Jesus Christ, Novelist

I had three hours plus of time to kill and it was the Department of Education’s fault. I t was open school night and school ended at 2:48. Parent/teacher conferences (A.K.A. “here’s why you’re a-hole kid is a dick” conferences) began at 6:00 and ran to the ungodly hour of 8:30. I say start them at 3:00 and let me go home by 4:15. Anyway, I had a ton of time to kill, and I wasn’t about to go back over the bridge and come back a couple of hours later. I may be a lot of things but I’m not a tease, and I’m sure as hell not going to tease myself by coming all the way home only to have to go back. I’d hate myself in the morning.
I found myself at the Staten Island Mall, home to stores I’m not interested in and people who have nothing better to do than to be in the mall in the middle of the day. That includes the elderly, the unemployable, and people who work in the mall, who may also be elderly and otherwise unemployable.

The place was festooned (Love that word. “Festooned.” Kind of a combination of “festering” and “balloon.”) with big banners the reissuing of classic novels. “ADVENTURE!” they screamed. “EXCITEMENT!” BUCCANEERING!” “SWASHBUCKLEERING!” and other words I swear I saw but may have made up. They looked cool, a whole set of “stories from the golden age,” eighty in all. “DAMES!” “DAMSELS!” “PRIVATE EYES!” “PIRATES!” “XENU!”

“Xenu”?
Yes, “Xenu,” ’cause these books were all written by noted _____ (fill the blank with whatever your favorite synonym for “tool” may be) _____ L. Ron Hubbard.

I won’t go into details about “El” Ron here. I’ll save that for Tom Cruise’s wet dreams. But the guy was a writer and he really did publish books. I’m sure that some of them may have even been on a high school reading level, though the fact Hollywood stars have read them might prove otherwise. He published westerns, mysteries, adventure, swashbuckleering tales, and who cares what else? Not me. But the covers looked nice, even if I’m sure they all had subliminal scientololgy imagery embedded in the artwork, and microchips that shot biorhythmic information about anyone who picked up the book to the orbiting scientololgy satellite piloted by John Travolta.

TRAVOLTA: “Hey, what’s this lever here? It says, Air Supply. That’s like music, right Mr. Kotter?”
GABE KAPLAN: “Vinny! Don’t touch that! Mr. Woodman is on a space walk!”
TRAVOLTA: “What?”
KAPLAN: “That switch!”
TRAVOLTA: “Where?”
KAPLAN: “Right in front of you!”
TRAVOLTA: Flips the switch
KAPLAN: “Vinny! You killed Mr. Woodman!”
EPSTEIN: “Don’t worry. I got a note.”
HORSHACK: “OHHH! OH OH OH!”
KAPLAN: “That’s the same way Freddie Boom Boom Washington died.”

But this brings up an interesting point. The founder of a major religion (snicker snicker) (snort) (HA HA I can’t even type that with a straight face) was a failed novelist. What if Buddha wrote si-fi novels? What if Mohammed wrote a humor column?

And what if Jesus wrote romance novels?
Jesus Christ, the swashbuckleering pirate rogue, ran his rough hands over the lacy bodice of the lusty, young, yet virginal, serving girl.

“But Christ, M’Lord, I am but a poor wench from Jerusalem. I have nothing to offer one such as you,” she said as her bosom swelled and heaved.

The muscles of his bare chest rippled as Jesus Christ’s hair billowed back in the salty sea breeze. He leaned close, his hot breath causing the silky skin of her breasts to tingle in earthly anticipation of pleasures of the flesh.

“Oh M’Lord,” she sighed. “Do with me as thou wouldst. You truely are the King of Kings!”

Seriously, would you trust your religion if that was your savior? But that’s what’s happening.

Here is the description of Elron’s “The Iron Duke”:
American arms merchant Blacky Lee is wanted by nearly every government in 1930s Europe— especially the Nazis. They want Blacky’s head for selling them dud weapons, prompting his rapid (and illegal) escape across the Balkans to the kingdom of Aldoria with his business partner in tow.

Aldoria is well chosen. Years before, Blacky discovered he was the spitting image of the country’s Prince Philip, learned the archduke’s speaking voice and memorized the royal family tree just in case. When Blacky brazenly impersonates the leader, things go surprisingly well . . . that is, until he finds himself caught in the middle of a Communist plot to rig elections and take over.

I’ve seen better plots on helium.com.

Here is a description of “If I Were You”:
Circus dwarf Little Tom Little is the king of midgets, loved by crowds and carnival folk alike. Only he doesn’t just want to be a bigger circus star, he wants to be just like the circus’ tall and imposing leader.

Trouble begins the moment that a set of ancient books containing the secret of switching bodies finds its way into Tom Little’s tiny hands. When he magically trades his small frame with that of the circus chief, he finds himself in a giant-sized heap of trouble— his craving for height has landed him smack in the center ring surrounded by forty savage cats!

Who the fuck is he shitting?

And lastly, “Spy Killer”:
Kurt Reid may be innocent of the murder he’s charged with (and of grand larceny, for that matter), but he’s got no time to be thrown in jail and defend himself. Instead, Reid flees to pre-Communist China and Shanghai, the exotic city of mystery and death.

Reid takes refuge in a tea house where he meets White Russian Varinka Savischna, whom he manages to rescue from certain death. As beautiful as she is smart, she recruits him in her crusade against Chinese intelligence services. Unfortunately, Reid manages to get himself captured by the Chinese and blackmailed into pursuing and assasinating a Japanese spy.

I’ve come to the conclusion that if those Hollywood types are going to take a hack writer as god, they may as well take me. My stuff is as bad as his is. (Or something like that.)

So prepare world, Blogtology is coming! Prepare to believe!