Hi, I'm Jesus. I'm an important guy. I have important things, heavenly things to think about. I'm not happy. No, I'm not happy. I haven't been happy since early 1953, or maybe even 1940 to be exact, when I looked out at you for the first time from your Sunday School walls and saw you doing bad things, very bad things, making pictures of me with long, wavy brown hair and an angular nose and tight lips, very tight, pursing lips, as if I were sitting in some anti-earthly commercial photography studio getting my picture taken so people will know exactly what I look like, which I do, especially with my Halo shampoo, which I really like, but maybe not manly enough to whip to a pulp and smash their faces a bunch of temple merchants with a bull whip that I borrowed from a guy I know. No, I'm not happy.
Peter, you lied to your mother the other day. Andrew, you said a naughty word when you hit your finger with the hammer. John, you drank too much wine the other night, not too much, just enough to make me angry. Matthew, we fell asleep in church didn't we, yes we did. And Thomas, you were slow-dancing just a little too close to that girlfriend of yours.
And you . . . I forgot your name, so you're off the hook for now.
Thaddeus, I hate to say I saw you stick up your finger at someone who cut you off when you were riding your camel the other day.
Benjamin, you're not wearing your WWJD bracelet. Jacob, I don't mind you saying my name but not after you stubb your toe. And Frank, you know what you did but I can't repeat it because I'm Jesus.
And there are so many more, but I'm getting tired. I have them tape recorded and on auto-play.
I'm watching you.
I have praying hands.
And sad face.
And scared, just a little, but not too much.
I'm gonna getcha.