Look, I understand times have been pretty tough; what with half my flock suffering from footrot, the constant sandstorms across the Judean, this Census of Quirinius which is nothing more than a pain in everyone’s donkey (excuse my French) and, y’know, the road back from Nazareth is just one sig-alert after another (Beth-Lehem Ephratahian drivers are the worst… THE WORST I tell you!), but no amount of suffering can excuse my wife’s LYING TO ME in order to cover up her wanton, marital indiscretions!
I mean, REALLY, do I look like I was born since the last daybreak!?!
I guess, at first, I WANTED to believe… I mean, I can do math like the next guy and seeing as Mary and I had gone through a LEAN time where relations in the tent were concerned… (I chalk it up to my sciatica, her colitis, and, of course, the plague of locusts)… there was no way the baby bump belonged to me.
But then I thought, if she were going to make up a story, why not go with something simple and plausible to exaplain the pregnancy, like accidental kissing in a wet bathing suit, then something SO AUDACIOUS as a seminal messenger from the BMOU (Big Man On Universe) with the white beard?
I mean, a “virgin birth“?
It’s so improbable– so divine– so positively Hellenistic in its grandeur!
Not since Hera accepted Zeus’ whole “I accidently swallowed the pregnant mother of Athena, which is why she’s being born out of my forehead” scam has ANYONE tried to sell a conception tale so improbable.
So, on chutzbah alone, I originally bought into the story, but now we’re stuck in this nowhere, two olive tree town, Bethlehem, and there are these three weird, costumed dudes with useless presents (I get the gold, but frankincense, and myrrh? Haven’t these fools heard of an IPhone?), and I’m starting to obsess about how “handsy” Chet from accounting was when I was so preoccupied with the Goldberg settee and love-seat matched set back in Jericho!
Y’know, Chet… with the good hair… and the strong neck muscles… and the SIX HEALTHY BULLS?
(How am I supposed to compete with SIX HEALTHY BULLS? Ugh, I’m such a fool!)
And here’s the real kicker… I really LOVE this woman and I still want to believe she LOVES me and though I’m pretty convinced that little Schmul of Nazareth (that’s what I want to name him, after my great-great-great-grandfather Schmiddle who begat Humertill whobegat Darrilamphir who begat Crastamuddul) is probably not MINE, I want a son so badly and I’m starting to think… what’s the harm in playing along?
People seem into the whole “Angel of God” thing, but it’ll get old and they’ll eventually just FORGET, right?
I mean, its not like two thousand years from now people will be running around erecting, I don’t know, decorated evergreens and celebrating the birthday of the great Schmul of Nazareth?
So, I go with the flow and and raise my son to build furniture like the all the rest of the family!
Merry Day Before The Day Before Thursday, folks!