I haven’t been buying as much crap and trinkets. I’m not losing the passion, I’m just going to the beach next weekend, and have been saving all of my allotted money for the boardwalk arcades and junk shops. So I’ve been passing up flea market gems, new flavors of Pringles, and the onslaught of bootleg Michael Jackson merchandise flooding the streets of Baltimore. It took every fiber of my willpower to pass up buying a homemade, computer-printed picture of Michael & Bubbles, framed in a dollar store frame, from a man with two teeth over on Pratt Street.
The thing is, Michael was in one cut-out circle, and Bubbles was in the other. They weren’t even in the same picture! It could have gone on the mantle place, if I had one. God Bless that man for making it.
But I had to save my money. I’m hardcore about the boardwalk arcades, see? In comparison, the girlfriend will meekly pull out a $1 bill to exchange for quarters, and try her hand at the claw machine. I pull out a $20. I wait all year for this. It’s vacation. Some people like to relax and drink margaritas. I like to curse at the claw machines and have my fortune read by mechanical gypsies. Incidentally, I also enjoy margaritas. And when you combine margaritas with mechanical gypsies, incidentally, I gain the magical power to levitate 2 inches off the ground.
Yet, the other week I found a piece of crap that I couldn’t leave behind. A piece of crap that I needed to buy.
This is, simply, “the greatest ripoff of Nintendo by Christianity since the unlicensed Bible Adventures for the NES.” And yes, I’ve been planning that line ever since I bought this keychain. I especially love the touch with the word “Hii”, as though the Jesus weren’t clearly a Mii, as though it were needed to drive home the point that this is specifically a Nintendo-based faith product.
What if God played the Wii? And what if God made a Mii? What would he call it? And what if God was one of us? Just a slob like all of us?
And what would Jesus do? Make an unlicensed product to ripoff and capitalize upon a popular gaming system in order to indoctrinate children and earn profits?
I’m being far too cynical–wait a moment while I go to look up John 3:16, to find a mentioning of the pronoun “Hii”.
As you can see, there are many reasons why I couldn’t pass this keychain up. I was just too amused with it.
Well, now I’m going to tell you the story of the time a woman tried to save me at Wendy’s. I guess I looked like I needed to be saved. I had blue-streaked hair and wore cargo shorts–cargo shorts of course being a target that Christians are trained to look for–the number one place where teenagers hide drugs. On this particular visit to Wendy’s, I was also wearing a Prince t-shirt. I looked like the Devil.
At the time I thought I was special, because religious people used to come up to me all the time. I possibly even thought it was really all the work of God. I was not humbled or inspired by this. Instead, I figured it all into my egotistical image of self. I was so damn important, God was reaching out to me at Wendy’s. God wanted me. Me. Me. Me.
I was 19 and weighed all of 120 pounds. Now I realize Christians are trained to prey on the young and weak-looking. They never try to save me now–probably because of the madman look in my eyes that dares people to approach me. Either this, or God decided to stop feeding into my expanding image of self-importance.
But there I was at Wendy’s, eating a spicy chicken combo with a Biggie-sized order of fries and a tub of Diet Coke. I was munching away at the overcooked and rubbery sandwich, dipping my fries in honey mustard, and wiping my grease-smudged fingers with a single yellow napkin. And then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a large woman across the restaurant staring at me. Large would be the only adjective appropriate to describe her. Staring would be the only present participle.
Instantly, I knew. I just knew. “Oh, shit,” I thought. I knew she was going to come over to me. I began to eat slower, so as to not have a mouthful of chicken when she arrived. She was dressed in a nautical-colored muumuu, which possibly had leopard spots. She wore glasses, and had long mousy hair. She moved across the restaurant in slow motion, a tray of fast food in her hands, her muumuu flowing behind her. I wiped the grease from my mouth, swallowing the last sinful bites of spicy chicken and warmed lettuce.
It was happening. Again. There I sat alone at a small, two-person table. She sat down, at my table, her tray touching mine.
“I just wanted you to know, that God compelled me to come here. I was just sitting there eating, when suddenly God told me to come sit with you. He wants me to tell you he loves you.”
“Thank you,” I said. What else could I say? She was so sincere. I was so innocent, back then, save for the menacing Prince t-shirt.
And with that, she took her tray, and went back to the other side the restaurant, her muumuu swirling around her trunk-sized legs.
I shrugged and resumed eating my fries. There were a lot of them left–afterall, they were Biggie-sized. Biggie sizing–always seemed like a good idea when the cashier asked, but in the end, was always a very bad choice. God really must like me, reaching out to me at this hell hole. Hey, some people find tumors in their chicken sandwich. I find Jesus in mine.