Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Give Unto Cromartie That Which is Cromartie’s…

By Jesus Christ

As some of you may recall, a few months back, the Divine Pops tore me asunder from my press box view of the heavenly assembly and sent me on a brief reconnaissance assignment to “famously hot” Columbia—which, as far as I can tell, is the closest thing in the universe to the armpit of Beelzebub’s asshole. But I’ll be the first to admit that “famously hot” is a tad less demeaning, and fits better on license plate frames, so who can blame the city patriarchs for their latest marketing sham?

By the way, the next time around, just in case I’ve been called back to the carnelian throne during the next city slogan contest, here’s my suggestion:

Columbia:  Sherman Didn’t Burn Enough

Anyway, I’ve been squirreled up in a Millwood FROG (or is that FRAG?) for just about as much time as a Son of God can tarry.  Really, there’s only so much Schlitz Bull Ice a messiah can imbibe. And what’s worse, I seem to have run out of fledgling Carolina wrens to massacre with my hot Daisy BB Air Pistol which I kyped from that annoying, snotty-nosed brat two doors down who’s always driving his Clint Bowyer Cheerios NASCAR remote-controlled car over my toes during my twice-daily peripatetic stroll around Martin Luther King Jr. Park.

Okay, where was I?  Oh yes, bored out of my omnipresent skull!  So I asked City Paper’s co-owner, Paul “Larry Flynt” Blake, for a new editorial assignment.  He suggested I write something about the upcoming Columbia mayoral election, preferably a candidate endorsement.

Do you have any idea how convenient omniscience is, by the way?  Fuck Google.  Easy-peasy.

First—and it’s a little off topic, but who’s going to stand in the way of a Christological tangent—but I can’t possibly be the only one who thinks that disgraced former Columbia City Councilman E.W. Cromartie II’s downfall is a triumphant opportunity for Yaphet Kotto (“Alien,” “Midnight Run”) to mount a silver screen (or boob tube) comeback.  Producer dibs on any forthcoming Spike TV Cromartie bio-flick in the next 12 to 24 months!  I’m just saying.

Well, shit, Mr. Benjamin, why didn’t you say the Wolfe Man was on his way?  (Obscure “Pulp Fiction” references are not above this God-Man!)  Anyway, Mr. Blake told me to submit something in the 800-word range, and I’m already halfway there.

All is epistolary masturbation on the way to my immaculate Columbia candidate endorsement.  Hell, I could have submitted my entire piece in Ugaritic, and what would it have mattered?  I’m God.  You’re mortal.  And you better vote for the candidate I tell you to vote for.  Or you’ll be stuck waiting to climb Dante’s Mt. Purgatory for eons to come.

Seriously, though, the Gospel writer had it spot-on.  I could really give a rat’s rear who the mayor of Columbia is.  Give unto Cromartie that which is Cromartie’s (a nice padded mattress in a white collar cell), and unto Bubba that which is Bubba’s.

The poor you will always have.  Also, the rich assholes, who have sold their souls to Lucifer for a taste of Mammon’s cockhead.  (Funny how “cockhead” is actually a correctly spelled word according to MS Word.  Good going, Bill Gates!)

What I really care about, however, is benches in the downtown business district!  What civic criminal mastermind decided to remove all of the my-damned seats for nearly two square miles?!  Myself!  All a guy wants to do after walking three miles from Millwood to the State House is to plant his angelic ass on a flat wooden slat.

So if there’s some bum out there promising to reinstall all of the benches downtown, plus is devising a way to replenish the missing $34 million from the city’s emergency fund, vote for him!

By the way, do you have any idea how difficult it’s been for me to reenact my miracle of the multiplied bread and fish?  The other day, I thought to myself, “Okay, why not feed the homeless around here in style?”  First, I had to trek all the way from Millwood to the Atlanta Bread Company on Main Street downtown.  Then, a few sourdough loaves in hand—and without the benefit of a bench to rest my Divine derriere—I had to haul butt all the way back to Five Points and wait at Garibaldi’s until they open at 5:30 p.m.  I’m telling you:  it took all day just to get the basic ingredients!  Then, by the time I managed to get that U-Haul down to the Oliver Gospel Mission, it turns out all the bums had already eaten their supper.  Sheesh!

Okay, here I am at 800 words.  Time for my big Messianic Endorsement.  Drum roll, please!

I, Lord Jesus Christ, Sovereign of the Universe, Holier than Thou, do solemnly endorse:

Kirkman Finlay III


Number One:  He has a park named after him.  (Have you ever taken a stroll around Morrison Park or made sweet love in the middle of Benjamin Park?)

Number Two:  The guy seriously invested in gargantuan signs all over town.  (You know what they say:  Big signs equals big…)

Number Three:  He has succeeded in singlehandedly putting the beard back on the antebellum map after a nearly 150-year dry spell.  (Gay bears, beware!  The beard and hairy back are back!  Rainbows and cigars for everyone!)

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