By H.G. Miller
For those of you with a passing interest in Christianity, you probably noticed the holiday season this past December. I know there are other religions with special days and weeks and months in the later part of the calendar year, but God’s prophet with the rockin’ long hair seems to garner the most attention, and since about half of the items currently at Urban Outfitters seem to recognize this particular messiah, then I guess he’s got the hip following right now, so I’ll blame it all on him.
Jesus, I need your help with a few things.
For starters, please tell the airport security guard that he’d better buy me a drink the next time he goes fishing in my pants for any weapons of mass destruction (though, I must admit, I was quite flattered).
“It’s probably the belt,” I said when the metal detector went off.
“I’m going to need you to unbutton and unzip.”
“You gonna cause trouble?” He puffed up his chest and flashed me a gold tooth.
I gulped and preceded to prove that the only thing I was hiding beneath my pants was love and goodwill for all mankind, while noting to myself that a pair of boxers will now be worn for all future flights, comfort in travel be damned.
“You’re cleared,” he said without flinching. I was glad he noticed my good grooming habits.
The flight was as pleasant as could be expected. The flight attendants gave safety instructions in a verse matching that of “Twas the Night Before Christmas,” and I chatted up an attractive girl who is currently teaching English in Hong Kong. Apparently, most pretty, intelligent and single girls currently reside in Hong Kong. I don’t know why.
After an emotional reunion with my family (once or twice a year is never enough), the Christmas Eve tradition of watching National Lampoon’s Christmas Vacation went off without a hitch.
Thanks to new DVD technology, I was able to show my parents how the French enjoy our national treasure. If you’ve never heard Clark Griswold say “Eddie” en Françoise, then you probably don’t have the kind of time on your hands I have. Sucks to be you, I guess. Talk to Jesus about that. Maybe he can help.
After the holiday, my parents went about they’re regular work schedule and I hung out in town for a few days to catch up with some old friends.
It should be noted here that my parents have yet to join the 21st century and do not currently own a computer. Since I have yet to join the class of people who benefit from Gee Dubya’s tax cuts, I stay with my parents whenever visiting the Midwest. Thusly, I was without Internet access for the duration of my stay.
Now, I got my daily sports and news fix from the Cable Television, and while it wasn’t easy, I did manage to make it through the week without email. However, there are certain ‘other’ intangibles that the Internet offers that were beginning to be sorely missed by day three. So, I found myself asking, “What would Jesus do to get some porn?”
Turns out, because of Jesus, or at least some fundamental misunderstandings of his father’s will (in my opinion), it’s damn hard to find pornography in the Midwest. My lovely state, which is currently debating whether or not to teach evolution in the classroom (yeah, I’m real proud of that one), has apparently also made it illegal to sell dirty magazines at gas stations anymore.
Since the urge to do some light reading hit me after going out to a bar with some friends – isn’t that when the urge usually hits you? – All of the bookstores and adult novelty stores were already closed. I finally gave up after visiting my sixth filling station (a man gets determined after three days) and purchased a Maxim magazine.
The problem with this month’s Maxim, though, is that Michelle Branch is on the cover. Since I don’t listen to much pop music, I kept thinking that Ms. Branch was actually Mandy Moore, and then I started thinking that she was a devout Christian who made some movie about kissing a boy or something like that. Then, I started to get confused about why she would be all naked in Maxim if she was such a churchy girl and then I was thinking just way too much period and well… the urge went away.
So, I guess I have Jesus to thank for all of that, in a roundabout sort of way.
There’s more to the trip home, but I’m over my word limit, so I’ll just wrap it up. At a later time, I’ll get into the many (and, I mean MANY) drunken shenanigans that took place while criss-crossing the Kansas/Missouri border. Let’s just say cigars and bars and car washes in the wee hours and the worst plane flight I’ve ever had in my life, along with the worst plane flight that the guy sitting next to me has ever had (and that story doesn’t even involve vomit).
Yeah, it was a good trip. Twas a Merry Christmas, indeed.