I was just sitting in class arguing with the Bible-thumper as usual when Jesus entered the room- or maybe that was just the first moment I noticed him. I instinctively knew he was the Christchild even though he was not the Jesus I’d seen in pictures. He was wearing a shiny crimson and black Dracula cloak which contrasted against his pale skin and complemented his eyes, which were black and cruel. He didn’t seem pleased with the Bible thumper who’d been unable to convince us heathens that it was a good thing that Ginsberg (the Homo) had died. All Jesus had to do was to call his name, “Timothy” and Tim started to shrink. It was as if he was imploding both with the shame of his failure and from the wrath of Jesus. The next thing I saw was his clean cut head hitting the desk and falling, his tidily starched shirt dirtying on the dusty floor. I thought, Jesus has to be discreet. Miracles can happen as long as there is no scientific evidence: Religion wouldn’t be any fun if there weren’t opposition. Jesus turned to another guy who’d been indifferent during the argument. Jesus didn’t kill this dude immediately- he humiliated him first. He talked about how the guy had herpes and that he hadn’t told his fiancé. I started to shake: At least that guy had bothered to get engaged. If Jesus was going to be pointing out acts of immorality I knew that I’d be next. I was trembling so badly, I was sure that Jesus would see me out of the corner of his omniscient eye. I ducked out of the side door, while Jesus finished up Mr. STD. I kept thinking as I ran, Allah? The Merciful? The Compassionate? Then why did God make sex so much fun, lying so convenient, and let retail businesses open on Sundays? I heard Jesus call my name in his deep, booming voice (it sounded just like God does on TV) and I woke up, sweating in my bed. It was no big deal though, I turned up the air conditioner so the room wouldn’t be too hot for sex and got back into bed with tonight’s partner. “I love you baby.”