We just can’t anymore.

This abysmal toast of every morning.

The spotted sunrise.

The opiate day curtains.

The panic, the tremors, the heart rushes, the worry, the candy fevers.

The daily death of dreams.

Cracked crystal balls leaking hopeless futures.

The bombs, the broken babies, the bazooka douchebags and their flags and Freedom Fries.

An orange farting papaya-shaped Jesus sort of guy named Oaf Doomsday sits in a dimly lit adobe cantina on the outskirts of San Diego near the Mexican border. He’s eating empanadas and drinking cold beer and a milkshake. He’s blubbery and not very holy. He starts loudly complaining about all the illegal immigrants and a guy dressed like a rough and tumble cowboy walks over to where he is at the bar and punches him in the face. Oaf Doomsday goes to the floor. A couple of burly rancheros pick him up and shovel him like coal out the door and into the dusty street. He hits the ground with a gravel-studded thud.

“Hate has no place in this establishment, mother fucker!” one of the burly rancheros yells at him, and then he disappears back inside the dim reverence of the cantina.

Loneliness and despair.

Black iron lungs in the air.

A hooker named Harper Rae stands in the street and looks down at the orange farting papaya-shaped Jesus sort of guy named Oaf Doomsday. She has ivory-blonde hair, puffed up bimbo lips, and inflatable intelligent breasts. She puts the pointed heel of a teal-colored high-heeled shoe on his flabby chest and digs it in. “You still owe me money you goofy ass sack of shit!”

He looks up and blinks. To him, she’s an evil angel of womanhood ringed by bright sunlight. “I don’t even know who you are,” he groans.  

She digs her heel in harder. He cries out in agony. A small crowd begins to gather. “Harper! Remember? Like how you were calling it out the other night… ‘Harper, oh Harper. Yes, baby. I want to boink you so good.’ Ring a bell, ding-a-ling?”

“I’ve never met you. I have no idea who you are. Kindly remove your shoe from my chest before I sue you and take everything you have.”

She looks up at the sun and shakes her head. She reluctantly removes her heel from his chest. Someone from the crowd throws a burrito and it hits the orange farting papaya-shaped Jesus sort of guy right in the face.

Oaf Doomsday struggles to get up and wipes away the mess with a fat hand. “You are such disrespectful shits!” he yells. “Which one of you crappy little immigrants did this!? I’ll have you killed for such a mockery against me!”

The people in the crowd point at him and laugh out loud. More burritos fill the air, and he is pummeled with tortillas, warm beef, cheese, beans, sauce. He starts to scream like a little girl, and he runs off down the street to escape the onslaught.

Harper Rae the hooker high-fives the people in the crowd. “Yeah! I guess you could say he was torpedoed with burritos!”

Everyone laughs out loud and cheers. Street music fills the air, and the people there start to dance like the end of the world is on the horizon.

Oaf Doomsday comes upon a park, a plaza really, and he sits down on a bench beneath the shade of some large trees. He is sweaty and out of breath. His clothes, skin and hair are stained with the remnants of the burrito attack. He aches from the punch in the face. He fumbles around in his pockets for his phone and frantically calls his lawyer.

“Hello, Gene? I’ve been assaulted and I want to sue!”

There’s a warbled response on the other end.

“Burritos, Gene. They threw burritos at me like I’m some sort of awful homeless person.”

There’s another warbled response from the lawyer.

“Hooker?” He pauses. “I have no idea who she is, Gene. I’ve never met her before. And how did you know about that?”

“It’s all over the news!” the lawyer screams out from the other end.

“What? How!?”

Oaf Doomsday hangs up on his lawyer and pulls up CNN on his phone. The burrito attack outside the cantina is the top story, complete with video, interviews, quotes… Everything.

He shoots up in a rage and bellows at the sky. “This is a travesty of justice! I did nothing. I know nothing.”

“You are nothing,” comes a voice from behind him.

Oaf Doomsday whips around, growling in uncontrollable anger. There before him stands a brown-colored man wearing a long, white tunic with a red shawl draped across his neck and shoulders. He has unreal blue eyes, long hair, and a beard. Atop his head he sports a red baseball cap with the words: Make Heaven Great Again embroidered upon it in white, glossy thread.

“Who the hell are you?” Oaf Doomsday wants to know.

“I’m Jesus,” the stranger says in a soothing voice. He retrieves a business card from somewhere invisible and hands it to him.

Oaf Doomsday looks at it and scoffs. He tears it up and throws the pieces into the wind.

“Oh, boy,” Jesus groans.

“What?”

“You shouldn’t have done that.”

“Why not. You’re completely full of shit!” Then Oaf Doomsday reaches forward and slaps the red MHGA hat off his head.

Jesus sighs. “You really are a piece of work, you know that? I mean, I was told you were an unequivocal asshole, but this… This is just ridiculous.”

“Look here, Jesus,” Oaf Doomsday begins to ramble. “Why don’t you just go back to Heaven. And you know, Heaven, it’s just such a terrible place. Run down. Dirty. Full of immigrants and gays committing crimes against humanity. Everyone says so. All you have to do is watch it on Fox News. It’s all right there. Every day. Bad reports. Believe me, I know this. So, why don’t you just go do your thing back up there, go clean the filth from your golden streets and I’ll do my thing down here. I’m the most important person on the planet, you should know. Everyone thinks so. Without a doubt… And here’s another thing, we don’t need two Jesuses down here. The people. They love me. They think I’m you. They don’t want you; they want me. They don’t want your peace and love and all that kindness crap. I don’t like people who are kind. Kindness is weak. The people want ignorance, ugliness and hate. They worship it. We’re burning Bibles down here. It’s all very popular. That’s me. I’m the real Jesus.”

Jesus sheds a tear as he looks upon the sack of hopeless pollution before him. He bends down and retrieves his red Make Heaven Great Again hat from the ground and puts it back on his head. He sighs. “Well, looks like I’m too late. I guess I’ll be going now.” The Real Jesus begins to walk away but suddenly pauses and turns to face the goldenrod scowl plastered with grease and cheese and swollen flesh. “But let me just say this. Someday in the not-too-distant future, you will die. And when you die, the world will celebrate. The air will be filled with music and the tolling of bells. People will flood the streets and they will cheer and dance upon your bloated corpse. And when you come to the Pearly Gates and obnoxiously rant to get inside, I will deny you entrance. In fact, I will come to you and kick you in the balls as hard as I can. I will kick you all the way to Hell and the devil will have his way with you for eternity and beyond. I hope that all appeals to you.”

For the first time in forever, Oaf Doomsday doesn’t right away know what to say. The only noise that comes from him is the revolting sound of long-winded, blubbery flatulence that stagnates the air all around them. “And that, sir, is what I think about that.” He grins like a baboon high on gasoline fumes.

The Real Jesus scoffs in disgust and begins to walk away. Oaf Doomsday watches him until he dissolves into the horizon like a ghostly apparition.

He then clutches his chest to cradle and manipulate some sudden, surprising pain. Oaf Doomsday is quickly short of breath and drops to his knees. He topples onto his side and then sprawls out completely on the ground. Before his final intake of air, he looks up to the blue sky and the clouds and the circular sun. “This whole damn retched life has been nothing but a witch hunt,” he manages to mumble aloud. “I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m innocent. Just ask anyone…”