Jesus Vs. Santa - Chapter 1

Jesus Vs. Santa

By Harlowe Pilgrim

Copyright 2012 Cock and Bull Publishing, LLC

Chapter One

“FUCK!” Jesus slammed the front door and stomped into the house.

His wife rolled over in her bed, stretched her arms overhead, and yawned. “Sounds like The Prince of Peace is home … so much for my nap.” She turned onto her side, propped her head up on her elbow, and waited, her gaze fixed upon the closed bedroom door.

His angry footsteps echoed through the hallway.

“Uh oh … this doesn’t sound good …”

The door burst open.

“Sweetheart!” she said. “Welcome home! How about a kiss? Did you have a good day?”

“A good day, Mary? A good fucking day, Mary Magdalene? A miserable PIECE OF SHIT day is more like it!”

“Oh oh,” she thought, “if Jesus isn’t happy, then ain’t nobody’s going to be happy …”

“DAMN RIGHT nobody’s going to be happy, Mary …”

“He’s just like the lead singer of a rock band … so temperamental …”

“Fuckin’ A, woman—will you be serious for a minute?”

“Jesus Christ, are you reading my mind again? I thought we talked about that.”

“Damn it, I can’t help it …”

“Fine. The point is, at the risk of sounding insensitive … your day … whatever happened … it can’t be that bad. Maybe if you just take a deep …”

“No—it is that bad. That’s the fucking point.”

“Okay then, Jesus. Out with it … what’s so fucking bad?”

“It’s that fat little FUCK! That red-suited motherfucker!”

“Red-suited motherfucker?” she said. “That sounds like a fish,” she thought, “like the yellow-bellied cocksucker I caught when we took that fishing trip.”

“No, it’s not a fish, Mary.” He sat down next to her on the bed. “And neither is a yellow-bellied cocksucker. But Santa is one of those too, now that I think about it.”

“Huh? You’re talking about Santa Claus? You’re calling him a fish?”

“No—I’m calling him a cocksucker.”

“So, that’s what this is about? Santa? Being a motherfucker and a cocksucker?”

“Well, you’d have to agree—my birthday’s a huge deal, right?”

“Yeah, but what’s that have to do with mother fucking and cock sucking?”

“Just humor me, alright?”

“Sure … yes, of course, it’s a huge deal, your birthday; the biggest holiday of the year, on Earth and in heaven. Your party last night was … epic.” She stopped and rubbed her temples. “So epic, I woke up this morning with a splitting headache. Think you could help a girl out with it?”

He laid a hand on the top of her head. “There—you’re healed. Better now?”

“Yes. All better, thank you.”

“Good. So, today, I was still feeling high from my party; I mean sky high, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do.”

“But then I got a taste of the news …” He handed her a newspaper. “… and it killed my fucking buzz, deader than Elvis. That ASSHOLE!”

“Elvis? Elvis is an asshole now? I thought you liked him.”

“No, not Elvis; check out the paper.”

She opened it up. “Looks like a lot of feel good stuff … Christmas stories …”

“A lot of Christmas shit is more like it.”

“So … what’s the problem, honey? Christmas is all about you, and you’ve always been such a big fan of you.”

“No,” he said. “It only started out being about me, and that was a long fucking time ago. Now it’s all about ribbons, wrapping paper, and the almighty fucking dollar. It’s so materialistic, it makes me sick. They’ve taken all the Christ out of it—they ought to have to change the fucking name.”

“Jesus, don’t you think you’re exaggerating just a little?”

“Well Mary, look in that newspaper; how many stories do you see about me? Kids born in mangers? Anything like that?”

She scanned a few pages. “Here. In the crime section … something about a nativity scene getting stolen from a church display. Does that count?”

“It counts … as bullshit. And it’s all that fucking Santa Claus’ fault. He did this… he made Christmas the way it is. I’m just an afterthought now.”

She set the paper down and began caressing his arm. “Honey, it’s awfully hard for you to compete with Santa, giving away all of that free stuff.”

“Tell me about it,” he said. “He’s buying votes, like a crooked fucking politician. I know that’s oxymoronic, but the point is, Christmas is bought and fucking paid for.”

“Honey, you’re not an oxymoron.” She sat up and kissed him on the cheek, her hand sliding from his arm to stroking wide circles on his robed back. For a moment, Jesus’ troubles drifted away.

The reprieve, however, was only temporary.

“It’s my frigging birthday! Who told that asshole he could steal it? Motherfucker!”

“Jesus,” she said, still trying to work on his back.

“I am the son of God! And he’s just a … son of a bitch!”

“Jesus, don’t you think that’s a little un…”

“Un what? Unbefitting of my regal stature?” He stroked his royal beard. “You might have a point—if I wasn’t so pissed off.”

“Un…” she attempted to continue.

“I’ll tell you what’s unbefitting of my regal stature; it’s the way that asshole in red is treating me! No respect! That rat bastard is way, way out of line!”

Mary waited a second. “Unfair. Don’t you think it’s a little unfair is what I was going to say.”

He glared at her as if she’d been unfaithful.

“Isn’t what Santa does supposed to be a tribute to you?” she asked.

“I don’t see the fuck how. Stealing my thunder is what he’s doing.”

“Jesus …”

“The bottom line is, it’s my day, and he’s taken it over. It sucks, and he sucks. For a hundred years, he’s been working to take it away from me—and the fucking papers are so proud of him! That passes for reporting? Journalism is dead!”

He picked up the newspaper and threw it on the floor, then set his face in his hands. “Sons of bitches.”

“Jesus,” she said, getting up out of bed, “I want to make you feel better.” She turned and faced her husband. “So tell me, what can I do?”

He looked up from his hands, and caught her untying the sash of her flowing silken robe.

Then, smiling like a cat, she pulled the garment open, and let it fall to the floor.

“You’re definitely onto something here, Mary.” He laid his hands on her hips. “You’re never going to believe this—but I feel a little better already.”

-Harlowe Pilgrim

Copyright 2012 Cock and Bull Publishing, LLC

Continue to Chapter Two

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