Hoe-ly Trinity

     In the end, it all comes down to religious tolerance. It’s what I always say, and it just gets truer every day, even with those fucking Mormons.

     Kym was skeptical, when I showed her my fliers, and my new plaster yard décor.

     “It amazes me anew every time I round the corner to your house and find that it hasn’t yet been reduced to a smoldering pile of heretical ash.”

     She really can’t pull off a pious look wearing short pants and satanic hair.  As if in penance for the extra thick application of Bunny Killing Cosmetics, she has shaved her eyebrows and redrawn them on, archly.  The look is Chronically Aghast.

     “Where is your husband?” I asked, surprised that she was alone.

     “MY GOD, can you not LET THAT GO? He is MY MONKEY! It was A POINT not a UNION BLESSED BY GOD that I was interested in MAKING.”

     “Where is your husband?” I tried again.

“Yahtzee and Andre are hanging out, eating fruit and watching Dr. Phil. Yahtzee said that after 3 weeks in a border jail with his cell phone up his ass he can’t take seeing a truckload of Mexican men right now.  He still has flashbacks of heavily accented voices jeering ‘Can you hear me now?’ The laughter haunts him.”

It was just as well.

     As I mentioned, I had slipped fliers on every door up and down the block, on car windshields, and stapled some to telephone poles. I anticipated quite a turnout.

“COME SEE HOT JESUS AND HIS HOLY MOWER!” said one I hung on a bulletin board at the Youth Center. I put it next to a pathetic advertisement for ‘Jimmy’s Lawn Mowing Service – I’ll Also Pick Up Your Dog Poop’

Jimmy wrote his by hand and included no graphics. Perhaps mine would be a lesson to him on successful advertising:

    It showed a slightly edited picture of the bible white guy (BWG) Jesus pushing a lawn mower (NOT SEARS) wearing a flowing robe, open to the chest, tight abdomen, long lean muscle….a little too thin, but HOT if you like that sort of thing, great hair... In the background, the clouds were parted, the sun shining through. The hand of God was pointing to a spot on the lawn that He’d missed. His clear saintly eyes rolled heavenward.

“BREAD AND WINE WILL BE SERVED. $5 cover”

     Another flier I hung in the local garden shop depicted BWG Jesus seated with perfect posture on the freshly mown grass in front of a group of slouching garden tools, a rake and several hoes, the latter handles of which he was anointing with linseed oil, hotly.

“COME HAIL THE NEW GARDEN MESSIAH! HOT GOD ON SOD ACTION”

“WATCH HIM SPILL HIS SEED UPON MY EARTH” had another flier showing Jesus reseeding a lawn, in a loin cloth; He is pictured skipping along, flinging seed from a little purse, and winking. I’d given him tattoos and a headband.

     Last night I received a few angry calls. One was from our Neighborhood Association representative, Shirley Dibbs.  She said I went too far. She was crying.  I consoled her by calling her a bigot and inferring that the Neighborhood Association charter contained references to Ethnic Cleansing. 

     “Is it that you don’t like Mexicans, or do you despise all minorities?”

     “Of course not! This is about SACRILEGE!”

     “Why do you hate People Of Color, Shirley?” I asked.

     “Don’t SAY THAT!” she cried.

Silence.

     “He’ll be wearing next to nothing. He’s the hottest thing this side of hell.” I assured her.

Silence.

     “He edges.” I continued. “He prunes. He’s as brown as toast.”

     “Does He adjust sprinklers?” she whimpered.

     “If you believe in Him…” I began, “But it’s still gonna cost you $5 to get through the door, toots.”

     Things went well. Jesus and crew arrived a little late, which was saucy.  I saw Yahtzee and Andre drive by, several times, pretending not to look.

     Jesus, while refusing to don a linen loin cloth, did agree to work shirtless and occasionally drag the cross that I’d fashioned out of double-headed garden weasels around with him.

     “Just a few times, when the crowd peaks,” I had his English speaking associate, Arturo, translate. They all looked skeptical, but in the end, when I stuffed $20 into his pants, he agreed. 

     Jesus’ long glossy black hair was pulled back into a pony tail, his lean and very well-toned body covered in interesting and enlightening tattoos. Especially poignant is the one of the Virgin Mother with cleavage and short pink pants.

     His co-workers, or ‘landscape disciples’, as I call them, Hugo and Arturo, are smaller, older, and rounder.  They are excellent choices for mulching the very back and planting my new plaster Virgin Mary Vaginas. I had 3 especially made by a hippie sculptor who used to be a naturopathic gynecologist. That didn’t work out. Now, he specializes in women’s genitals and large butterflies in plaster. Both have garden healing properties. The Vaginas emit a high frequency tone that frightens mosquitoes. At night they glow pink and zap bugs. Birds seem to love them.

     When I explained all this, Arturo declined to translate. He just instructed Arturo where to put them and to wear his gloves.  I had them put 2 in my front yard, one in back.

     “What else you want us do?” asked Arturo, almost suspiciously.

     “Oh, you know…yard stuff!” I made a sweeping gesture. My yard was seriously overgrown. The Vaginas looked overwhelmed.

He seemed relieved to focus on plants.

     They pruned, they mulched, they mowed and edged. 

Women began to trickle in almost immediately. The Mormon Missionaries showed up, probably drawn to the high pitched vaginal frequencies. I told them I would go to church for a year if they’d each do a body shot off of Jesus.

One of them, Skip, was up to it.

     “Can it be grape juice instead of wine?”

     “No, our Savior allows only authentic vintage stuff to touch his vato-endorsed temple.”

     “Welllllll… can I spit it out after?”

     “No! It is representative of The Suffering!”

     “Just one shot?”

Richard, his stern accomplice, bid us a hasty goodbye and dragged an increasingly enthusiastic Skip back to his bike.

     Midway through the box of Chianti, Arturo and Hugo removed their shirts and the crowd went wild.  The older men seemed flattered and grateful.  Arturo flexed and laughed.  They worked for 7 hours on my yard.  The Vaginas were just blinking on when they loaded up the last hoe into their truck.  

     In the end, I made $50. Jesus, Hugo and Arturo made at least double that each in tips.  

Jesus so far does not seem interested in living in my back shed for an additional $200 a month, but I know He’ll come around.  I don't believe in much, but I believe in Him and those Vaginas.