IF THEY LOSE THE BOOK

I think it’s time we addressed the forbidden subject. The good Book. The Bible. The Christian fundamentalist quotes the Book-that’s the Old and the New Testament- constantly. It’s the word of God. He wrote it. He is it. Without it they have nothing. Lose the book and you lose the God.

Now Jesus Christ, if there was such a person, is another kettle of fish. Kurt Vonnegut-one of my favorite non believers – seated here beside me at the bar,  said, “If Christ hadn’t delivered the Sermon on the Mount, with the message of mercy and pity, I wouldn’t want to be a human being. I’d just as soon be a rattlesnake.”

I nodded, “He’s another of my favorite human being.” We drank to that. “I really liked him. Didn’t much like his mother. Constantine hauled her ass off to heaven on my birthday.”

He nodded. “August 15th,” he took a swig.  “The Assumption. Not certain of the year. Never bought the story.  Got diddled by a God? Doubt it…”

“The Jehovah’s don’t have a problem with that. According to  Rutherford he was the son of god but not god. Still stuck with big daddy, tho.”  I pondered and took a bite of cheese and crackers.

‘…yep,” Kurt went on. “They’re stuck with that. Stuff came gushing outta him.”

“If my assumption, not hers, is correct. You gotta buy the whole deal. No book. No God.”

“… you got salsa? I feel armless without  salsa on my cracker. ”

I nodded. “Careful. It’s hot as hell.”

“No book. No god. No hell…”

“..won’t miss it.”

“They can fart balderdash about whether he’s real or not. Deal is who’s he belong to?”

“Why’s he always a he? If  a lady wrote the book…”

“…terror to wake up one morning and find your high school sweetie wrote it…”

“…would he still be a he? Would he still hate women?”

“…Good stuff.” He took another glug.

“…friend brought it. Costs 125 buck a bottle.”

We were sloshing. “Which one’s him?”

“… the tenor in the room next door. Gun slinger. He’ll pass out pretty quick. Or get thrown out. Or knocked out. Or come in and try to drain the bottle.”

“So it goes. Do Be Do Be Do. Sometimes I have the disease. Alcohol.”

The telephone rang.

“That too.”

“Maybe it’s him.”

“Ask him over. Sounds like the party’s gettin’ rough. What’s that they’re singin’?”

“A friend of mine wrote it. ‘Humping the thumpers.’ Give those guys a itch and their dirty minds take over,” and away I went.

The gun slinger was as shnoozoled as Kurt and me, but polite. He could be charming. I asked the Mick to join us. He shook his head. The humpers were humping. The thumpers thumping. The guy on the drum was beating the canvas.

“In a mood to debate?”

“Always in a mood to..” he hiccupped, “…debate.”

“Lost your book?”

“Nope. Got it. Right here.” he waved his arm.

“You’re really snookered,” I giggled “That’s not a book that’s a catcher’s mitt.”

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One Response

  1. Hey Bettejo, I love the blog! I found it yesterday and have read everything in all your posts in the last 24 hours. I always liked your fiery letters to the editor over the last many years in the Garden Island. Keep them coming! Only recently have I started reading the comments section to the letters on the TGI website. Good entertainment- and some angry closeminded people with no tolerance for diversity. I see you are very active in the comments page- that is how I found the link to your column. Anyways, keep being you and givin em hell! That is what makes you so interesting to read. Say Hi to the animals for me! Love and aloha, Ryan

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