Jesus? Married? Really?

chapter one

Was Jesus married?

chapter two

 

No.

the end

 
 
I was surprised to see the name of an old flame of mine, Karen L. King, in a newspaper article by Nicole Winfield of the Associated Press. I was especially surprised to discover that Ms. King is now a professor of early Chistianity at Harvard Divinity School, and that she claims a Coptic papyrus fragment, that was supposedly recently discovered and translated, apparently says, "Jesus said to them, 'My wife...'"
     I knew Ms. King back in college where she was captain of the university's cheerleading squad. She was voted Miss Congeniality by the football team, and didn't mind being referred to as "Miss" back then.
     This is "the first known statement that explicitly claims that Jesus had [a] wife," she was quoted as saying. Although "this fragment and that sentence is not evidence of Jesus' marital status."
     Ms. King was always good at talking out of both sides of her mouth. Among other things.
     Scholars believe that these six words, written in Sahidic Coptic on a piece of codex, date back to the fourth century, and are proof that Jesus of Nazareth was married. That's not what I believed, however, so I called on one of my easiest dates and asked her if I could examine the ancient scrap of papyrus myself.
     "Jim," Karen purred from Rome, "I haven't heard from you in ages."
     "That's because I just got out of prison for killing my wife," I reluctantly admitted.
     "So," she asked hopefully, "you're single?"
     After quickly talking out of both sides of my mouth, I was finally able to convince her to let me conduct my own translation of the text. It was just as I thought, the translation wasn't complete OR correct. Jesus wasn't bloviating about being married. He was simply entertaining His friends at the Last Supper. You see, Jesus didn't say, "My wife..." Instead, he spoke the inspiration for Henny Youngman's most famous one-liner.
     The proper translation is as follows:

