00AD

As eldest Elder and Scribe Emeritus of South Cashville Mega Church, the Lord has commanded me to authoritatively translate the New Testament into contemporary Evangelical-English, customizing its formerly wishy-washy contents to fit our own highly personal prejudices and preferences about this modern world we currently share with zillions of sacrilegious scumbags whose existence we can't tolerate. 

In his infinite wisdom and mercy that works in mysterious ways, God has also instructed me to "highlight the NT's latent eroticism and make the whole thing more commercially upscale." Consequently, I'm adding a lot more exciting 'cinematic' chapters and premium tier parables that do not appear in the original, lame-ass, bleeding-heart source material. Let's just say my new versions of the gospels are more James Bond than King James, more Palm Beach than Palm Sunday. Although my Book of Revelation is still pretty similar to Tyndale's sixteenth-century rendering of those super fun events we're all looking forward to. Hallelujah!

But I don't blame Mark, John, Matthew and the other guy for their usually uninspiring and often tedious scriptural efforts. After all, they wrote before the invention of movie cameras and special effects, so it's not the Apostles' fault that innovative, big-budget blockbusters such as The Spy Who Loved Me and Octopussy weren't screened in Judean theaters to demonstrate how to construct a fast-paced thriller, and why their unfortunately primitive, prudish and sanctimonious Bible stories lack car chases, high-tech gadgets, exotic locations and passionate sex scenes with foreign love interests. 

Not that my New Testament transforms Jesus into a typical, close-up ready 'man of action.' For example, my Messiah doesn't kick the moneychangers out of the Temple himself. No, my King of Peace controls an invincable squadron of Kung Fu Killer Disciple Drones (KFKDDs) that fight all his righteous battles for him. Meanwhile, he's relaxing at the beach club in Galilee, seducing all the hot babes gathered at his feet by turning water in Vodka Martinis, shaken not stirred, and challenging the evil Pharisees to coups of baccarat. Blessed be his name!

One crucial improvement I've made is that Jesus doesn't die in the end. He escapes to Alexandria with a suitcase full of cash and Foxy Foxdalene, the most beautiful woman in Judea. Honestly, that whole gloomy crucifixion thing is such a downer. What were the Apostles thinking? Forget about them, my unputdownable translation of the New Testament should be available from Amazon and all good bookshops this Easter. 

The price tag of $666 in Bitcoin might seem slightly expensive compared to most other instantly downloadable ebooks, but it took me several weeks to spice things up to a level acceptable to God, especially those dreary Letters of Paul to the Thessalonians: not worth the price of a stamp in their earlier form, if you ask me. All that hard labor at the coal face of the Lord doesn't get done for free, you know. 

Furthermore, you can consider your purchase to be a donation to the very Holy and Sacred cause of spreading the Good Word far and wide. So why not withdraw all your retirement savings and buy as many as possible? You too can feel like an Evangelist for just the cost of a small second house that you'd only rent out to blasphemous lefty students anyway. Amen.

Off White Collar

I'm no clothes horse, more of a clothes donkey, possibly even a clothes ass, but I do try to take pride in my personal appearance as far as anatomically and financially possible.

Nevertheless, I'm always dissatisfied whenever I study my reflection in a full-length mirror. Why does the expensive silk shirt I bought suddenly seem cheap? Why is there sheen on my sport coat lapels when there should be shine? These black shoes are too formal to pair with these green and burgundy polka-dot socks. Furthermore, my left pant leg is too short and the right leg is too long. I wanted to be the new Beau Brummell but I just look Bow-legged instead. I can't go out looking like this.

Time to summon my inner quick-change artist. So I slip into a different shirt, kick the formal shoes off, yank the socks over my long-suffering feet, pull on other some other pants, step into dark brown loafers, thread a casual belt though droopy belt loops and try to hide everything beneath a dark blue blazer.

Yet that damn mirror still denounces me as the complete opposite of the fairest of them all; the absolute bottom of the city's best-dressed list. Hmm. What if I roll my sleeves up, tuck the shirt tails in tighter and unbutton another button down from my already gaping open collar, taper the trousers to my ankles, adjust the hem on everything, then switch it all up from plaid to stripes or perhaps just plain old plain pattern?

Alas, none of these alternatives will reconfigure my disheveled silhouette into an acceptable shape. They are all conventional clothes in my regular size, so why do I appear to be wearing clown shoes, jodhpurs, and an off-the-shoulder peasant blouson? This might be a fine uniform for nine-to-five in an Oriental harem but it's not really appropriate for a downtown office, not even on Casual Fridays. But I have to leave now or I'll be late for work.

Of course, despite looking like Sinbad the Sailor, I'm still the most put-together and debonair guy in the conference room. My colleagues resemble a ramshackle gang of grimy vagrants who've just rolled out of their moth-eaten beds.  Such are the disgraceful sartorial standards in the modern workplace that even an unstylish chump like me might be Cary Grant compared to his slovenly associates.

No wonder the writing is on the wall for our doomed business, except the writing is printed in Comic Sans on an unwashed 'The Dude Abides' tee-shirt. Honestly, who would want to hire such an unfashionable and unprepossessing group of  unkempt deadbeats? Bring back the Man in the Grey Flannel Suit before it's too late, even if his suit is polyester nowadays and not exactly made-to measure.

Yes, I'm no clothes horse, but at least I'm hanging around the stables, wandering up and down the paddock, trying to qualify for life's rodeo.

The Old Haunts

Take a wander through your old haunts. Observe the disheveled specter of the rag-and-bone man driving his horse-drawn carriage of unwanted junk through this gentrified neighborhood. Witness the forlorn gypsy phantom with her wilting bundles of lucky heather locked outside our exclusive gated community. See the obsolete lamplighter's ghost searching recently repaved roads for the last of the long lost gas lamps.  And then there's me, a solitary shade cast across the dark facade of the shuttered town diner, like some sort of gloomy Edward Hopper oil paint figure, watching a trio of circus clowns wrangle their unwieldy stepladder as they unfurl a plastic banner over the diner's old neon sign: Caffe Tepid, opening soon. So farewell scrambled eggs with a side of sausage; hello guava parfait, I guess.

Although, truth be told, I've not frequented the town diner for several years. I used to, back in its heyday of gleaming chrome and red leather upholstery. But those mid-fifties fixtures and fittings were ripped out when the original owner died, replaced by laminated wood and polyvinyl. Obnoxiously loud music and ugly kitsch decorations invaded every booth and counter, and nobody bothered to refill the napkin dispenser to refresh your coffee. Elvis had left the building and some untalented punk rock group made themselves at home. Where there had once been lines around the block at Sunday brunch, in the final days there were only a few grimy students debating if they should order a ride-share to MacDonalds instead. Such is the fate of anything old fashioned or unique in the remorseless march of twenty-first century progress.

But surely this is how history is supposed to happen; the way of all flesh, as the saying goes. Once upon a time, even the rag-and-bone man, the gypsy, and the lamplighter all enjoyed their time in the sun. For many moons ago, the rag-and-bone man was selling the latest gadgets door to door, city people considered the lamplighter's evening chore to be an amazing urban innovation, the roving gypsy's lucky heather remained wild and unpicked on the moor; and even I thought the town diner was the most happening spot in this damned town. But not now. Things change.