Millennial Fears Explode

Jesus turns 2000 this Christmas. What an amazing feat of longevity, rivaled only by that woman in France who lived to be 125 by feasting on a steady diet of red wine, anchovies and fried monkey brains. I have a long way to go, choking down my tofu and rice milk, complemented by mineral water and humus. If I continue with my diet of soy beans, rice and rainwater, I might just make it to next week. But that's getting off track. Jesus is having another birthday and it's not just any birthday. For this one, I'm going to meet the Lord on Mt. Oberlin, wearing my favorite tweed suit, in rags, of course. That would be a suitable "appropriation of poverty." I want to swallow a cocktail of Valium, methamphetamine and champagne. All of this is to prove that the Lord does indeed make miracles. He can turn water into wine and he can make me a rich, rich man. Everyone else is sincerely beyond the helping hand of the Lord. Sorry, only enough God to help this poor, tofu-eating fool. The rest of you will spontaneously combust faster than a drummer in Spinal Tap, being sucked into the blue-black implosion that is the contraction of Time and Space and all the socks lost in the Burton dryers.

But I digress. A birthday, a birthday, a birthday. What kind of cake should we serve the Lord? Should it be a miniscule cake, with a crust made entirely of crushed communion wafers? If I were God, and this is not to say that I am (but it might be nice for a day. That way I could stop using physical force to coerce the cross-country boys to do my math problem sets) but if I were the Lord of Our Savior I'd go for the gusto. I'd expect a millennial bash at the Ritz or the Four Seasons, complete with an evening gown-wearing Diana Ross or Barbara Streisand, singing my praises while beleaguered waitresses pass out devilled eggs to piss drunk followers. Of course there would be a little karaoke number, maybe a little Al Green or perhaps a tune from the soundtrack of the "Brady Bunch" movie. I'd have everyone dancing, shouting and wanting to go home with me. If only I were Jesus Christ.

But once again I digress. The year 2000 is coming and everyone I know is scared stiff about the impending doom: they see jet planes falling out of the sky and aliens strapped to the wings. None of that will happen. If anything, Hillary Clinton will be elected Senator for the fine, if troubled, state of New York and Rudy Giuliani will be elected Fascist of the Year. But don't fear, my fair Obie friends. Everything will work out in Y2K. You'll be rewarded with love, wealth and happiness. Except that it will come in the form of a jelly doughnut, grape jelly spilling out the sides like the excess knowledge that spills from my veins during Reading Period.

This is to say, I welcome the year 2000. This is an open invitation for Jetsons' inspired flying cars, robots that take notes in my Social Psychology class (so I don't have to waste my precious sleep) and Pabst Blue Ribbon being served in the cranberry juice machine. I wish you luck. As for me, don't even worry: I have a flask of Galen's 151 and my pocket Bible. I'll survive.

(12/10/99)