     "Ha, ha, ha!" laughed Peter. "Telleth us another one, Jesus."
     "I asked My wife, 'Where do you want to goeth for your anniversary?' And she saideth unto Me, 'Someplace I have never been before.' So I saideth unto her, 'Then goeth thou to the kitchen!'"
     Andrew guffawed. "Jesus, You really cracketh me upeth," he saideth.
     Judas was not amused.
     "Should You not saveth thy jokes for the poor, Master?"
     "It matters not, ye who smells strongly of armpit. What matters is that I taketh My wife everywhere, but she keeps finding her way back!"
     The disciples laughed with great merriment. Judas just rolled his eyes. 
     John slapped his knee with one hand. "Dost Thou really taketh her everywhere, Master?" he asked.
     "Of course, otherwise I'd have to kiss her goodbye!"
     "You slayeth us, Jesus. You slayeth us," Philip spaketh.
     "Hey, Judas," Jesus teased,"how do you turneth a fox into a pig?"
     "With Thy holy power, Master?"
     "No... you marry it!"
     "That is not funny, Master. Verily, it isn't."
     "Judas, thou hast the sense of humor of a goat, and thou smelleth of one as well. Verily. Tell me, oh stinky one, how does one knoweth if one's wife is dead."
     "I'm sure I knoweth not, Master."
     "When the dishes begin to pile up!"
     Bartholomew snickered at Judas. Judas gaveth Bartholomew the stink eye.
     "Telleth us another one, Jesus," Matthew begged Him. "Telleth us another one."
     "My wife is on a new diet. Coconuts and bananas. She hasn't lost weight, but, man, can she climbeth a tree!"
     "Thou art funny, Master," James spaketh, "and Thou looketh good as well."
     "Yes, I do. Knowest thou how I lost 120 pounds of ugly fat?"
     "How, Jesus? We beseech Thee, tell us how," all but one asked.
     Jesus looked at the Twelve plus one, and turned serious.
     "By leaving My wife back in Jerusalem!"
     Eleven plus one laughed. Judas did not.
     "Tell us a parable, Master," Judas, the party-pooper, asked.
     "A man," Jesus began, "a man wins the lottery and rushes home to telleth his wife. 'Honey,' he tells her, "packeth thy clothes. I just won the lottery!' The wife says, 'And what shall I pack, husband?' The man says, 'I don't care, just getteth the heck out!'"
     Judas shooketh his head in disgust, while the others howled. Eth.
     "Another parable, Master," Simon squeeled. "Another parable."
     "A woman runs after the garbage wagon, yelling, 'Am I too late for the garbage?' 'No, verily,' the garbageman spake unto her. 'Jumpeth right in!'"
     "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
     "Did I telleth thou how My wife spent two hours at the beauty shop? And that was just for the estimate! While there, she got a mudpack. For two days she looked great... then the mud fell off!"
     "Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!"
     "That offends me, Master," Judas, the odorous one, whined. "MY wife's an angel."
     "Thou art fortunate, Judas. MINE'S still alive!"
     "Bwah, ha, ha, ha, ha!" the eleven disciples plus one broke out.  Judas greweth furiouser and furiouser.
    Thaddaeus was holding his gut. Matthias, who everybody knew was trying to weasel his way into being an Apostle though he kneweth full well that the union contract specifically stateth that there can be only 12, was on the ground in tears.
     "Thou be-eth the best, JC," Thaddaeus brown-nosed. "The Best!"
     "I can't believeth how quick-witted our Master be," spaketh Thomas. "Jesus gotteth you good, Judas. He gotteth you good."
     Judas stomped away angrily.
     "You'll payeth for that, Son of Man," Judas threatened as he left. "You'll payeth for that."
     "Don't goeth away mad," Jesus spaketh unto him. "Just goeth away! Verily."
     Judas shooketh an angry fist at Him.
     "Letteth him go, Master," James spaketh. "The air smelleth sweeter already."
     "Master," John turned somber and thoughtful, "Hast Thou given any thought on what doeth Thou ere the Roman soldiers come to arrest Thee, and lash Thee, and crucify Thee, and put their fingers in Thy nostrils and pull forward, and tell Thee "pulleth my finger," and point at Thy chest and ask Thee 'what be-eth that?' and when Thou looketh down they cruelly flick Thy nose upward and..."
     "Enougheth, already!" And Jesus did smacketh John upside the head with what He liked to call The Attention Getter. "Verily, I shall say unto them:
     "Taketh My wife. Please!"

Fifty Shades of Funny

jimduchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

 

Why MY Newspaper Is Better Than YOUR iPhone 5

I'm holding the new iPhone 5 in my hand as I write this, and I wonder: What is all the fuss about? I hate to sound like a geezer, but I sure am tired of modern technology.
     You see, I'm old school. An original gangsta. I was country before country was cool. I'm not saying I'm ancient, I'm just saying that when God said "Let there be light!" He first had to tell me to get the heck out of the way.
     When I wake up in the morning, before I start my day, I like to kick back with a hot cup of joe, leisurely read my morning newspaper, and ignore my wife. But now I'm told that newspapers are on the way out, and Apple's new iPhone 5 is the latest must-have toy du jour... until the iPhone 6 comes out, that is. As for me, I don't think so. I'm entirely satisfied with my newspaper, thank you very much.
     Oh, sure, the new iPhone's screen might be bigger, the processing speed might be faster, and it has a personal assistant called Siri who talks to you, but I have something I call a life. Who has time to carry on a conversation with a phone? On my iPhone 5, my personal assistant insists its name is Stivi, not Siri, and all it does is complain about a pain in its pancreas.
     "You're a phone," I tell it. "You don't have a pancreas."
     "What does that have to do with anything?" it says.
     The times, as Bob Dylan once sang, they are a-changing. These days you either have to learn how to use a computer or you learn how to use a broom. So trust me, loyal readers, when I tell you that in every way a newspaper is superior to an iPhone. Don't believe me?
     I'll prove it to you.

