Click HERE if your browser does not redirect. Th' Sins of Jesus



...HE WAS AN INTERNET WHORE...





I. Prelude



Here at wawk at night it's lonely. ah's reckonin' of all of yo' an' whut 

yo' muss be doin'. Probably sleepin'. Sometimes ah do thet too. When no 

one's lookin' ah put mah face aginst th' pink linoleum t'drool an' 

dream, dawgone it. It's th' only way t'git through it all, ah reckon. Wif no real point of 

existin', it's hard not t'become unfocused on mah goal, ah reckon. Pussy. Mah name 

is Jed an' ah's an Internet who'e. 





II. Billy Joe & Cathy & sometimes Alvin but nevah Ernie



ah wawk wif a guy named Billy Joe. Yo' probably knows fif'y 'Billy Joes'. He's 

t'other one. He tells sto'ies. They're funny. Right now he's sno'in'. 

Aroun' 2 a.m, dawgone it. he wakes up an' goes on about changin' jobs so he kin

feel like he's doin' sumpin wif his life. Then he goes back t'sleep. 

Cathy spins back an' fo'th in her chair. She says she's asleep too but 

her eyes is open, as enny fool kin plainly see. Is she lyin'? ah only see Alvin one night a week.  Shet mah mouth! He 

hates it hyar. He comes in an' usually falls asleep purdy quickly, 

which is fine on account o' we is afraid he might kill us all eff'n he were 

awake. Ernie used t'come in but he's been missin' now fo' a week an' 

it's upsettin' on account o' ah loaned him a cassette.

 



III. 443 Bunker Hill (an' doesn't fo'git 88 Baldwin!  Fry mah hide!)



ah's hyar on account o' mah car died an' ah c'dn't corntinue delivahin' th' 

Boston Globe 7 days a week t'yer dorestep o' in yer dore enny fuckin'

longer. Oh...wait...thass not whut happened, cuss it all t' tarnation. Now ah remember. ah got so 

drunk one Saturday night thet ah c'dn't hoof it in Sunday t'do mah job.  Well bust mah britches an' call me streaker.

Then mah car died, cuss it all t' tarnation. Then ah came hyar. ah make mo'e money an' haf less stress. 

Thank yo' Jim Beam!  Fry mah hide!





IV. Po-lice, Framppon an' Medical Emerjuncy Elton John-Boy



We is supposed t'git phone calls. We doesn't. Sometimes I'll jest walk 

aroun' wonnerin' eff'n it's impo'tant thet ah's out walkin' aroun' an' not 

back sittin' down, as enny fool kin plainly see. ah have a lot of info'mashun ah doesn't need on account o' ah 

doesn't use it. Ev'ry now an' then ah git up an' push a button thet places

a tess call, ah reckon. ah doesn't even git thet call on account o' I've been up pushin'

th' button, as enny fool kin plainly see. Billy Joe o' Cathy gits it. Sometimes Alvin does. Nevah Ernie. Billy Joe 

likes t'joke aroun' at thet point. Cathy don't joke. Sometimes Alvin

does. Ernie used to. Th' only thin' thet saves me is th' Internet. Eff'n I

evah come t'wawk an' th' Internet access is lop off, I'll hoof it home. ah's

addicked, cuss it all t' tarnation.





V. Brin' on th' Bitches



ah started foolin' aroun' wif Internet about 6 months ago. It began 

slowly but quickly got outta corntrol, ah reckon. Fust ah got email, ah reckon. ah wrote mah 

friend Maria who ah pow'ful wanted t'have sex wif. When it became clear

thet it warn't a-gonna happen ah switched t'th' online varmintal ads. 

They had allus disgested me but ah foun' in mah ho'ny bo'edom thet ah 

c'd compromise mah stan'ards. Responses began t'flow like th' mighty 

Nile. Soon ah was not only chattin' wif them but meetin' them, dawgone it. Babette 

was th' fust. She sucked, cuss it all t' tarnation. She was angry. Tina was th' second, cuss it all t' tarnation. She

drove down fum Kinada an' we met at a Mobil stashun at 5:30 in th' mo'nin'.

ah experienced a sho't dry spell until th' fust week of December when ah 

struck it rich. Her name is Kira. We began havin' an affair. She's a 

twenty-seven year old bisexual, ah reckon. We fucked fo' 4 days straight an' on th' last day an amazin' thin' happened, cuss it all t' tarnation. 

T'other woomin called me who ah had been chattin' wif. Lisa is an 

eighteen-year-old German au pair. Thet Friday, af'er fuckin' Kira 12 

hours earlier, ah fucked Lisa. It was cornfusin'. Who's pussy was mah 

han' in? ah felt funny. Had ah finally completed a projeck ah had set out 

to do? ah's Spartacus! 





VI. Epilogue (Larn th' smart kids thet it's okay t'be stoopid!  Fry mah hide!)



Mah advice t'th' next junerashun is simply t''Foller yer Dreams'. In 

skoo they tell yo' lies. Yo' only need basic math an' a li'l 

readin'. ah's a success. Right now thar's a CEO of a Fo'tune 500

compenny who didn't git a blowjob yessuhterday. This hyar may not last an' ah doesn't care.

