Sunday, April 10, 2011

Dude! You Shot the Gandhi!

Well hello, fans, 

I know it's been far too long and you've probably disowned me, but I've been very busy eating children (which is Zombie-code for earning paychecks).  Perhaps the morsel of awesomeness that I have for you today will quell the font of unrest that always takes hold in my genius's absence.  Someday when I'm famous you'll have to pay for crap like this, so do enjoy while you can...

Dinner at Adolf's

           So my bat-shit religious family believes in this mythical place called Heaven where good people go when they die.  This promised land of golden houses and snow-white turtle doves where you walk with Jesus and don’t need to eat or shit or anything unpleasant is somewhere on a cloud or in outer space or something—evidently the specific geographic location is unknown, but my family is sure that Heaven exists because the Bible told them so.

            Anyway, we’re sitting  at the dinner table the other day—this is my cousin, my aunt and me—and I ask them how a guy’s supposed to know if he’s good enough, you know, how he can be sure he’ll make it in.

            “Well, no one can know for sure,” my cousin says.  “Take Hitler for example.  Perhaps in his final moments he repented for his sins and God forgave him.  Maybe when we get to Heaven we’ll see Adolf there and embrace him as our brother.”

            You mean to tell me that Adolf-fucking-Hitler could be allowed safe passage into Heaven, even after murdering and torching thousands of God’s chosen people, even after the travesty that was that little mustache?

            My aunt, “Only God can truly know what’s in a man’s heart.”

            This is incredible.  Has anyone told Gaddafi about this clause? 

            I’m sitting there thinking, wouldn’t it be awesome if you show up to Heaven and you’re looking around for your favorite peacemaker of all time, Mahatma Gandhi—you want to treat him to a Starbucks or something because, after all, he’s Gandhi; he’s earned it.  So you’re going through the Town of Heaven directory and you’ve exhausted the Gs and you're half way through the Ms, thinking maybe God organizes his followers by first name, when Zachius comes up behind you and goes, “You looking for Gandhi, dude?”  And you go, “Oh, yeah, man, do you got his digits?”  And Zachius just laughs and points downward.

            What?  Gandhi’s in hell?  You say, “Zachius, you wee little man!  You must be shitting me.  He’s fucking Gandhi!”

            Zachius just shrugs and asks if you’ve filed your income taxes yet. 

It’s time to get to the bottom of this.  So you pet a few friendly lions and ride a dolphin on your way to God’s house, ring the doorbell (which chimes with just the Hallelujah-chorus-of-angels cliché you’d expect), and go, “God, man.  What’s up with Gandhi?”

            God says, “My child, I get this question a lot, and the simple answer is look, when I say thou shalt not commit suicide, I fucking mean it.”  He places his hand on your shoulder like a history teacher or a football coach.  “Do you know how many times Gandhi tried to starve himself?”

            “But, Yahweh,” you say, “he saved thousands of lives in India with his non-violent protests.  Shouldn’t that count for something?”

            And God, being the wily old fellow that he is, quickly changes the subject.  He says, “So, have you heard about these Pillow Pets?  I mean, they’re a pillow and a pet!”  Then he passes you a lollypop (a bright red one that materialized as if by magic when he reached behind your ear), pats you on the head, and slams the door in your face.

            Well that was rude, but you chock it up to the fact that the guy is spread so thin.  It’s a lot of work birthing every butterfly from its chrysalis and keeping track of every new conspiracy theory Glenn Beck thinks up.

            Oh well.  In God's defense, Gandhi's last words were used to take his name in vain.  You turn from God’s porch and meander through his front garden on your way back to Of Gold Street.  You unwrap the lollypop and toss the wrapper on God’s lawn, stick the confection in your mouth and resist the urge to make that obscene fellatio gesture that always gives you a giggle.  If your date with Gandhi isn't meant to be, you think, maybe you’ll just ring up old Adolf instead and enjoy a dinner of knockwurst and kraut.  You can shoot the shit about art and facial hair experimentation.  You’ll probably have a great time.  He’ll be in excellent spirits.  After all, Heaven is the perfect place for a guy like Hitler.  Just ask your family—evidently Jews aren’t allowed in unless they accept Jesus into their hearts, and, as your cousin so succinctly put it, “We all know how the Jews felt about Jesus.”


What is the moral of this story, my legions of degrading misfits?  Two things: first, I'm a terrible person who may in fact get to meet Gandhi in Hell, and second, catch phrases are awesome!  Which brings me to the latest addition to Food for Zombies:

The Zombie King's Catch Phrases for Degenerates

Today's catch phrase: "Dude!  You totally shot the Gandhi!"

Etymology: Who the hell shoots Gandhi, right?  I mean, he's Gandhi!  When one "shoots the Gandhi," he screws up big time, not just Charlie-Sheen big, but shooting-Gandhi big, hence the catch phrase.

Until next time, may all your meals be raw and quivering,

Josh