The Top Ten Reasons Why MY Newspaper Is Better Than YOUR iPhone

 

10) If you damage your newspaper, it won't cost you over $500 to replace. I'm not saying Apple products are overpriced. I'm just saying that P.T. Barnum would have seen you coming.

 

9) You can share it. Although, to tell the truth, my dad wasn't too keen about sharing his morning newspaper. Even the sections he didn't read.

     "Dad," I'd ask him, "can I have the comics?"

     "No," he'd say.

     "But why?"

     "BECAUSE I SAID SO!"

     That was usually the extent of our morning conversations.

 

8) When you finally move out of your parent's basement, just try wrapping up all of your breakables in your iPhone. What do you mean you're never going to move out of your parent's basement?

 

7) What are you going to do with all that left-over Silly Putty?

 

6) If you forget to charge it... oh, wait, a newspaper doesn't need to be charged. Suckers!

 

5) Just try housebreaking your new puppy on an iPhone.

 

4) Hackers can't hack into your newspaper and steal all of those cheesecake photos you took of yourself to send to your boyfriend. You know the ones I'm talking about.

 

3) On April 30, 1945 Adolph Hitler was working with Eva Braun on an iPhone prototype in his Fuhrerbunker in Berlin when it caught fire and exploded. The rest, my friends, is history.

 

2) In a pinch, you can always use your newspaper for toilet pa...  technical difficulties... please stand by...

 

     And the number one reason why my newspaper is better than your iPhone:

 

1) BECAUSE I SAID SO!

 

     Well, that always worked for my dad.

 

 

Fifty Shades of Funny 

jimduchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

  





Send Me Your Money

the following is an excerpt  of the Pulitzer Prize winning #1 New York Times Bestseller

 

Give Me Your Money

(and good things will happen to you)*

by

Rev. Jim Duchene
 

"Jesus didn't need to walk on water twice to make His point."

                                                                                                     Uncle Sweetheart

    

"What did the monkey say to the leopard at the card game? 'I thought you were a cheetah.'"

                                                                                                                      Bobby Cupid



 

Are you tired of being broke?  Are you tired of doing without?  Are you tired of having your nose pressed against the window of your local Taco Bell as you watch the high rollers order from the dollar menu? 

     Well, you can change that, my friend.

     You can take charge of your life, and become rich, like me.  I used to be poor.  I used to be lonely. I used to wear hand-me-downs from the homeless beggars who felt sorry for me.
     Have the homeless ever pitied you? No? Well, you'd better pray they never do. It's almost as emasculating as having to hit up your ex in-laws for a loan.** In the end, your ex in-laws will fork over the cash, if only to extract a promise from you to never bother them or their little girl ever again. I give them what they want.
     Why not? Words are free.
     I used to have no hope. I used to have no future. I even used to have the kind of breath that could peel paint... but no more. Not since I discovered the secret to the kind of wealth that only people like Donald Trump have access to. No, wait. Not Donald Trump. He inherited his money. I mean, people like the Kennedys. No, they inherited their money, too. Well, I'm sure some rich guy somewhere actually made his money the good old-fashion way. By picking the pockets of the lower classes.