It's happened, cuss it all t' tarnation. I've done it. I've finally made sumpin of mahse'f. 

Thank yo' t'ev'ryone who made it postible. Yo' knows who yer. An'

to Ernie, come home soon, as enny fool kin plainly see. We is wo'ried, cuss it all t' tarnation. ah mean, as enny fool kin plainly see...ah's. Ev'ryone else is 

asleep. 







Th' follerin' is a dramatizashun of whut mah current job is like:



LATE NIGHT IN A CALL CENTER

A Play in One Ack by Jed O'Hare



Chareeckers:

Billy Joe Gard

Jed O'Hare

Cathy Do'ito



Th' lights come up on an aban'oned call center. It is cold an' brown, as enny fool kin plainly see.

Cathy sits in a chair spinnin'. Jed is stretched out acrost two

chairs. Billy Joe is slumped on over, painfully strugglin' t'stay alert. They

all ha'f wears their inackive haidsets.



Billy Joe suddenly stirs an' raises his haid t'speak.  Shet mah mouth!



Billy Joe: We is but snails on an indless betch waitin' t'be cappured by

th' chillun of summer an' placed in their amateurish aquariums.



Jed wakes up an' looks at Billy Joe



Jed: Yessuh Gard!  Fry mah hide! Snails!



Billy Joe: ah wonner sometimes whut thin's'd be like today eff'n God had lit

th' fire he sh'd haf unner our lazy as a houn'dog cestomer service asses. 



Jed: Hmmm, dawgone it. ah's corncerned about thet but whut of mah bitches? Who

cries fo' them? Who saves their virginal vaginas fum mah evil an'

twisted libido?



Billy Joe: Agin wif th' who'es! ah's sick of it!  Fry mah hide! Whut in tarnation of th' future? Whut in tarnation

of love?



Cathy rolls her eyes



Jed: Billy Joe, mah friend, we only live fo' today an' muss as Robin

Billy Joes said so apply in th' Peter Weir film 'Daid Poet's Society',

Seize th' day!  Fry mah hide!



Billy Joe: Carpe Diem!  Fry mah hide!



Jed: This hyar is not about fish Billy Joe!  Fry mah hide! It's about meat. How we is but

meat in th' grinner of life waitin' t'be

ett up by th' fuckin' MAN!  Fry mah hide!



Billy Joe: Yessuh, ah agree. Soon thet man shall arrive once mo'e in his Lexus

o' Volvo o' Buick o' whut haf yo' an' in his black sueyt an' yeller

power tie stare at us in this hyar fish bowl like...like fish...like fish

Jed!  Fry mah hide!

Not meatcha pseudo Abner Bowie but FISH!  Fry mah hide! God dadburned fish!  Fry mah hide!



Jed hangs his haid in shame



Jed: But then, eff'n ah's a fish...whar is mah skoo Billy Joe? Whar is mah

skoo?



Cathy spins in her chair back an' fo'th





Th' follerin' was writ durin' a bad week.  Shet mah mouth! ah liked it inough though

to post it. Don't read it eff'n yer in a bad mood, cuss it all t' tarnation.



JIM



Mah life is an isolatin' experience. ah was born an' raised alone an' I'll die

alone. Mah ackshuns is rhythmic an' mah rhythms is circular. 

ah endlessly revolve in th' grayess of spaces.



ah's unable t'bust free fum moshun. ah choose t'go numb instead of 

allerin' th' inevitable insanity t'occur. Ev'ryday it lays do'mant an'

is only kepp thet way by mah cornstant se'f-abuse tackics. No solushun to

this is evah felt t'be necessary on account o' it is predestined thet th' solushun

be death. So ah wait fo' it daily.



Eff'n they foun' me now whut'd they say? Surroun'ed by jars of urine

an' garbage bags of po'n o' th' scattered, fo'gotten artwawk. Whut in tarnation'd

they tell th' ones who claimed t'pow'ful knows me? W'd they knows then how

alone we all is in th' wo'ld o' whut it means t'be nothin'? W'd they

finally ketch me in a lie?



ah allus imagined mah funeral t'be filled wif varmints all fo'ced to

lissen t'mah moosic fo' hours. One af'er t'other, song by song'd play an' 

ev'ryone'd be strugglin' jest t'stay seated, cuss it all t' tarnation. Af'erwards, thar

w'd be a dinner an' some dancin' into th' mo'nin'. When it was on over they'd

fo'git whuffo' they came but not thet they did, cuss it all t' tarnation. ah w'd be nothin',

finally.



In th' end it gits yo'. Yer bess friend becomes yer inemah. Yo' kin't

even taste whut it used t'taste like on account o' it's burned yer tongue away

an' it's rotted yer teeth. Yo've got nothin' an' yer nothin' but

peekoolyarly yo' like it an' still be hankerin' mo'e. To deviate now'd brin' tragic

results an' in th' end it's easier jest t'disintegrate.



Life is decishuns made by choices. Breathin' is a decishun we choose.

Wif thin's thet subtle, it's hard not t'make mistakes.





Redneck version courtesy of
...Dialectizer...

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