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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108-page perfect-bound ISSN#/ISBN# issue/paperback book “What Now, My Love” cc&d, v330 (the February 2023 issue) Order the 6"x9" paperback book: 
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Order this writing in the book a Mural of a Forest the cc&d Jan.-April 2023 magazine issues collection book |
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Order this writing in the book On Stones and Bones the 2023 poetry & art collection anthology |
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“Save the Last Swig for Jesus!” Brian Daly She gets ticked off for religious reasons when I don’t drain the whiskey bottle dry. “Save the last swig for Jesus!” I always say, leaving a wee dram of amber liquid sloshing at the bottom before tossing it in my son’s recycle bin. “I know you’re an atheist but is blasphemy worth the risk? You shouldn’t mock Our Lord and Savior that way!” “Mock? I wish someone would mock me like that when I run out of hooch. True, I’m an atheist. But a praying atheist. Nothing more natural than lifting your eyes to the sky to say Please and Thank you. Man be doin’ that from Day One.” “What would Jesus say if He could hear you now?” “I’ve got a few ideas.” “Go ahead, wise-ass. Lay it on me.” He’d say, “Not to toot my own horn too hard, but I was a lights-out preacher. I was Jimmy Swaggart minus the perv. I had peeps in the palm of my hand. They believed whatever I said. And so did I. With one exception. My big boo-boo was that Son of God stuff. That was reaching. But Christ, they bought that too! So shoot me. I was trying to get asses in chairs. Come on, yo-yos! I’m not the Son of God! I’m just a poor wayfaring stranger like the rest of you, trying to figure this mess out. I’m a teacher, kapeesh? Compassion is my gig. But no. They thought they were seeing God Junior and they ate that up! What can I say? I have a gift, Harry. So it’s my own damn fault. Next thing I know, cut to striking visual of yours truly splayed out on the cross. Nine-inch nails was a nice touch. Thanks much. Not true that I said, as the old joke tells it, ‘Peter...Peter... I can see my house from here!’ But I wish I had. Then swingers like St. Paul nattering on, reading letters at people, can you believe? Next comes the Fall of Rome and suddenly, cazart! I’m the hottest ticket on the planet. Enter the Crusades. All that blood spilled in my name. Dorks in armor spend centuries chasing my wine glass like it’s the Holy Grail. Give a break unto me! And you can quote me on that. All these damn religions. My take: Catholics? Definitely the best art. Protestants? Picky, picky, picky. Jews? I’m a Jew. But luckily I look Catholic. At least in the paintings. Muslims? No comment. They come for you. I could go on. But I want it over. If you’re in Ireland, 99% you’re a Catholic. India, 99% you’re a Hindu. Pakistan, 99% you’re a Muslim. Anyone see a pattern here? It’s all about Mom. We fight wars for the same reason—the Motherland. Let me tell you about my Mom.... Tricky Dick called his mother a saint. Dude, my mother is a saint for real. The Pope says so. Feast days, halo— schwing, the whole nine yards. Her name’s got an ST in front of it. That’s her in the Pietà. Deal with it. Trust me, being a prophet sucks. It sounds great when you’re 19, 20, trying to get chicks. But at 30—I’m in too deep. I admit they did a good job telling my story in the Gospels but there’s way too much overlap. Put your heads together and pick a version, for God’s sake! Peeps don’t have all day to read. My favorite part is in Luke, I think. I remember it like it was yesterday. ‘When I was hungry, you gave me meat. When I was thirsty, you gave me drink.’ That one. And Luke is like, ‘Yeah, Jesus, that’s gonna sound great in the video, but refresh my memory— when did we ever give you stuff?’ Then one of these writer guys has me bend down. Like, ‘Wow, that’s a hard one.’ Great detail. Pure genius! Never happened. Now I get off my absolute best line. Something like—I’m quoting from memory here—’Inasmuch as ye have done these things unto the least of these my brethren, you have done them also unto me.’ Home run! Man, I pulled that one out of my you-know-where. Even Big Bill never beat that one. But speaking of being misquoted, the worst was my supposed last words looking up to Heaven from the cross. ‘Father, Father, why hast Thou forsaken me?’ That was totally a writer’s embellishment. All I actually said was, ‘Dad?’ What do you suppose is going on with all the new birthing rules they’re trotting out these days? They’re petrified I’m fixin’ to come back any minute, that’s what! Seeing as how the world is going to Hell in a handbasket. Climate, covid, wars, pronouns, cancelling, you name it. And they want their brownie points before I drop down. They trippin’. Better late than never, eh? Wrong. You guys are toast. All those geeks slouching around with their a-holes pointed south, and for what? To betray me all over again. For 30 pieces of bitcoin, no doubt. Can you fathom how mean these creeps would be if they didn’t see ole Jesus standing over them with a club in his hand? They’re worse than Doubling Thomases. Correction: Doubting. I always forget to cross the T. And listen, dudes, I’m not coming back. For one thing, it’s off the table. And for another, I’m sick of y’all. They say the last Christian died on the cross. OK, but when did the next-to-last Christian die? Riddle me that, buddy boy. No man ever heard his wife say she was in a family way without knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt he was a father from that moment on and had a child to care for, microscopic though it may be. Still, I think you should off the little bastards if you need to. Don’t tell God I said that. And that weirdo who saves me the last swig in his handle? Finally somebody gets me! Anyone remember the wedding feast at Cana? I cooked up enough booze for the whole crowd, including moi. That’s my kind of miracle. I heard what he said last night while he was dreaming. ‘I done my duty with what I had. If that’s not good enough for Ye, so be it.’ Haha! That’s what they all say. But I’m gonna put in a word for that guy when he gets up here. I’ve got a bit of pull. No promises.” |
