When Will Jesus Bring the Pork Chops? (4 page)

SMOOTH FLIGHT

I really enjoyed my recent airplane trip to Africa; everything went just perfectly. I had no trouble at all making reservations a month in advance, and I had my tickets in hand, including seat selection, a week before the flight. I even ordered a special vegetarian meal. I left home early the day of the flight and arrived at the airport with several minutes to spare. My friend dropped me off at the curb and left immediately.

My one bag, which was a light one, was easy to carry and did not have to be checked. I was able to take it on board and save time at each end. I walked into the terminal. There was no line at the security area, my carry-on bag passed inspection, and I didn’t ring any bells walking through the metal detector. Looking for my gate number on the departures board and spotting it without breaking stride, I headed for Gate 1, the nearest gate. With just a few minutes left until takeoff, I walked the few steps to the gate and boarded the plane.

The seat I had reserved was right next to the window, and the seat next to me was unoccupied; plenty of room to spread out. I was in first class with only three other passengers. The two female flight attendants were pleasant. . . and very attractive. They said my special meal was on board. I had plenty of legroom, and all my seat controls worked perfectly; seat-back tilt, contour button, leg rest, light switch, even the stereo controls.

Everything continued flawlessly. The plane’s door was closed exactly on time, and we taxied immediately to the end of the runway. Pausing barely an instant, we began our takeoff roll, which sounded and felt extremely smooth. There was very little vibration; just a steady increase in power and speed as we became airborne and gently glided up. I felt no bumps or strain, and we quickly leveled off to a quiet cruise speed at our assigned altitude. Then the plane went into a steep dive and crashed into the ground, killing all but two of us.

Fortunately, my cosurvivor was a fantastic-looking woman; a registered nurse who had taken survival courses. After a quick check, we realized neither of us was hurt, and then I remembered I still had two joints tucked into my sock. We got high and made love several times. The sex was great for both of us and we promised to see each other often if we somehow managed to get out of there. The only condition on her part was that there be no commitment of any kind between us; she wanted to be independent. I agreed.

After a short time, we found some sandwiches and beer. We ate and drank and laughed for about an hour and then we noticed that a signal-flare gun had landed nearby. We fired off one flare, and, almost immediately, saw a small private plane flying overhead. They spotted us and began to circle. They made a low pass at us, waggling their wings, and then headed off, presumably to get help. Thank God, everything was still going smoothly.

That’s when the gorilla showed up.

IF LOOKS COULD KILL

I don’t think it’s right that ugly women should be allowed to get plastic surgery and get fixed up to look real nice. I think if you’re born ugly you ought to stay that way. That should be it. It’s not right to let people get fixed up. It’s creepy to think that you could possibly find yourself fucking some woman you picked up because you thought she was great-looking, but underneath she’s really ugly. She got her nose fixed, her lips, her eyes; she got nipped and tucked and liposuctioned, and the surgeon did a good jobhe didn’t overdo itand now she looks really great. But underneath it all, she’s horrible-looking and you’re actually fucking a pig; someone you wouldn’t even ask for change of a dollar if you could see her real face. It’s not right. Ugliness should be a permanent condition.

THE CONTINUING STORY OF MARY & JOSEPH: “IT’S A BOY”

MARY: Joe, we’re gonna have a baby.

JOE: What? That’s impossible. All I ever do is put it between your thighs.

MARY: Well, I don’t know. Something must’ve gone wrong.

JOE: Who says you’re pregnant?

MARY: An angel appeared to me in the backyard and said so.

JOE: An angel?

MARY: An angel of God. His name was Gabriel. He had a trumpet and he appeared to me in the backyard.

JOE: He what?

MARY: He appeared to me.

JOE: Was he naked?

MARY: No. I think he had on a raincoat. I don’t really know. He was glowing so brightly.

JOE: Mary, you’re under a lot of stress. Why don’t you take a few days off from the shop. The accounts can wait.

MARY: I’m telling you, Joe. This Angel Gabriel said that God wanted me to have his baby.

JOE: Did you ask for some sort of sign?

