And Yet Even More Excerpts from The Diary of Jesus H. Christ (V)

As they say, these exclusive Nobby Works excerpts change everything.

Dear Diary,            More confusion. One of the more recently ascended popes--I don't know which, it was either John, John Paul or Ringo-- tried to convene a meeting of the Blessed Trinity with himself sitting in for God. Can you believe the moxie of those guys? It usually takes them an eon or so to get over that infallibility nonsense. That's why I told Our Father that it was a bad idea to take those last two so close together. "We'll be up to here in popes," I said, touching the scars on my forehead. But He had this idea for a Polish pope--and, well, we all know what He's like when He gets one of His crazy ideas.                                                       JHC

Dear Diary,            It rained in Heaven today for about the third time in all eternity, and I’ll bet loaves and fishes that William J. Casey’s behind it.                                                                               JHC


Dear Diary,            Earthly news item came to my attention today: U.S. President Ronald Wilson Reagan quoting the Bible, quoting me in defense of an American military build-up. The reference, I believe, was to Luke 14 31:32. To wit: “...What king, going to encounter another king in war, will not sit down first and take counsel whether he is able with ten thousand to meet him who comes against him with twenty thousand?”            Moi ? The Prince of Peace advocating more arms? Has something been lost in the translation? Well, I guess it has.            First of all, I never made the statement in question. It was made by someone on my staff—Mary Magdalene, I believe, which accounts for all the dining imagery in that portion of the Bible. What Mary was getting at of course is don’t go preparing a meal for ten thousand people if you’ve sent out twenty thousand invitations. (Mary, by the way, had far more philosophical input on my teachings than she’s generally given credit for due to the sexist proclivities of the gospel writers.)             You’d think an American politician would be sensitive to the misquotes, half-truths and biases that abound in journalism—and what were the gospel writers but journalists? Luke was the Sam Donaldson of his time in sackcloth and sandals. I can hear him now: “Mr. Messiah...Mr. Messiah...are you or aren’t you the Son of God? King Herod says you’re full of beans. How do you respond to that, Sir?”             I, of course, would cup my hand over my ears, pretending I couldn’t hear the question over the baying of the donkeys.            Does Reagan think things were any better back then? Does he think journalists were more accurate before they had tape recording equipment and did their job strictly by hearsay? Not by a long shot. The Bible is full of things I never said personally and omits a lot of important things I did say, like: Verily, verily, I say unto you if anyone ever asks you for one red cent in thy name, tell them thou art a scam artist.            Anyway, when Ronald Wilson Reagan finally ponies on up here, he and I are going to have a lot to talk about.
JHC
Dear Diary,White flag on the horizon today ... a couple of emissaries from the nether regions, a pipe smoking John N. Mitchell and H. R. Haldeman. They are representing Richard M. Nixon who has sent word that held like to know before he dies if he's going to heaven or hell. We never divulge that information beforehand, of course ... not even to the saints, but Mr. Nixon wanted to propose a deal. He said held make a clean breast of everything, even announce what was on the 181/2 minute gap, if we'd just give him a sign.I left the two attorneys to pose for Norman Rockwell, who's been aching to paint something "with an edge to it" ever since he got here, while I brought the Nixon matter up with the Holy Trinity.As I figured, it was a no go. "He wants a sign?" said Our Father, "I'll give him a sign." And he handed me an anvil and said, "Go drop this on his head. That's a sign."Why do I always get stuck in the middle of these things?
JHC
Dear Diary,
Norman Rockwell's pipe was stolen yesterday. New rule: no more emissaries from hell ... white flag or no white flag. JHC

