Drunk, High and Shut Out of the House of the Lord

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Creflo Dollar‘s got a church in the Bronx that I pass every morning when I do my 3.2.

But this Christmas when I woke up (praise God!) and the one thing in the world I wanted was weed but I promised myself that I wouldn’t spend any money on weed, there was a crisp, ripe bud sitting on my television stand.

God is good!

God is real!

Fuck you atheists.

So I figured out a way to make a spliff out of even this. In a pinch, I’ve got that kind of ingenuity.

So I’m high now before my run.

Don’t know if you get high or run, but I’d strongly suggest either or both. One enhances the other and vice versa.

And this morning as I’m on the Grand Concourse and I’m about to pass Creflo’s church, which is really a converted theater of some kind, I see this thick-legged stallion strutting to catch the morning whistle.

“Da fuq?” I’m wondering, then I remember it’s this, some people’s Lord and Savior’s birthday.

Now, me and Jesus got a special relationship. I love that nigga to death. I’m one of the few that think when Christians try to make him into the Son Of God, they’re actually reducing him. To give him his full credit, he must be respected as a man. And most importantly, that means we could do it to.

But… whatever.

I see more bad bitches headed to Creflo’s church. This gets me to thinking, “Why don’t I celebrate Jesus’ birth the right way?”

That can only mean church. I mean, that’s what the Christmas season’s all about, right?

We’re supposed to be celebrating the birth of Christ.

Of course, the same arrogance that caused us to reduce Jesus to the Son of God, thereby making ourselves supernatural in our ability to kill him, has caused us to see Christmas as somehow all about ourselves and by some proxy or extension, our families.

So the need for pussy turned me sanctimonious and all of a sudden, I was on my way to church!

My one problem was that I wasn’t high enough. When I lived in Harlem and actually joined the church on Convent, it was a prerequisite that I be high before attending service. That was the only way that I could suffer the bullshit.

Then the thought occurred to me that I could get drunk. I didn’t have much money but the $10 spot that I’d borrowed the night before could at least get me one of those twisting Budweiser margarita mixes that always worked especially quickly and especially well on the task of getting me fucked up.

I got the lemonade. Worked like a charm. So now I’m walking down Sedgewick because Kingsbridge is too hot.

Get to Fordham Road and hook a left. Get to the Grand Concourse and hooked a right.

Then I get to the church and it’s closed. People are leaving.

So now I’ve wandered a few blocks and I’m sitting on a bench right off the corner of Fordham and Creston Ave.

The guy I the red hoodie was sitting next to me till he shit on himself.

The other pic is just a street scene. It’s time to go to McDonalds for the wifi and post this, then go home.

Jesus’ll understand.

About the Author


Dickie Bhee is a self-styled lunatic, a Renaissance showman, a Class A, Grade A buffoon, a nigga that believes in the greatness of Niggerhood a social gadfly and a genuine Man About Town.
Also: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B01E7NYMP4

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