MARY: Of course I did. He said tomorrow morning I’d start getting sick.

JOE: But why should God want a kid?

MARY: Well, Gabriel said that according to Luke it’s kind of an ego thing. Plus, he promised the Jews a long time ago, it’s just that he never got around to it. But now that he feels ready for children he doesn’t want to just make them out of clay or dust. He wants to get humans involved.

JOE: Well, is he going to help toward raising the kid? God knows we can’t do it alone. I could use a bigger shop, and maybe he could throw a couple of those nice crucifix contracts my way. The Romans are nailin’ up everything that walks.

MARY: Honey, Gabriel said not to worry. The kid would be a real winner. A public speaker and good with miracles.

JOE: Well, that’s a relief. Anyway, I guess now that you’re officially pregnant I can start puttin’ it inside you.

MARY: I’m sorry, honey. God wants it to be strictly a virgin birth. JOE: I don’t get it. MARY: That’s right, Joe. JOE: Don’t I get to do anything?

MARY: He wants you to come up with a name for the kid. JOE: Jesus Christ! MARY: Joe, you’re so heavy.

GUYS & DOLLS, PART 2

Man, Oh Man!

To my way of thinking, men have only one real problem: other men. That’s where all the trouble starts. A long time ago, men gave away their power. To other men: princes, kings, wizards, generals and high priests. They gave it away, because they believed what these other men told them. They bought the okeydoke. The bullshit. Men always buy the okeydoke when it comes from other men.

Some stranger probably stood up at a campfire and said, “All right, boys, from now on, I’m the king. The sun is my father, the moon is my mother and

they’re the ones who tell me when to throw the virgins into the volcano. Til be expecting all of you to bow deeply when you see me, and give me half your crops. Plus I’m allowed to fuck your wife. And don’t forget, if I want to I can concentrate real hard and make your head explode.’

And the other men around the campfire nodded their heads and said to one another, “This guy makes a lot of sense.” A man will always buy the bullshit, because a man is not too bright.

But I’m not suggesting a man doesn’t have a great deal to put up with. He does. First of all, a man has to make believe he knows what he’s doing at all times. And while he’s doing whatever it is he’s doing, he has to make believe he doesn’t need any help.

He has to make believe he can fix anything. And if he can’t fix it now, he’ll fix it later. And if he can’t fix it later, he has a friend who can fix it, and if not, it was no good to start with, it’s not worth fixing, and besides, he knows where he can get something better, much cheaper, but they re all outta them right now, and besides, they’re closed. This is the male disease. It’s called being full of shit.

The male disease includes the need to be in charge at all times. In charge, in control, in command. A “real man” sees himself as king of the hill, leader of the pack, captain of the ship. But all the while, in order to fit in and belong, he has to act like all the other men and do what they do, so he 11 be accepted. And get a good job and a promotion and a raise and a Porsche, and a wife. A wife who will immediately trade in the Porsche on a nice, sensible Dodge van with folding seats so they can be like all the other boring families. The poor fuck. The poor stupid fuck.

His manliness also requires that he refuse to go to a doctor or a hospital unless it can be demonstrated to him that he has, in fact, been clinically dead for six months. aNo sense going’ to the hospital, honey, I don’t seem to be in a

coma.” Therefore, he must learn to ignore pain. “It doesn’t really hurt. Bleeding from six holes in the head doesn’t really hurt. Just gimme the remote and get me a beer. And get the fuck outta here.”

Most men learn this stupid shit from their fathers. Fathers teach their sons not to cry. “Don’t let me hear you cryin’ or I’ll come up there and give you something to cry about!’ Great stuff, hah? All the problems in the worldrepeat, all the problems in the worldcan be traced to what fathers do to their sons.

So, little boys learn to hide their feelings, and society likes that because, that way, when they get to be eighteen, they’ll able to go overseas and kill strangers without feeling anything. And of course, that bargain includes a certain reluctant willingness to have their balls shot off: “Honey, I have to go overseas and have my balls shot off, or else the rest of the guys will think I’m too afraid to go overseas and have my balls shot off.’ The poor fucks. The poor stupid fucks.