Dear Diary,             Karl Marx walking around nursing a bloody nose today.             “What happened, Karl?”            “Some petty bourgeois thug in a cowboy hat punched me in the nose,” he tells me.             Uh-oh. The red alert in my brain goes clang, clang, clang immediately. If God the Father gets wind of this it’ll be all over. I can hear Him now: “That’s it! No more Heaven. I’ve had it with humanity, spreading belligerence and nastiness everywhere it goes. Well, I won’t have the serenity of Heaven ruined by the likes of man. Disperse the souls and close the gates!”            Fortunately, He’s still off at His earthquake, so I make a beeline for the troublemaker since I’ve got a pretty good idea who it is. There he is, yukking it up with Davey Crockett, Dan’l Boone and Gabby Hayes.            “Sir,” I say, as solicitously as possible.            He looks me up and down, mean and hard and says, “My friends call me Duke, Long-hair, but you can call me  Mister John Wayne.”            That gets my back up immediately and in a most un-Christlike show of pique, I say, “I’ll call you Marion if I like; I’m Jesus H. Christ, Son of the Lord.”            “And I’m a two-fisted son-of-a-bitch,” he roars, “and I don’t take guff from anybody. Yeah, I hit somebody, but what I hit was no manly man, he was a Marxist.”             “Of course he’s a Marxist. He’s Karl Marx, a writer and philosopher. And we don’t go around punching people in the nose we don’t agree with up here.”            “Well, this is a hell of a place,” he says.            “This is Heaven,” I inform him, “not Hollywood, circa1952. And you’re here by the skin of your teeth, and only because the Holy Ghost is such a film buff. So if you don’t want to be joining some of your right-wing pals on the dude ranch down below, behave yourself.”            I certainly hope he got the message.                                                       JHC                       Dear Diary,             Black eye.             Bertrand Russell.            Wayne again.            “Look, Duke,” I warn him, “I’ve had just about enough of your macho posturing. What’s the idea of hitting Bertrand Russell?”            “Bertrand Russell ya call ‘im? Why I call ‘im Benedict Arnold-- pacifist...pinko...pussy.”            “He was a mathematician you big ox!”            “Call me big ox again, Stranger, and I’ll put a hole in your other side so wide you could drive cattle through it.”            Damn, I knew this guy was going to be trouble.                                                       JHC                       Dear Diary,            Someone’s spray painting 666 all over the place. Something tells me we better find Mr. William J. Casey and fast.
JHC
Dear Diary,             Our Father back from the quake today, and He had this weird sort of messianic look in His eye. I think what that translates into as far as the great Second Coming debate goes is that my goose is about to be cooked.                                                                               JHCDear Diary,            Sure enough. He was in a real business-like mood today when He called the Blessed Trinity together.            “Son,” He said. “Holy Spirit. I’ve just taken a long, hard look at the world I wrought, and I’m here to tell you what a damned, sorry sight it is.” (Make that Goddamned, folks.) “And I’ve reached a decision about that world. I’ve decided that the Holy Spirit is right—something’s got to be done about the condition of things down there." (I could see the little spook chortling to himself out of the corner of my eye.) “But, Compadres,” He says, getting ready to drop His bombshell, “I’ve also decided that I’m just not the God for the job any more. I’m tired, Jesus...I’ve lost the zeal, Ghost. I want out of the creation business for a while...I need a break...So, I’m resigning. Effective immediately. I’m packing it in. We’re going to find ourselves a little black hole someplace where I can get my head together.”             “‘We?’” says our Holy Ghostliness, blanching at the thought of spending the rest of Eternity in some God-forsaking black hole.            “Marilyn and Me,” says Our Father, showing that He’s still got a few tricks up His sleeve. “Marilyn Monroe. She’s going with Me....No offense, Fellas,” He says, “But this thing with the three of Us has gotten to be one long night out with the boys, and to tell you the truth I’m getting pretty bored with the whole macho Trinity trip. So I’m disbanding It. Jesus, you’re now in charge—a majority of one, as they say.” (And what a zinger for you-know-who, folks....)             “Holy Spirit,” He continued, “I expect you to be right by Jesus’s side whenever he needs your advice. It can get pretty lonely at the top you know.” (Our Father, the phrasemaker.)            “And Jesus,” He said, turning to me with His most solemn countenance, “I expect you to save mankind. You don’t have to get yourself crucified again if you don’t want, but you will have to suffer. It’s the only way.” And placing His enormous Hands on my shoulders, He prepared to deliver me a zinger too. “Son,” He said, “I’m counting on you.”            Poof! And just like that he was gone, leaving yours truly holding the old Being Bag.                                                                               JHC
Dear Diary,            The hard part, unfortunately, is in dealing with the nagging question of my Second Coming.            Mother came by today and kind of bitchy-like asked, “So how you going to do it, Jesus?”            And playing like I don’t know what she’s talking about, I say, “Do what, Mom?”             And she says, “Redeem the world of course.”            And I say, very sarcastically, “I’m going up in flames in a Masarati, Mom.”            And she turns on her heel in a huff and hollers to no one in particular, “He’s been talking to James Dean again!”                                                             JHC                       Dear Diary,            Maybe being Numero Uno won’t be so bad after all. I’ve been giving it some thought and there are some changes I wouldn’t mind making. There’d be no more war for starters. And no more rape or famine. And cancer would definitely be out. So would doggy breath and guns. And no one would ever have to be a teenager again.            But public nudity would be okay...and so would oral sex.            You wouldn't get fat or pimply from eating chocolate and all the dentists would have to become lifeguards because everyone would be at the beach and there'd be no more cavities. And Linda Ronstadt would be in the Rock ‘n Roll Hall of Fame. And speaking of music, I'd have it piped in from giant speakers set up at the North and South poles, but it wouldn't be music that makes you want to kill yourself or your loved ones. No Muzak...no heavy metal.            I think I'd also roll back evolutionary progress a bit. Give mankind back its tail, let it go live in the trees and eat bananas for awhile. That way everyone would have a way to get home, a home to get to and something to eat when they got there.            And I'd make Mondays gravity-free days so everyone can learn to lighten up.            And that's just the Beginning! Yeah! Yeah, I think I could get into this...                                                       JHC