On the third day, when Jesus rose from the dead, he also made a pitstop in Hackensack, New Jersey, to sell me beer. Anyone could tell that this wasn’t his usual routine after ascending from the beat down of his famous crucifixion, but few could argue with the name tag touted by the brown old man behind the counter. Bold white letters glazed onto a plastic red tag spelled it out: JESUS. Livid is probably the most accurate description of how I felt careening in from the rain that night on Easter Sunday. Hood up and eyes wild, the shadow of my shroud shaded the majority of my identity as I approached the counter for the second time that evening. I had a bone to pick with Jesus, because on this very night he had slipped up big time; Jesus had sinned.
Now, before we get into it, let’s review the three commandments of the Bro code, as they’ll be relevant in this story of horror.
This classic is self-explanatory. However the definition of “Hoe” does not include girlfriends or wives. Enough bros have been killed over this misinterpretation, caught in a heated battle with females who seem to think that “Hoe” means anything with a vagina and breasts. This is incorrect. The aforementioned “Hoe” refers to that female who has no self respect, drinks too much, and is ugly but still plays hard to get. She is a woman to which bros have no allegiance because she has none. You know that chick that kisses all of her friends at the bar just for attention? HOE.
Look, if you’re smart, you know this one. You don’t date your Bros Ex; you just don’t do it. There are plenty of other chicks out there whose pursuit doesn’t require that you drag a Bros heart through the mud and to the grinder. No matter how much time has passed, real Bros know it’s not a good idea. So, unless you have explicit permission or your Bro dies, stay on the prowl.
Beer is sacred. In fact, it just might be the only thing that keeps a man sane in the absence of boobs, silence, or athletic competition. We love all of those things. But above all, beer mixes well with them and has stayed loyal throughout. That being said, you never contaminate a Bro’s beer or compromise its flow.
And that’s exactly where brother Jesus went wrong: he fouled my beer.
Let’s rewind a half-hour, back to the evening of an Easter Sunday with promise. I had spent the majority of that Sunday relishing in the self-glory warranted by an all-day productivity marathon. Having accomplished great strides on both fronts of my creative passions, the victory was extra sweet as it brought to end an era of laziness which had become greatly menacing to me. As I often do, on this particular eve, I employed a means of rewarding my industriousness with the thought of cold beer. That thought later grew into impulsive action that found me foaming at the mouth as I put the very last period on the very last sentence of my very last article. Nearly forgetting my shoes, I flew down a flight of steps and threw my car into gear. Exactly 3 minutes and 23 seconds later, I had entered the only local liquor store lacking enough class to be open at 10pm on Easter Sunday and grabbed a six pack of light beer.
It’s an amazing feeling when you can put yourself on both ends of the work/reward equation. The payout is two-fold: the immediate reward you personally gift to yourself, and the longterm reward of having completed works of great passion. Elated with my ability to bait myself into a future of success based on the promise of cold beer, I fantasized about that biography later to be written about my life—the one that quietly alludes to the positive repercussions of having a drinking problem.
When, later, I found myself stripped down to my underwear and sinking into the folds of my reading couch, it became apparent that something was wrong. Something about beer-time had gone awry and I could feel a mixture of panic and frustration surge from the center of intuition. My beer had been fouled. The code had been broken, and now, some legs were gonna get broken—Bro style.
I ran to the refrigerator to confirm my greatest fear: bad beer. The beer I had selected had expired two-months prior to my consumption! This was unacceptable. And though it pained me so to redress and reclaim beer-time from the clutches of a bad Bro in business, I had to defend my honor. I slapped on sandals, a beanie, and pulled my hood over my head and low across the line of my eyes. It was so that the hood hindered my ability well enough to react apropriately to cars on the road, but I didn’t care. And if, per chance, I were to cause a couple of civilian casualties during my campaign for the chastisement of those who would defile my beer, then so be it.
I burst through the doors and looked straight at Jesus.
“You sold me bad beer, Bro.”
The spectators gasped and frantically checked the integrity of their purchases.
He shot me a mixed cocktail of a look, somewhere between condescendence and incredulity. He looked down on me, for I was a mere mortal in the eyes of this beer dispensing God.
“You picked the beer.”
I nearly choked on the air I inhaled.
“Sir, as your customer, it’s not my job to make sure that your beer is fresh. That’s your job. My job is to come here and expect to purchase good beer. What services do you provide here exactly, sir?”
The beer God, Jesus, stood silent and stone faced. He switched tactics.
“Well, it’s not our fault. It came shipped to us like that.”
I hit him hard, using strict care to emphasize the articulation of my words.
“Well, sir, if that indeed is the case, I urge you to call your supplier and fire them immediately. For my inconvenience, and your rudeness, I’m going to pick a 6-pack of my choosing and leave.”
Jesus watched me as I took from his stash, a golden brown ale of New England perfection. Before reaching the door, he began to call out to me mid-stride.
“Buddy that’s not the same…” He trailed off as I spun around and shot him a look. “Come here…” He said.
I strolled back toward him, and upon reaching the counter between us, thrusted my head closer before whispering. “For my inconvenience, I hope you’ll accommodate me.”
He forced a smile, saying, “I just wanted to give you a bag.”
We both knew it was a lie, but I let it slide because this was Jesus, and the ability to rise from the dead implicates a talent not worth testing. I’ve seen enough zombie apocalypse movies to know how this ends up; you don’t want to take your day out on someone like that, even if he is screwing you over.
I bolted out the door, dodging raindrops to enter the cabin of my car. In speeding out of the parking lot, a vague sense of victory began to transfer its energy to the gas pedal. But then, it happened. A few blocks from my place, there was a sudden flash behind me and my rearview mirror lit up like a Christmas tree. The police. I would have loved to see Sting and the rest of his posse barge out of the car that pulled up behind me, but it wasn’t them. There would be no serenade tonight. These were the boys in blue and man was I pissed. All I wanted to do was drink beer, relax, and not go to prison. But, apparently, that was asking too much.
“License and registration…”
“Here. Is my headlight out officer?”
“You made a left turn out of the parking lot back there when the sign clearly says, ‘no left turn'”
“Oh. I’m so sorry. I didn’t even see it. I normally don’t shop there.”
“Any points on your license?”
“Not one, sir.”
“Ever been arrested?”
At this point his sidekick began tapping on the passenger’s side window with his flashlight. I rolled down the window as he shined it on the 6-pack on the floor.
“How old are you?” The cop at my window asked.
He called over to his partner. “He’s old enough…” Handing back my documents he muttered, “be more careful next time.”
“I will officer. Thank you.”
It was then that it dawned on me, a revelation unravelling in real time—Jesus. I couldn’t help myself, and without thinking, I blurted it out.
“Officer, do you know Jesus? Did Jesus put you up to this?”
The officer looked back at me and squinted, his face blurred by the whirling of red and blue lights behind him.
“Well, we usually can’t get him on the radio. But then again, it’s Easter Sunday—he’s probably busy.”