Yesterday morning I got this note in my inbox:
Hello Godless, I saw you speak of your non-profit work on Instagram. I just thought I would write to you to tell you that you’re the sort of person Jesus would want to befriend. If you open your heart and accept Him, He’ll be the best friend you ever had. Either way, He will always love you, Sincerely, anonymous.
*blink*
Um. So, coming from a non-religious background, this note is equally as insane sounding as one that read like this:
Hello Godless, Yesterday I was speaking to Abraham Lincoln, and he wanted me to tell you that he wishes you were friends. If you just open your heart and let him in, Abe could be the best friend you ever had. Sincerely, Nutbutter
Here’s the thing about dead people, anon: they don’t make friends. Even in fiction, dead people don’t make friends. In the Walking Dead, they’ll follow you around for a morsel of flesh; in every horror movie ever they make life miserable for you after a particularly idyllic moving day; even Lestat wants to suck your blood, charming as he may be. The dead simply don’t make friends.
But, for the sake of conversation, let’s just pretend that “Jesus wants to be your friend” isn’t as insane as saying “Kellyanne Conway really makes me think.” Let’s just pretend that Jesus is out there somewhere wishing I was his friend. This begs the question, why the fuck would I want to be his?
1. Delusions of Grandeur – how much fun can be had with someone who insists he is the son of god? It’s like how I imagine a friendship with Kim Jong Un might go. Constantly walking on eggshells, hoping you don’t say the wrong thing. I mean, in the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but wonder, when’s this fucker gonna snap and murder me with a crucifix?
2. Confusion as to what constitutes “wine” – with an appetite for booze as big as mine, this shit just isn’t gonna fly. I can picture us now, sitting in a booth at the Keg, waiting for our medium-rare steaks, when Jeeboner grabs my water glass, waves his hands about like an interpretive dancer, and then shouts, “Voila!” Sliding my water glass back to me, he winks and says, “Enjoy your wine!” The thing is, it’s still fucking water because miracles and magic are not actual things. How do I order a real wine in that situation without triggering his insecurities and sending him into a spiral of despair? No, thank you very much, but I think I’ll stick with my friends, who always bring a real bottle of wine everywhere we go. Heck, sometimes it’s even Fireball, and we all know how Jeeby would feel about his new buddy sipping the elixir of the devil. Too much drama for me, thanks.
3. No Game of Thrones – The first season is a glorious mess of full-frontal girl-on-girl, straight-up porn. This is something that doesn’t bother me in the slightest and has probably actually led to a few frisky nights in bed with Godless Dad. Jesus, however, would likely be brought to tears at the sight of drunken Tyrion in a brothel about to get gangbanged by some full-breasted, toothless working girls. Not to mention the fact that the sexual frustration he’s likely already dealing with from being Daddy’s little good dude would be exacerbated, and who knows how it might manifest? I’d fear for my dog’s innocence, that’s for sure.
4. He’d question my clothing choices – I like cleavage, you like cleavage, you like my cleavage, I like that you like my cleavage, and I’d love to see your cleavage. The subtle hint of boobie brings great joy to the world around us, but if Jesus is my buddy, you know I’m getting turtlenecks for my birthday. I’d have the choice between getting so sick and tired of him bitching about the female form being detectable that I’d appease his asinine wishes, or I’d tell him to fuck off. I think you know which choice GM would make.
5. Constant magic tricks – Have you ever been out with a budding magician? You know the sort I’m talking about… the kind that can’t help but ruin a night at the pub with his constant, “Pick a card, any card…”. The sort of fella who thinks his shitty tricks are going to get him laid, with that smug look on his face, but you know that everyone around him is just cringing hard? Yeah, that’s what a night on the town with Jeeby would be. Between pints, this douchecanoe would insist on slapping down a raw fish where the breadbasket used to be or dragging the crowd out to the river to watch him “walk on water,” but everyone can tell he’s just strategically placed himself, thinking he’s created an illusion. The groans and moans all night would lead to the truly enjoyable people checking out with a “Well, I gotta bounce. I have a thing in the morning!” The next day, you wake up to a dozen texts that read, “What’s that guy’s deal?” and every outing after that would be met with all the same people asking, “Is Jesus going?” Nope. No one needs that friend.
6. He would not appreciate my language choices – I mean, aside from my heavy use of cuss words, I use Jesus’ name in vain a lot. I’d say a good ten times a day, I can be heard shouting, “oh for the love of fucking Jesus in a birdbath!” or “Fucking Jesus son of Mary mother of fucking Christ!" I get rather creative and fairly colourful with my usage of Jesus’ name to vent my frustration at toe stubs, coffee spills, nicking my finger while chopping mushrooms, etc. I really don’t think Jesus would appreciate that, and I’d expect to be smote on more than one occasion. I can always tell who my real friends are, by who joins in on the blasphemy.
7. Pre-Deodorant Era -In all the Jeeby pictures I’ve seen, the guy looks like he smells. Let’s face it, the fucker comes from a time when sanitation was not a thing, when deodorant was 1800 years away from being invented, when there wasn’t even shampoo. Does the guy adjust to the times? According to all the likenesses made of him, the answer is no. So, we’re talking about a 2000-year-old dead dude who never once wore deodorant or even washed properly. Yeah. No way I’m hittin’ the Olive Garden with that freak.
8. Open-toed sandals – I don’t like toes. I don’t like your toes; I don’t like his toes or her toes; I don’t like their toes. I especially don’t like the toes of a dead man. Sorry, Jesus, but I just can’t get down with your dead zombie toes hanging out all the time, and if it even crosses your mind to cover them up with the Nickelback of footwear, socks, and Birkies, you’re dead to me. Wait…
9. Victim complex – Jesus wants us to thank him still, 2000 years later, for taking a weekend retreat in a cave. Imagine what the fucker would be like with the flu? Or a hangover? You think man-flu was unbearable? Wait until you see son-of-god-flu. I’d be willing to bet Jesus shuts down all your gripes with, “Oh, you’re having a bad day? Try being crucified." When you got upset at him, he’d rub his thorny crown scars and pout, “after what I’ve done for you…” This is about as appealing as a new season of Charmed.
10. He would demand worship – You see, this is simply not how friendship works. When one friend worships another, this is a power dynamic, not a friendship. I’d no sooner worship my friends than I would leave my kid alone with a priest. A relationship between friends requires give and take, and I don’t consider losing a weekend 2000 years ago much in the way of giving. Jeeboner, you’re going to have to try better than that, I’m afraid.
As you can see, it would be pretty difficult for me to be friends with Jesus for various reasons. Of course, none of these trump the most important reason of all: Dude’s been dead a bit, and dead people struggle with making friends.
Sorry, Jeeby! Friendship’s off!
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Why can’t you be friends with Jesus? Tell me in the comments!
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