     The secret, my friend, is to get people to give you their money.  Willingly and of their own volition. This is done every day.  Some people get their employers to give them money. Some people get their families to give them money. What I do is get people like YOU to give people like ME your money.
     How do I do this? Easy.
     Everywhere I go, I just ask people to give me money. I don't pretend to be sick, or mentally handicapped. I don't dress up like a bum. I don't dress up as if I'm poor. I dress rather nicely, thank you very much. I wear expensive shirts, expensive jeans, and I'm partial to argyle socks and penny loafers. That way, when I approach people they think I'm a well-to-do individual who's just found himself in a jam.
     Wherever I am, whoever is standing next to me, I ask them for money. At the mall, at the movie theater, at the Korean massage parlor.
     "Excuse me, sir, but can you lend me a fiver so I can get the Al Gore Special? My gluteus maximus is killing me."
     And they'll give it to me!
     They'll give it to me because all the men nervously standing around want to pretend that they're really and truly and cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die only there for a massage. After I've hit up every patron in the parlor I usually have myself quite a bankroll.
     And it's tax free!
     Sometimes I'll work the bus stop.
     "I hate to ask you this, ma'am," I'll say, smiling shyly, "but do you have a dollar? My wife's in labor, my car won't start, and I need to catch a bus to the hospital."
     They're more than happy to dig through their purses to find me a dollar or two. Sometimes they'll even make it a twenty.
     "Buy her some flowers," they'll say, as they slip me my next hand of Blackjack.
     "God will pay you back," I tell them. That way I leave them with a feeling of hope and salvation. And the beauty of it is... God DOES pay them back. If you go through life expecting good things to happen to you, then good things are going to happen to you. Buddha calls it Karma. Roland Deschain calls it Ka. George Lucas calls it The Force. I call it... opportunity. The opportunity to be a conduit for the well-being and enrichment of others.
     It doesn't matter if you actually benefit or not. If you think you've benefited, then you have. Don't believe me? Well, you should. If it's proof you want, you have no farther to look than President Obama. Sure, the economy is in the toilet. Sure, the job situation is in the dumper. Sure, you have to take out a 2nd mortgage on your home to raise the money to pay for a full tank of gas. But, according to Ben Bernanke, Obama's chairman of the Federal Reserve, all that matters if that you're happy.
     W.C.Fields called it never giving a sucker an even break. P.T. Barnum called it a sucker being born every minute. And the Obama Administration calls it the Economics of Happiness.
     Happiness has value.
     Are you happy, my friend? Sure you are. Sometimes happiness just feels like misery, that's why you're confused. Sometimes, when you're pulling your hair out by the root because you've just lost your job and you're trying to figure out how you're going to pay your bills and feed your family, sometimes that's happiness. You just don't know it. You may be looking down a black abyss, but it's a black abyss of joy, my friend. Isn't that good news?
     Of course it is.
     So, my friends, if you want good things to happen to you, send me your money. You may think of it as a futile act that's comparable to flushing your money down the great American commode we call Congress, but, trust me, it's actually more of an act of faith. You send me your money, and you have faith that the great Santa Claus in the sky will repay you.
     Life is meaningless without faith, my friend.
    

 

Fifty Shades of Funny

jimduchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

 

*And by you, I mean me.

**Don't ask me how I would know that.

  

