Before I tell you about the miracle of the 'steaming Pat in the grass', let me share this: we often hear about miracles, like a Virgin Mary statue oozing tears, or an image of Jesus appearing in a piece of toast. Speaking of toast, many big evangelists over the years have certainly bit the dust (or sniffed the magic fairy dust with male hookers) and some of them claimed they were 'miracolously' speaking to God at various times. This of course way before they were disgraced as frauds and confessing teary-eyed: "I have fallen and I can't get up!" And we are not talking cheap imitation miracles either, oh no. Wasn't it the late Oral Roberts once who claimed it was the Almighty himself, 700 feet tall out in the desert, demanding his earthly TV-tyke raise a million dollars or else would it would be 'divine wrath'! FINITO! Curtains... for his carnival circus show!
Whatever happened to that Green-Giant-sized God? Was he as big as the theatrical angry one who appeared in Biblical times? Maybe the God vision was a grandiose fib, an ill-conceived morality play seen as justified to produce a financial bounty? Maybe the evangelist had a bad case of indigestion that freaky night and the hellish vapors alone may have caused spells of delusions, the way bad bong-hits do.
Strangely, while the upper-income brackets seem more blessed to have full-sized run-ins with divinity, the 'little people' find God, Jesus and Mary in all sorts of humble media, in the trickle-down of religious economics. We hear about it on the news: some toast or cookie or pan-cake is blessed with a startling iconic image, and it doesn't stop there. I tend to glance at the covers of reputable tabloids to be alerted to new signs of divinity appearing in splattered paint or the mold-stains in some trailer bathroom.
HERE IS THE BEEF OF THE STORY! Really it was Brutus, my Doberman who inspired me to bear witness. You see, one day he produced a divine apparition, well, a genuine facsimile of a holy man like the ones you see on TV! Yet the heathen creature never knew he was blessed. As a dog, I presume Brutus is a heathen. I remember the miracle as though it happened yesterday. I believe I had a glass of red wine that evening to sooth the pains of life, as I took Brutus outside for his business. A Mormon once told me that Jesus didn't turn water into wine but into grape-juice, but I don't buy into the non-refrigerated theory. I firmly believe the biblical beverage was fermented like it always was in the days before pasteurization.
Maybe I was having an wine-induced vision when the miracle occurred, a reasonable possibility much like a TV-evangelist getting high from his flatulence (maybe that's where that recent suburban teenager underground methane huffing craze started) which then make him say mean things about Haitians 'making deals with the devil', cursed they are for rising up against their masters and Napoleon and WHATEVER...
It was a wonderfully sunny, yet bone-chilling cold day.The sun was indeed setting and there was a reddish glow in the air. Brutus had expressed his desire to yield nature's call earlier with his nervous gait and whiny whimper... it is a really annoying sound and not at all like his intimidating ferocious bark he produces for the rare crackheads and Jehova's witnesses as they appear in his line of vision. At moments such as these Brutus is worth his weight in at least silver. His sudden dark appearance would startle a law-breaking intruder, who might be induced to dispatch errand night-dirt in his sagging britches. I have not yet seen a man walk on water, but I have seen a Jehova witness haul ass as though his feet never touched the barren ground. Miracles really do happen when we watch closely and study the little details.
Brutus has a bad habit of eating used paper-towels and other strange things. The odd debris reemerges and sometimes causes him puzzling discomfort on the tail-end, as he stupidly looks at me for answers! Maybe by instinct I watch him now, as he takes forever to find the perfect spot in the front-yard that is 'just right'. He was standing there in all his jittery awkwardness and then IT appeared. It fell upon the grass, it bounced and then sat upright, and it was a miracle...
PAT ROBERTSON it was, the upper torso part, head slightly tilted and the hands folded, head bobbing with his trademark righteous grin! As steaming piles go, there was a glowing halo that gave him an aura of saintedness! There was no doubt, it was him, steaming PAT, not some ambiguous Rorschach inkblot creature. I was startled, dumbfounded and amazed. What was I to do? Get on my knees and say a blessing, get a camera, a plastic baggie, call the local media or a local priest? But I had to secure the site first. You see, the man is holier-than-thou isn't he?!In these times, somebody might come by and spot the holy relic, covet it and whisk it away. Sure it is not the holy grail, but in Memphis people kill or maim for a lot less. And who likes victims? Pat sure doesn't! Especially not the victim of a relic robbery! One who from the comfort of a cheap wheel-chair, sees his precious loot cheapened on E-bay, Craigslist or who knows where, sold off for a measly 30 silver pieces to some wealthy church. And I would sit there with tears in my eyes, incontinent and not a pot or bed-pan to piss in.
What a miracle! Holy man Pat Robertson! But why me, and why was I blessed with such a miracle? I mean, what happens with those people who have a Jesus in a pan-cake? I presume a steady stream of the faithful pilgrimage by whatever means to the blessed trailer-parker and kneel on a welcome-mat. And then some dame emerges from inside the single-wide holding the pan-cake in a Plexiglas display and the pious bless themselves. Not to be irreverent at the modesty of some relics. Jesus was after all born in a manger and the grown-up Jesus washed the feet of the poor. So miracles do occur in all sort of humble ways. Well, and I got stuck with an understudy to divinity, frozen in the fecal position!
The miracle however didn't last very long. Brutus was still hovering over the holy site in his shivering stance and he hadn't quite finished. Oblivious to the magical moment, he cruelly topped of the sacred relic with a blob of infamy and pious PAT was gone. Gone in a heart-beat! Snuffed out like the Lord was angry at him! At best he now looked like Jabba the hutt from Starwars. It was a fleeting moment of miracle magic and it had passed. Sometimes we don't see what fate throws our way and step into and at other times it hits the fan. I for one took a leap of faith over it.
I couldn't help but wonder if something else had a hand in the sudden disappearance of the miracle just so soon as it appeared. Was the appearance an 'act-of-God' and the vanishing of PAT's senile fatherly features an act of Satan? Maybe it was just a sign, a morality play if you wish: see the little miracles, and expect none from the holy pharisees! In times as dreary as these, share kindness with those not so fortunate in WORDS and deeds! ...or else!