was alive, was ever alive, or would ever lived."

"Right. . . I know, you're the alpha and the omega."

"Yadda yadda. . . the beginning and the end, the mover and the shaker, the big enchilada!"

"So, who did you invite?"

"Number one was Alexander."

"Why?"

"I wanted to know why he chose the homosexual lifestyle."

Jesus Christ looked at me. "You don't have to take me seriously twenty-four seven, you know. I'm just pulling your chain.

"It's one of those fundamentalist things, you know. They always have to 'find a cure' for everything they don't understand like homosexuality or why locust dig into the earth and sleep 17 years before flying out for a glorious fuck.

Well anyway, Alex sat in the seat of honor-to my right and then the spook and I chose our second guest: Adolf Hitler. After him, was Joan of Arc--I like a good roasting as much as the next guy. Then the midget: Napoleon and my friend from the fiery pits of hell, Dante. After that we'd need a great chef, so Julia Child would suffice--with a few extra pounds of butter. Then Mozart for some light music and finally, the Bard--I love the way he used language--and you know, the authors of the King's James Version of the Bible were all his fans.. Stand byes, in case some of them declined or were busy, would be Maria Teresa and Martha Stewart!"

"Don't look at me like that, Scot. Somebody had to plan!"

Jesus didn't go into any detail and began to yawn and I said, "Perhaps you'd like something to sink your teeth into . . .after I bathe your nuts and wash your feet?"

Jesus Christ's laugher was the most joyous I had ever heard. It filled my heart as much as my soul . . . and that's a difficult thing for an atheist to say.

In a trice we were in my bedroom and when I turned around Jesus Christ was wearing nothing but a pair of Brubaker boxer shorts dangling around his ankles. He hadn't lied about his preference for underpants.

"The Lord your God does not lie," Jesus Christ said as he lay down on the right side of the bed and I thought-always 'right' aren't you Jesus and he smiled and nodded yes.

"Now I lay myself to sleep, praying to Myself my soul to keep," Jesus was asleep before he could finish reciting that simple children's prayer and I covered him with a paisley-colored sheet and a wool blanket, which turned deep red the moment it touched his naked body. I think I'll drag up the vinyl chair from the basement and leave it here by the bed. Perhaps Jesus will feel more at home! Jesus began snoring almost before I slipped in bed, licking and sucking his cock, and balls until I heard a low pleasant groan that extended throughout the night.

And the evening and the morning were the second day.


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Breakfast with Jesus Christ
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