I Feel Like I've Been Dead Three Days

Dad damn it, am I hung over.

A word of advice, never plan a reunion with your disciples on your 2009th birthday when beer pong is involved. I may be able to walk on water but I couldn't for the eternal life of me bounce that little fucking ball into the plastic cups.

So your Lord and Savior got hammered and got to heavin' all over his best robe. I should have cooled it then, but Peter dusted off that little "puke and rally" proverb and told me he'd deny he knew me if I didn't man up. Next thing I know, Thomas says he doubts I can handle tequila shots, and I took that as a challenge.

And I think someone slipped me something too because the only thing I remember after that is the Jameses arguing about who's James the Greater. Next thing I know I wake up in a trashed penthouse with a lion and lamb trapped in the bathroom, an immaculately conceived baby in the closet, and a valet stub for a Roman chariot in my pocket.

But hey, you only turn 2009 once, right?

Hubble Way Too Close To My Bathroom

Seriously, NASA, back the fuck off!

It's all well and good that the Hubble telescope is discovering distant galaxies and Earth-like planets, and learning about parts of the universe that Dad is still tinkering with. In a way, I'm proud of you and your technological savvy. You've come a long way from trying to build a tower to reach heaven.

But I'd like to holy shit in peace without worrying about you Peeping Thomases spotting me on your mega-telescope.

I mean, you're posting images of the Eagle Nebula online now. That's right around the block from my pad. Next thing you know photos of me in the shower will pop up on the cover of the Best and Worst Beach Bodies issue of Star Magazine.

So do the Savior of your eternal soul a favor and give me a little privacy. You don't want me to sic Dad on you and have him confuse your languages again, do you?

Santa is a Heart Attack Waiting to Happen

Your cookies and milk are killing Santa Claus, children.

It's a harsh reality, but it's true. Normally, I wouldn't give two shits about this thunder-stealing jolly old elf, but in my infinite mercy, I've recognized that it's time for an intervention.

Sure he makes an annual whirlwind sprint to every child's home and somehow stuffs his morbidly obese body down every chimney all in one night. But that doesn't make up for the 364 days a year of gluttony and sloth.

And it's all your fault. You sing carols about his belly shaking like a bowl full of jelly, people. Since when is it cool to celebrate an abdominal apron? You're just egging him on.

So it's time for the more rational among us to step in now and save Kris Kringle from your enabling clutches. I'm going to gather up Gabriel, a few elves, Easter Bunny, and Tooth Fairy and we're going to talk it out with Old Saint Nick, before he loses a foot to diabetes.

I Still Have No Fucking Clue What Myrrh Is

What's that? The King of Kings has been born and you want to travel from afar bearing him gifts befitting his miracle birth? How about a big pile of myrrh.

Please.

The gold was fine. What Savior baby doesn't like a little bling. Frankincence? Kind of a foo-foo Bath and Bodyworks type gift. But I was born in a feeding trough, so a little freshening up was in order.

But myrrh? Do I eat it? Smoke it? Line the litter box with it? What?

Here's a little tip, Third Wiseman, if the recipient of your gift requires over 2000 years to figure out what the hell you just gave him, it's a shitty gift.

Darwin's Toasted Image Rattles My Faith In Baseless Conjecture

I gotta admit, this creeped me out.

There I was making myself a sensible breakfast, minding my own Dad-damn business, when I look down at my toast and Charles Darwin's smug mug is peeping back at me.

Nice guy, Chuck, but I've always taken him with a grain of salt. It's insulting to my half-human heritage to imagine mortals evolving from something as lowly and filthy as primates.

Everyone knows Dad created them from dust.

But likenesses toasted into bread automatically validate that person's theories. It's in the Bible (somewhere in the back). So I got to wondering whether Dad's "because I said so" explanation of the universe's origin was as airtight as I'd always thought.

Now I don't know what to believe. I mean, these days He has trouble boiling water (thankfully, global warming is helping him out there), so it's difficult to picture Him cooking up the entire universe in only six days. And this is the same guy who wrote the first four commandments about Himself, so He's got kind of an ego. Besides, he's always been prone to embellishment. The way he tells it, Mom had jugs like Mount Sinai when he immaculately knocked her up.

So anyway, I'm really starting to wonder if it's possible modern science is more factually accurate than ancient lore passed down from sexless scribes who thought the Earth was flat.

I'd ask Dad but he's spending the week building an alien race out of lint somewhere.

Why Doesn't Judas Call?

Seriously, it's been like 2000 years.

Maybe you couldn't get through because telephones didn't exist for the first 1,876 of them, but still, you could have written or something? Ever heard of papyrus, Judas?

But I see how it is.

Don't think I didn't see how you looked at me during the Last Supper. I told you then you'd betray me, and I was right, wasn't I?

I thought maybe when you finally grabbed me in the Garden of Gethsemane and planted that kiss on me -unashamed of your passion, even though there was a buttload of Roman guards around - that you'd changed. You whispered in my ear that you were reallly going to leave Mrs. Iscariot this time. You can't even begin to know how badly I wanted to believe that, Judas.

But in the end, you played me. You said you'd give me your heart for all eternity but then snatched it right back after you got your fill of Jesus love.

I'll still forgive you if only you'll call. You know I can't stay mad at you, Judas. But no, I'm left sitting here every Saturday night staring at the phone, checking to make sure there's a dial tone, still tasting you on my beard, waiting...