Jesus came and visited me during my nap today. I knew he'd be coming and I thought for sure that he would ask me how I felt about the season premiere of Battlestar Galactica and if I thought that the Bush administration had any inkling of how subversive it is to the War on Terror which is becoming ever more ridiculous and transparent as the days drag on.

I thought for sure he'd want to know what I thought about the Cylon machines that man made and which had since turned against man had now developed a fanatical belief system revolving around the concept of God which fuels their force-led occupation of New Cylon and what remains of the human race now in captivity on Cylon.

And I thought for sure that my bearded, cross-bearing friend would ask me what I thought about the suicide bombings that the most fanatical human beings started up in order to free themselves from a crusading army hell bent on imposing a foreign way of life on them in order to "save" them.

I was going to ask Jesus if he thought the Cylons would start referring to the people defending themselves and their property against invasion by an outside force as "insurgents" or not.

But that conversation never took place. Instead, Jesus asked me to tell him the story about the last cigarette I ever smoked which is strange because I've told him that one about five million times now.

That story always makes him laugh and I guess chuckles are hard to come by when you're the son of man responsible for bearing the world's sins on your lonely shoulders and all.

So I told him again because when the boss drops into your home, you fix him his favorite dinner and let him sit in the Archie Bunker chair right in front of the TV.

It was a Monday morning and I was just nineteen years old. I had been up late the night before, partying with Tiggity Turgin and Connelly and some other fraternity brothers. Bong hits, keg stands and beer slides--all in a day's work down on Digby in the Phi Delt house at the University of Cincinnati.

I was on my way to work and it had snowed heavily over night. I worked as a salesman at the electronics counter at Service Merchandise in Springdale. I was driving a 1981 black mustang with moon roof and I was late.

I must have been spacing out because I almost missed my exit. I slammed on the brakes without thinking about the sleet on 275. My car started fish tailing and whipped around until I smacked hard into the guard rail and came to a dead stop in the burm facing oncoming traffic.

I remember seeing the faces of two or three of the drivers as they passed me. I remember one man in particular, he had a wiry mustache that looked like it came from the 1970s. He was looking at me like, "What the fuck is that kid doing?"

I had no idea, myself.

I was about twenty-five yards into the off ramp of my exit but I was facing the wrong way. So, I started backing up onto the off-ramp. When I saw a break in traffic, I pulled a U-turn and weaseled back into traffic going the right way.

My hands were shaking and my heart was racing. I could have easily died had my car went the other way out of the fish tail. I needed a smoke or at least I knew that I was in a situation where a good smoker would be reaching for their stash and I thought I was going to become a good smoker because my coolest fraternity brothers were good smokers and I wanted to be like them because I was a lowly pledge and lowly pledges always want to be like the cool actives.

While I was stopped at the light outside the Comp USA there on 747, I fumbled in my glove box for the half-smoked pack of Marlboro lights and the cheap plastic yellow see through lighter I had been using lately. There was a solid brown stain on the side of the lighter from capping metal bowls being passed from Cheech to Chong.

I pulled a cigarette and stuck it to my bottom lip, pulling it into my mouth with my top lip. I flicked the spark wheel, totally forgetting the little game I was playing with the valve the night before as we sat outside by the pool as the snow started falling and the marijuana took hold of our minds and the conversation rose to a clamor.

Unfortunately for me, the lighter was set to its highest flame setting and when I flicked the spark wheel, a great plume of butane fire jumped past the cigarette and peaked on my forehead.

I screamed like a woman and threw the lighter to the floorboard on the passenger side so I had a free hand to put out the flame on my face.

I blew the cigarette out of my mouth when I said, "MOTHERFUCK!"

I smelled burnt hair and looked into the mirror. I had no eyebrows left. Back in those days, I didn't have a goatee and had recently shaved my head on the sides and had long hair on top. Without eyebrows, I looked like a shaved penis vomiting hair.

I don't have to tell you the punishment I took from the active brothers and even my good friends. It took about a month for my eyebrows to grow back.

That was the last cigarette I ever smoked and the next time Jesus wants to hear this story, he can come back to this blog post and read it himself.

NOTES:

• Pic comes from Antimedia

LINKS:

• In a study of Presidential doodles, JFK wrote "9/11" with the word "conspiracy" next to it.
  

• Watching Battlestar Galactica from the Middle East
  

• Keith Olberman's Definition of the Difference Between Terrorists and Critics

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Battlestar Galactica

It has been put forth by many prominent anthropologists that the concept of god was born from the voice of thunder as frightened man-apes went running from the enormous booms.

Well this past Wednesday night, an enormous storm descended upon my great city and did a fair amount of damage. My own home fell victim to the outrageous plum-sized hail that pummeled my poor home on its western facing side. As you can see below, the hail punched several holes in my sliding screen door, ripped two screens right out of the window (I still haven't found one of them), chipped several pieces of vinyl siding, and smashed the hell out of an old ice cream bucket that my son keeps all of his outside rocks in.

There weren't any tornadoes despite the warnings but this storm still left my family (dog and cats included) huddled up in the basement with a flashlight, a jug of water and my police scanner.

I don't know if it was the voice of god or not but I do know whose going to foot the $500 deductible to fix all this shit and it isn't his royal majesty on high. Somehow Jesus and his father always seem to hit the bathroom when the check comes.