And so, as a result of all this repression of feelings, the extent of the average man his emotional expression is the high five. Or sometimes, when really deep feelings emerge, both hands. The high ten. This is raw emotion. And that’s about all they’re capable of. And they have Dad to thank. Thanks, Dad.

But wait! Don’t think dads can’t be fun at times, too. After all, dads introduce their sons to the Wonderful World of Menthe male subcultures. The really tough-guy, masculine, he-man stuff. No wimps, no pussies, no softies.

There are five deadly male subcultures and they all overlap: the car and machinery culture, the police and military culture, the outdoors and gun culture, the sports and competition culture and the drug and alcohol culture. And, as a bonus, I’m gonna throw in one more: the “Let’s go get some pussy and beat the shit outta queers” culture. As I say, they all overlap. Many men belong to all six.

This male universe is, of course, detectable by analyzing its combustible

chemical formula: gasoline, gunpowder, alcohol and adrenaline. A chemistry rendered even more lethal by that ever-present, ever-delightful accelerant: testosterone. Talk about substance abuse! If it’s chemical dependency you’re interested in, you might want to look into testosterone. TESSTAHSSTER-OWN!!the most lethal substance on earth. And it does not come from a laboratory, it comes from the scrotum; a scrotum located, interestingly enough, not far from the asshole. How fitting.

And, as it happens, all these male subcultures share a particular set of features: homophobia, coupled with an oddly ironic, complete, childlike trust in male authority. Men are attracted to powerful men. They also share a strong fear and dislike of women. This in spite of a pathological obsession with pussy. TESSTAHSSTEROWN!!

So why are men like this? I think the overriding problem for men is that in life’s main event, reproduction, they’re left out; women do all the work. What do men contribute? Generally, they’re just looking for a quick parking space for some sperm. A couple of hits of hot jism, and the volume on the TV goes right back up. It’s my belief that most of these flawed male chromosomes should not be allowed to go forward for even one more unfortunate generation. But such is biology.

And so, excluded as they are from reproduction, men must find other ways to feel useful and worthwhile. As a result, they measure themselves by the size of their guns, the size of their cars, the size of their dicks and the size of their wallets. All contests that no man can win consistently.

And let me tell you why all this happened. Because women are the source of all human life. The first human being came from the belly of a female. And all human fetuses begin as females. The brain itself is basically female until hormones act on it to make it structurally male.

So, in reality, all men are modified females. Where do you think those

nipples came from, guys? You’re an afterthought. Maybe that’s what’s bothering you. Is that what’s on your mind, Bunkie? That would explain the hostility: Women got the good job, men got the shitty one. Females create life, males end it. War, crime and violence are primarily male franchises. Man-shit.

It’s nature’s supreme joke. Deep in the womb, men start out as the good thing and wind up as the crappy thing. Not all men, just enough. Just enough to fuck things up. And the dumbest part of it all is that not only do men accept all this shit. . . they do it to themselves.

By the way, I’m not letting women completely off the hook. After all, the one part of the lower anatomy that is the same in both sexes is the asshole. But women who are assholes aren’t called that. They’re named for a different part of their lower anatomy. They’re called cunts. Isn’t it nice that cunts and assholes are next-door neighbors?

NINETY-NINE THINGS YOU NEED TO KNOW

There are ninety-nine things you need to know:

Number one: There are more than ninety-nine things you need to know. Number two: Nobody knows how many things there are to know. Number three: It’s more than three.

Number four: There is no way of knowing how many things you need to

Number five: Some of the things you need to know are things you already know.

Number six: Some of the things you need to know are things you only think you know.

Number seven: Some of the things you need to know are things you used to know and then forgot.

Number eight: Some of the things you need to know are things you only thought you forgot and actually still know.

Number nine: Some of the things you need to know are things you know but don’t really know you know.

Number ten: Some of the things you need to know are things you don’t yet know you need to know.

Number eleven: Some of the things you think you need to know are things you probably don’t really need to know.

Number twelve: Some of the things you need to know are things known only by people you don’t know.

Number thirteen: Some of the things you need to know are things nobody