The 11th Anniversary Celebration Of 9-11

When President Obama--the man who once saved my life in 'Nam--calls, I jump.
     So when he called me to do some damage control concerning this morning's 11th Anniversary Celebration of the 9-11 terrorist attack in New York City, I said:  "Yes, Mr. President.  I'll take care of it."
     He was, of course, referring to the obvious faux paus of Mayor Bloomberg not inviting the surviving First Responders who heroically risked life and limb to save fellow Americans in the cowardly attack that brought down the World Trade Center.
     "I'd do it myself, like I did with bin Laden," he told me, "but I'll be at the golf course.  As-Salaam alaykum."
     "Aleichem sholem."
     So this column is for all you First Responders--police officers, firemen, and, yeah, you Don't Ask/Don't Tellers in the military, too--complaining that you weren't invited to the table with the grown-ups.  Everybody else can stop reading.  You can go find out on TMZ if Jennifer Anniston's been dumped yet.
     Everybody gone?
     Good.
     Now, all of you First Responders listen up.  I only want to say this once, and, when I'm done, I'll deny ever having said it at all.  There's a reason you weren't invited to the party, and that reason is... we don't care about you! You guys are nothing but bad news and a sorrowful reminder of what happened that day.  Oh, sure, we like you to show up when the shite hits the fan.  Who else are we going to call?  George Soros?  Bernie Maddoff? Get real. So it was for the best that you stayed home and watched the festivities on TV like the rest of the marks on the midway.  You would have only distracted us from the true heroes of 9-11: the actors, actresses, and politicians who have bravely stood up to the greatest enemy our country has ever faced... The Tea Party.
     You didn't miss much.  The celebration was hosted by Matt Damon.  He gave a riveting speech about the selfishness of the American people, and why everybody should be paying more in taxes, and then he introduced Miley Cyrus, who premiered her new video, which, oddly enough, didn't feature any music. Quick cuts to the audience showed Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian nodding approvingly.
     Gloria Steinem spoke about a woman's God-given right to kill her unborn baby--or, as Ms. Steinem likes to call it, "fluffing pillows"--while it's still in the comfort and safety of its mother's womb.
     "I wish I were young again," she proudly declared, "so I, too, could get pregnant and murder my child! Just like the old days!"
     George Clooney, who managed to sneak away from his private villa in Italy and girlfriend du jour, forcefully told us that we should all be paying more in taxes.  And then he gave a moving tribute to the not-so-recently deceased Amy Winehouse, because "Amy was a true American hero.  We'll always remember, we'll never forget." 
     Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie then joined their old friend, and frequent third-wheel in the bedroom, onstage, where they revealed that, to commemorate the 11th anniversary of 9-11, they had adopted each other in an expression of their love for each other, for their country, and for free publicity.
     Then it was President Obama's turn to shine.  Through the miracle of modern technology, he tweeted everyone in the country that, while we're honoring the victims of 9-11, we should never forget who the true enemy is: Sarah Palin.
     "And why aren't you guys paying higher taxes?"
    The Reverends Al Sharpton and Jesse Jackson then took the stage. After being made to give it back, Al Sharpton explained how 9-11 was all about Al Sharpton. Jesse Jackson then extorted "contributions" from those present. Those who didn't chip in their fair share were obviously racists.
     The finale was a mass gay marriage.  The ceremony was performed by Mayor Bloomberg, who, oddly enough, is an ordained minister in The Church of Scientology.  A subdued Lady Gaga, dressed respectfully as the Twin Towers, supplied the music/fashion show.
     When the thousands of gay and inter-species couples said "I do," Lady Gaga exploded, leaving only a pile of smoking rubble where she had just been standing.  A little black dog walked over and sniffed the smoldering debris, but, nope, she was as gone as Lindsay Lohan's career.
     So you see, First Responders, you weren't necessary.  But don't get us wrong, we weren't telling you not to show up... we were telling you to get lost!
     We'll call you if someone breaks a nail. And remember...

VOTE OBAMA!

Fifty Shades of Funny

jimduchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

   

Hallmark Cards by Obama (Part Two)

It must have been Tattoo Night at Wal-Mart yesterday.  There were so many Latinos with tattoos there that I felt like I was back in La Tuna Federal Penitentiary.  That's my problem with our legal system.  When I go looking for justice, that's what I find... just us.
     The women especially were all tatted up.  In their cases, however, they must have bought their tattoos by the pound, because it seemed that the number of and sizes of the tattoos they wore increased in direct proportion to the amount of excess poundage they carried.  I know they get tattoos in an attempt to look attractive, but why don't they try to look attractive by losing weight instead?
     I was so disgusted by the massive parade of illustrated flesh that I could barely finish the box of cookies I had opened and was eating as I walked around the store.*
     I was about to complain about it to the manager when I saw something interesting.  They have a new line of Hallmark greeting cards by President Obama.**
     I picked one up.  On the front of the card it said:  I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  And, when you opened it up, the inside of the card said:  Michele told me to leave that nasty man alone.
     That peaked my curiosity.  I read the rest of them.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  He also had no hands.  That made me even sadder.  It reminded me that I didn't have gloves, either.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  Oh, how I wish that man were Mitt Romney.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  Shouldn't he go get a job or something?

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  So I took his shoes.  What does HE need them for?

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  That gives me an idea.  If re-elected, I promise to take away feet from the rich and give them to the poor.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  I wonder if there's a way to tax him for not having feet?

