Dear diary,
Do you believe in Gosh? or do you rather believe in Gol? cuz Gosh will darn you to heck; but Gol is the father of Jeez, who became the world’s Criminy. As it is written:
Criminy died for our sins according to Gosh Blog Dot Com (our chief sin being fricking, which is what led to the epidemic of menfolk); however, after Criminy passed his expiration date, he got cremated — that is, scrambled — but he came back together again, sunny-side up, in Millennium Three (the span of time with all the wars) after being asleep, down in heck, for all those years.
Now, on Criminy’s 2nd put-together (his re-shellacking), he was seen by Mr. Cephas, who was rock hard for churchgoers — you don’t know Pete; but I do, cuz he prays upon my friends — then the twelve paid witnesses agreed to testify that they also saw Criminy fry: yes, after that, he appeared on the big screen, A.K.A. the silver screen, using green-screen technology, and it was a touch-screen, very flat like a panel: a revelation in technicolor (not unlike the revolution, which was indeed televised), mostly — I mean, the parts that took place back home, on the farm in Jerusalem, were filmed in sepia-tinted monochrome. And the audience in the theater consisted of about 500 ticket-holders, who watched the blockbuster together, during opening night, and they all laughed at the funny parts, gasped at the scary parts, and sobbed at the sad parts. The majority even expressed a desire to re-screen the film immediately after it ended, admitting in sworn testimonies “I wish it were longer”. Plus barely anybody fell asleep. And the ones who did will waken eventually. Even if it takes them two or three millennia, someday they’ll get woke.
After that, Wise James saw the movie; and then all the apostles. (James is my nemesis because he actually knows the movie’s star — he’s Jeez Criminy’s biological brother.)
Last of all The Tale of Criminy (2020) was seen also by me, Professor Saulus. I’m a latecomer, when it comes to belief in the worth of this film: I converted relatively late in the game. As the kids say nowadays, I was “born again” out of due time, yes, I’m rather a stillbirth; even a partial-birth abortion, when it comes to being reborn. For I am the least of the apostles, that am not meet to be called an apostle, because I burned down the cineplex. No, that’s just a joke — all I did was shout “Fire!” in the theater; cuz the place was packed.
[That’s Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians, 15:4-9.]
Well it’s Monday. Sorry I photoshopped the above quote so much. Sorry I even canonized it. I just started out my day thinking about those words that we polite folk swap for true swear words, like God and Hell, and Jesus Fucking Christ. Then I typed into an online search engine the question “What is the best bible passage for explaining the gospel?” and it spat back that claptrap from Saulus. So I couldn’t help myself.
What else should we be doing here, on Earth, but copying and changing bible passages? I just don’t get what the whole idea is. Or rather: I understand the attraction of normal life; for there’s almost nothing that I haven’t fallen in love with about this broken world; but if there’s supposed to be a major movement to this thing, I can’t detect it. It seems like people band together into groups, then the groups grow bigger, and they torment other groups that are weaker or smaller, and they torment the individual members of their own collective for being insufficiently conformist, & then they obliterate themselves — and that happens either gradually or instantly.
So, perhaps, after all, I have grasped the overarching plan. I just didn’t want to admit it.
If it’s really humankind’s purpose to grow big & pop like an intensely ugly soap bubble, then I wish that I could enjoy my role in this mess a little more genuinely. Cuz, up till now, most of my smiles have been faked; and my facial muscles are beginning to feel sore.
I attended another family get-together yesterday. The occasion was my brother’s birthday. He just turned 40. I like seeing my brother, and I like the rest of my family; but it’s also frustrating — please note that I say “it” is frustrating and not that “they” are: that’s a deliberate choice of wordage; I’m trying to indicate that it’s the situation itself — not any individual soul but the MAIN FACT that our concurrent existences keep hurtling forth on separate life-paths, thus barring us from being able to see eye-to-eye on any matter — THAT’s what’s frustrating.
[Editor’s note. Re: “THAT’s what’s frustrating.” Yes, but don’t forget: THAT’s also what’s fun.]
I’ve said it before & I’ll say it again: the things that I care about are NOT the things that my family cares about. Or even if our cares happen to overlap, their intensities are incongruous. For instance, when I told my family that yesterday I re-re-re-watched The Wizard of Oz (1939) and that I was taken aback by its genius (“It is the best movie ever! Perfect in every way from the day of its creation!”); my family answered as one, and their voice was like the noise of many waters: “Yes, we’ve seen it; we really like it too” — so I replied back defiantly:
“NO you do not love it as I do: I am willing to DIE for that movie. You just watch it casually, paying half-attention only.”
And later, when I asked them how sad they are about the Assange situation, they replied, “Who’s Julian Assange?” So I had to reprimand them and school them:
“Remember when the little puppy Toto tugs open the curtain, which reveals the man pulling all the levers and turning the dials in that secret control room? Well now, give ear, and hearken unto my voice; verily, verily, I say unto thee: Assange is Toto.”
& they kept staring at me with cocked heads & puzzled expressions, so I tried to elaborate: “Don’t you see what this means, Assange’s banishment from asylum? — The Wicked Witch of the West has dognapped Toto!!!”
*
I counted this time, and the number of things that I love about The Wizard of Oz is 669.99! That’s almost three integers more than the number of the beast. (Revelation 13:18 “Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; & his number is: six hundred threescore & six.”) And one of my most loved moments about that film comes to mind right now, as I scribble this note-to-self: it’s the scene near the end where Dorothy has been taken from her friends, thus the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, & the Lion must proceed alone, all by themselves, just the three of them; whereupon the green-faced goons of the Wicked Witch come & try to ambush them, but they (our heroes, Dorothy’s friends) fight valiantly and end up besting the foemen, and then the victors strip the armor off the goons and don this garb themselves — yes, they dress as enemy combatants, in order to blend in with the evil troops, so as to infiltrate the castle. I’m talking about the part where they put on the whole armour of the false God of that world:
Even over their artificial dream-mien (how splendid! how strange!), they put on the breastplate of righteousness, and shod their paws with the preparation of the gospel-vendors; they take the shield of faith, and stuff their quivers with the fiery darts of finance (the Witch’s militia are money-green hued); with the helmet of salvation, the sword of the Spirit, and, above all, they gird their loins with the kilt of truth. (Ephesians 6:13-17)
That whole sequence, of the protagonists vanquishing the henchmen of the antagonist and subsequently donning their attire, reminds me of Star Wars (1977), I mean the very 1st film, where the rebel heroes of that adventure end up adorning themselves in the costumes of some enemy stormtroopers after defeating them, in order to pass off as conformists of the empire; thus preserving their own hides from further attacks, until the next plot point. Honestly, I can’t recall any film, besides the ones that George Lucas himself has already named as influences on his creation (such as the 1936 science fiction serial Flash Gordon) that has influenced Star Wars as much as The Wizard of Oz. And that’s saying something, because the motion-picture industry STILL hasn’t gotten beyond producing travesties of Star Wars. (The entire superhero-film sub-genre is included under this insult.) But the poetic, magic mood of that 1977 sci-fi tale stems directly & specifically from Victor Fleming’s 1939 masterpiece. Both of these movies have the best art direction & set decoration that I’ve ever seen, in all my lives in all the worlds.
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