Jesus - My Fake Diary

Thursday, 11 August 2011

Dear Diary:

I took a walk on the lake today, which is much harder to do now that I have holes in my feet, and had some time to reflect on some things that I'm not proud of, and I thought it was time to get them off my chest.

I wasn't always a carpenter. In my late teens and early twenties I was a dog trainer. It was this short-lived vocation that set me on my journey to become the messiah.

I was out in the street with two students, Spooner and Spot, and I was teaching them to walk along side me on a leash. I was as demanding teacher at the time, and I wasn't going to be satisfied until I saw those doggie footprints in-line on each side behind me.

Spooner was being difficult that day. He kept trying to pull ahead and was not listening to any of my commands. It got even worse when we stumbled upon a mob of people surrounding a boy who had just been kicked by an ass.

"The boy has been blinded by that ass," I heard one voice say.

I could see the kid sitting up with his hands over his eyes, shaking with fear.

Not wanting to be standing around in the way with two disobedient dogs, I decided to get moving and leave the scene behind.

As I started to walk, Spooner darted ahead at a run, forgetting he was tied to a leash.

"Heel boy!" I yelled.

The dog stopped and looked back at me.

Then I heard the kid announce with jubilation, "I can see! I can see! That man healed me!"

What is a guy supposed to do when 50 people are staring in amazement at him, believing he just healed a child?

I did what so many others did before me. I took credit for it.

I became an instant celebrity.

It was that year that I decided to pursue carpentry. I made the choice not because I was particularly good at it, I made the choice because there was a business opportunity afoot.

With folks believing I was a healer, the next logical step was to build a following and then build a whole bunch of buildings for them to worship my existence.

I hired a crew of a dozen guys, and we went on a building spree that made us all wealthy beyond our wildest imaginations. Remember the Last Supper? I not only paid for it, I dropped a 30-percent tip on the table too.

We kept our finances quiet, and ultimately learned to launder the money through the organization we built from the ground up.

I feel bad about it, but it was a good time.

There is a reason my name became an exclamation commonly associated with wild shit that happens unexpectedly. I took that notoriety, branded it, and marketed the hell out of it.

I could never reveal the truth back in the day. I thought I was going to be outed when I had to build my own cross for the crucifixion. However, no one said anything about the crooked cross beam and the misstruck, bent-over nails that held it together.

Hammering nails was Peter's job. Not mine.

Forgive me father, for I knew not what I did.

I guess I got my just reward for the construction and money laundering scheme. I did get nailed up to that crooked cross and killed. To put salt into my many wounds, the people who grew fond of my message, all began to use the instrument of my death as a symbol for the movement.

I mean, come on. Really?

I'd much rather see a hammer and nail, a chalice or even crappy frankincense as the symbol for the movement, but I guess beggars can't be choosers.

Thanks for listening Diary.

Tomorrow, we'll have a chat about Lazarus and his issues with hygiene. Damn, that man stinketh.


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