Posts Tagged ‘neoliberal drag queen situations’

The Fashion of the Christ

March 7, 2009

Fashion of the Christ


Flicking his ashes into a plant, Jesus sneers at Cynthia’s plastic hoop earrings.

FMJ: “What are the tabloids saying about my fabulous trial so far, Cynth?”

She opens a needlessly large magazine and starts reading:

Cynth: “Ari Applebaum of the Nazareth Free Star writes: This will be the Holy Land’s most glamorous celebrity trial. FMJ will make you want to stand up and cheer! ‘ So I guess he’s already decided he likes it before it even starts.”

FMJ: “Don’t read the reviews in the newspaper chains I own! …I want to hear what the other one… that independent guy – what’s his name… Moe Silverberg, I think.”

Memory for detail has been sacrificed at the alter of drugged up celebrity raves and latenight sex in mirror-glassed limos.

FMJ: “Tell me what the film reviewer I don’t own is saying.”

Cynth: “Well, Moe says you’re a criminal and need to be locked up forever to protect the human race from you and your insane greed.”

Jesus exhales menthol smoke from his nostrils:

FMJ: “Fuck, I can’t believe what an antisemitic prick he is, Cynthia. I mean, he actually called me a parasite in one of his columns. If that doesn’t sound like something Goebels would say about a celebrity, then I just don’t…”

The judge loudly calls for order, and signals for everyone stop talking and sit down.

Judge: “Free Market Jesus Horatio Christ III, please rise and take the oath.”

The judge is a family friend of FMJ, and he went to the same cliquey private school as Jesus’s now-separated dad, Joseph.

Jesus places his white-gloved right hand against a beautiful gold plaque with “Division of Labor” carved into it, obviously by a skilled typographer.

FMJ: “In the name of a free market, I promise to say the most cost-effective things that my PR firm tells me to say. Amen.”

The prosecuting attorney then approaches the judge, and quietly asks for an additional five minutes to address new information currently shooting out of a fax machine sitting between an eight-track player and a game of Pong.

focus group

The trial stops once again. As the audience waits to see what the fax says, Free Market Jesus seizes the moment to continue vapidly chatting with his severely-botoxed corporate attorney – Cynthia Popovic – who is now enjoying some take-out falafel and a diet Coke.

Cynthia is still on the same page.

Cynth: “How can Moe Silverberg be antisemitic, Jeez? He’s Jewish himself, isn’t he?”

Jesus rolls both eyeballs into the back of his clean-shaven and lightly talc-ed face.

FMJ: “He’s self-hating, Cynthia! They’re the worst kind of haters! It’s a medical condition or something.”

Cynth: “How do you know he hates himself or the Semites? He’s  only ever written really hateful things about you, not about himself or all the people he does business with.”

Losing both his patience and his capacity to focus on boring non-celebrity-type things, Jesus leans over and opens his silk robe.

FMJ: “Just forget that loser indie media weasel for a second and look at this chest job, Cynth. Fifty-five shekels, and worth every bit. No stubble, no bikini shadow. Plastic pecs, just like GI Joe.”

Cynthia scrunches up her face and leans into his drama queening:

Cynth: “Mary, that’s your fifth chest-wax in two months. Are you sure you’re not just addicted to the pain?”

Jesus smirks, and then – pulls an eyelash to make it curl.

FMJ: “If you think that’s extreme… I’ve got a client who’s had four cosmetic kidney-transplants in the last year and a half. She says new kidneys make her feel fresh and young. I’m running out of orphans who have a kidney to sell me, Cynth.”

Jesus reaches into a box of expensive chocolates and takes out a large, heart-shaped one which he bites into and then freezes as the vanilla cream drips into his gaping mouth.

The prosecuting attorney walks back to his own seat. He whispers to the bowler-wearing hipster seated beside him, and then rises again to begin his opening remarks.

FMJ:“Well, they’ve already lost the Evening Gown portion of this boring pageant,” Jesus hisses to his attorney. “Now let’s see if they can squeeze more money out of me with a guilty-verdict than I’ll eventually get out of them when I counter-sue.”

He winks at his celebrity lawyer, and then sends a remarkably bitchy text-message to the prosecution.

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