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  That made me feel better, because now I had someone to make fun of.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. Since he turned out to be a Republican, I didn't care.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. 
     "How'd you lose your feet?" I asked him.
     "None of your damn business," he told me.
     I hate that guy.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  I thought about how that man had no way to get himself to the voting booth in November to vote.
     "See ya," I told him.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.
     "When life hands you lemons," I told him, "make lemonade.  Now get the Hell out of my sight!  You sicken me!"
 
I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  So I took his wallet.  Let's just see him try and catch me.
 
I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. After that, I immediately felt much better.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. Man, he sure looked funny without feet.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet. And then I laughed and laughed and laughed. Thank you, man without feet. Thank you for making me feel better.

I cried because I had no shoes, until I met a man who had no feet.  That's when I first realized that my happiness depended on the misery of others.
 
 

Fifty Shades of Funny

jimduchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene

 

 

*Did I pay for the cookies?  Hey, crime doesn't pay!

**See 5-5-12.***

***What are you looking here for?  I said see 5-5-12!

 

Obama's El Paso Trip

I must admit, it was very thoughtful of President Obama--the man who once saved my life in 'Nam--to fly all the way to El Paso, Texas just to wish me a happy birthday.  The original plan was for us to sneak off and spend the Labor Day weekend at the Inn of the Mountain Gods in Ruidoso, New Mexico but, with his coming re-election in November, he had to make it look like he was in town for legitimate reasons.
     "Just make sure you don't bring the wife and kids," I told him.
     So, while the President was giving his speech to the troops at Fort Bliss, I was lead aboard Air Force One.  The plan was to play a game or two of hoops on the full-sized basketball court on his plane, and, after that, we were going to take a dip in the Olympic-sized swimming pool.
     "Maybe next time we can even play tennis or some golf," Obama suggested.
     That Air Force One.  It's bigger on the inside than it looks on the outside.  When I asked him how they were able to fit it all in, Obama admitted that they used the alien technology they found in Roswell.
     "But if you tell anyone," he warned, "I'll have to kill you."
     I laughed.
     "Remember Saigon?" he asked.  It was almost a whisper.
     I stopped laughing.
     That was his first year in office when we took Air Force One out for a spin.
     "Michelle, I'm going out for a pack of smokes," he yelled upstairs to his wife.  We were out of there before she could answer, because her answer was always no. 
     We ended up at Frisco Burgers for a double order of rolled tacos and some fries.  Obama laughed at the way Frisco's used hamburger buns for their hot dogs. 
     "But they're good," he admitted.  "They're good."
     When all his speechifying and glad-handing at Fort Bliss was over, and all the proper re-election promises were made, Obama finally made it back to his home-away-from-home.  I couldn't help but notice that he looked older.  Tired.
     "You look worse than the economy," I joked.
     "It's this constant criticism of everything I do," he said.  "It's really wearing on me."
     "How so?" I asked, but I wasn't really interested.  The sooner he vented, however, the sooner we'd get to the fun stuff.  Maybe I could even talk him into a quick trip to Mexico.  I hadn't been to the Jockey Club in years.  Obama looked like he could use some stress relief.
     "It's just that I'm blamed for everything!  Doesn't everybody know that all this bad news began with George Bush?  The economy?  George Bush.  The wars in the Middle East?  George Bush.  3D movies?  That was George Bush, too, but it's all sticking to me like oil on a duck."
     "George Bush?"
     "Nah, that one was strictly BP," Obama admitted.  "George Bush had it easy compared to me.  No one ever criticized him for anything." 
     He looked at this watch.
     "I hate to cut our visit short," he said, "but I've got to take off."
     "Why's that?" I asked him.  I had to admit, I was pretty disappointed.  So much for the Jockey Club.
     "It's George Bush, man," he said, shaking his head.  "It's all George Bush."

Fifty Shades of Funny

jimduchene.blogspot.com

RaisingMyFather.blogspot.com

@JimDuchene