Dolomite's Ranting
march 2000

Welcome to this month's Ranting. If I were more Irish, this Ranting would be about midgets, green beer, and potatoes. However, Mama Dolomite was of German descent and ol' Papa was of the old country as well. So, instead of a barrage of a leprechaun filled, pot of gold denying, emerald-tinted quaffing bar story, I have another tale for you this time. It is about my confrontation of nearly biblical proportions. I recently had a run in with a Jesus Freak, and here is that tale:

     It was an early Monday morning, though it still felt like Sunday night to most of those around me. That is most likely because it was three in the fucking morning! Where was I at this hour, you may be asking? Was it a prostitute's alley… err, I mean, home? Was it at an illegal cock-fighting competition? Was it knee-deep in porno and beer? Sadly, it was none of those. I was at a 24-hour CVS, at which I was working the graveyard shift to pay for college. Most nights it was easy work, drunks came in for food and cigarettes; they left with less money and the goods. The occasional flirtation with a drunken female and the time passed quickly enough. This night was different. It was the night/morning before Valentine's Day, and the coupled men were desperate. Most had already seized what few items we had left. But that late night brawl for the last box of candy is a different story altogether. This one centers on what happened after the brawl was broken up. This one is about the Jesus Freak that walked in and almost did not walk out.
     As I said before, it was three in the morning on a Monday. Much like an idol of mine (the epitome of laziness, Garfield the Cat). I hate Mondays with a passion usually reserved only for the French. To make matters worse, I had a job to do (vacuuming), and could not do it because there were customers slowly circling the clearance shelves by where I was meant to vacuum. Then he walked in. At first glance he appeared to be an emotionally disturbed, poor, dirty college senior. He glanced around with a childish grin and proceeded to the nearest person, an elderly lady trying to pick up a few deals. He walked right up to her and if it were not for her arthritic slowness, he would have been maced for his troubles. He looked her straight in the eye, still wearing that silly grin, and asked her, "Have you found Jesus?" She paused, then with a voice usually used to tell children that their picture is nice, she said, "Yes, yes I have young fellow." And with that she walked toward my register in a hurry. He decided to go ask others if they had found their savior. A few minutes passed. My manager had made a couple jokes about what he would say if asked the same question as the grandmother. Then, like a shark coming in for the kill, we saw him in the center isle moving toward us. In less time than it took me to turn, my manager had already made the dash for the office, thrown himself into it, and was locking the door, much to my chagrin. Then he was up to me.
     "Have you found Jesus?" he asked in the same innocent, childish tone.
     "Yes." I answered while ringing him up for the construction paper he was buying; hoping it would satisfy him like every other customer's reply had. I was wrong.
     "Isn't he great?" he said as tears started to form in his eyes.
     "I guess." I managed, throwing away the notion that this was just some poor sap who got drunk during the Billy Graham revival hour on late night television. This guy was serious about the Jesus thing.
     "You guess!?! He died for our sins. Because of him we can enter Paradise and sit by his side for eternity!" the freak managed through a showering of tears.
      "I never asked him to. Besides, what as he done for us lately?" I could not stand it any longer. I was going to give this boy a reason to cry and get the hell out of the store.
     "He hung on the cross and suffered simply so that all of us could enter into his father's palace in heaven! He is our savior!" New tears began to form and pour down. He sounded as though I had offended him. I felt somewhat sorry for the poor guy.

     "I guess I have just lost touch with my faith, that's all," I managed to say despite the urge to make him cry and curse my existence.
     "I was like that before. Then, a couple nights ago, I say a show that changed my life. A preacher was on, but not like the usual ones that only want to get your money for their own personal gains. This one said that God helps those that help themselves and that what we do onto others is what we do unto Jesus and that Jesus loves us. He said that if we send him $50, God will pay us back 100 times that in seven weeks time. About six weeks ago, I sent in the money, so now I have another week to go before God makes good on His promise."
     Dear goodness, this boy had been duped. He had fallen for some false preacher and was still expecting the promise to be filled. But to make matters worse, he believed the promise was with God, instead of some slick preacher. Poor fool, someone had to tell him. Might as well be me.
     "You know, I do not think that God works in that way." I said trying to break the news to him gently.      "No, he does. He works in mysterious ways. I am a religious major and He will deliver His promise so that I can serve His will and not worry about money or paying back my college loans." The freak was still crying and still smiling.
     "Was this a Catholic type preacher?" I asked, hoping for familiar ground.
     "Yes, the preacher said he was a messenger of God and that all of the Catholic peoples that had been righteous would be delivered and gifted by God Himself." Again, more tears and still that stupid smile. This guy was not drunk or stoned. I had dealt with those before. This guy actually believed in what he said. That smile was coming down and those tears were going to start anew.
     "You idiot (no use in being calm now). You actually believe that Catholicism is the right way, let alone Christianity*? You are a fool. Half of what you told me was wrong (according to my upbringing into the Catholic religion). The quote that your precious preacher/messenger misused was (in a singsong voice to add to the irritation) WHAT YOU DO TO THE LEAST OF MY BRETHREN YOU DO UNTO ME. And that was meant in the way of abusing and deceiving your fellow human being, which obviously happened to you. And since God is supposedly everywhere at once, he would not need seven weeks to pay you 100 times your $50, which is completely worthless to him anywise. If you even think that you did anything worthwhile in your selfish attempt to get out of working off you college debts, then you are just another sheep that should be sheared, butchered, and sent to market because you have obviously been in the field to long and will soon enough contaminate the rest of the flock with your innate stupidity. Now get out of my store before I personally kick your ass all the way to God's "palace" in heaven. NOW!"
     In a surprising amount of courage, the boy stood his ground. But what he did not know was that I had not slept in the last 40 hours, nor was I going to for the next 8. I had just broken up a good cat fight on my manager's orders, got into a large brawl with the other guys in the store when they attacked my manager for ending the cat fight and taking the last box of chocolates for his own uses and I really despised being told religion by a fool who barely qualifies for a sane person, let alone an expert in the field. All that aside, I tried to play it cool and keep as much patience, and reserve my violent tendencies for my manager and all that he had done to me that night. I grabbed my bag of peanut butter M&Ms and made my way to showing the Jesus Freak to the door, in case he was blinded by a sudden vision of a burning bush on his way out. Just as I was a foot or two away from him, he smacks the bag of M&M's out of my hand (a half full 16oz. Bag retailing for $3.29) and as they scattered across the still dirty, wet floor, he screamed in a shrill voice, "Do not touch me vile heretic. May God's wraith fill me and strike you down!" Then he smacked me across the face with his open hand.
     Now lately, the only religion that I had been taking in was by one Rev. Steve Austin and his gospel of Austin 3:16. So, I followed the example he sets. A quick kick to the midsection and the freak was doubled over, yearning for oxygen. Then, as opposed to the Austinian follow-up of a good old Stunner, I simply grabbed the lowlife by the back of his neck and threw him out the exit door. After he slowly slid down the front of the door, it automatically opened. Okay, so I do not know my store that well. Big deal. I still threw the bum out on the second attempt. And I have not seen him since. So what is the moral of this story? DO NOT TRY TO FORCE RELIGION ON DOLOMITE!

Dolomite

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