Jesus Christ Throws Himself a Surprise Birthday Party To Interrogate Who Stole His Tupperware Lid
He lent the portable containers to guests at his last barbecue for taking green bean casserole home. Jesus remembers Tommy, Derek, and Susan took some, definitely Larry, Terry, and even that bitch Karen — Jesus regrets creating her. Jesus thought how he should choose his friends better, Those bastards never return anything, even my collection of Hoobastank CDs I let them borrow.
Jesus pretends to get home from a long day’s work, stretching and yawning as he pushes through the front door. The lights to his million room mansion are dimmed while everyone crouches behind leather sectionals, kitchen islands the size of Hawaii, and bronze statues of Jesus being crucified. Today is July Fourth, but Jesus said in the message he wanted his birthday party now. Everyone would just have to cancel their independent celebrations.
Jesus enters the room and throws his skeleton key, that opens every door in existence, on the Bocote coffee table. When he flips the light switch on everyone pops out and yells Surprise!
“Oh my God you guys! I had no idea!”
“Yep,” they say. “We’d never forget your birthday.”
“Yeah, it’s totally on July fourth,” someone yells out before getting elbowed by another guest. Jesus waves a hand and the man vanishes in a flame of smoke like a magician’s act. Poof.
“Thanks everyone! Here are the games we’ll play,” another Jesus hand wave and games appear: Pin the lid on the Tupperware appears. Charades where each clue is Tupperware Lid. A bounce house made of Tupperware.
“Oh wow, thanks Jesus!”
The guests meander throughout Jesus’ mansion, getting lost throughout his maze of a home. Dying in corners left unattended.
Where the hell is that lid, Jesus wonders, it’s the final piece to complete the set. Without it, what’s the fuckin’ point? It was a gift from his Father. Everything’s a gift from his Father.
“So, John, thanks for coming.” Jesus interrupts the conversation John is having with his wife, Rebecca, about their children and schooling for the upcoming year. John was at the last party, probably has been stealing rubber-ware lids to sell for his kid’s college fund. “What did you get me for my birthday?”
“Umm, here you go.” Rebecca hands Jesus a card that’s not shaped like a Tupperware lid. Jesus tears it in two and lights it on fire. He’ll remain on the suspect list. On to the next.
Jesus sits in a large group of people talking about politics. “Is everyone having a good time?” Jesus interrupts.
“We just got here.”
“You know, I built these chairs. I’m somewhat of a carpenter.”
“We know. You told us the last party you made us attend.”
They return to talking about healthcare, gun control, foreign affairs. Things of no interest to Jesus. All that’s on his mind is where his Tupperware lid could be hiding. Even though he couldn’t see it, he had to have faith it existed.
“So, Dean, thanks for coming.” Jesus flicks Dean’s New Orleans Saints hat off of his head. “That’s a nice — lid.”
“What? Oh, my hat? Thanks, Jesus.”
“Hey Susan,” Jesus shouts across the circle, “I heard a rumor that your boss is going to fire you, but let’s keep a — lid — on it.”
“Whatever you say, Jesus.”
The other guests are on their seventh time charading Tupperware lid get bored. The guests pinning the lid on the Tupperware aren’t even blindfolding themselves. Jesus didn’t like when people could see clearly, it made them closer to his level.
“Hey Jesus, we’re gonna head out. We’ve got an early morning thing — soooo, yeah.”
“WHERE THE FUCK IS MY LID!” Jesus yells. His booming voice rattles their bowels loose. “I set up all these fun games for you, but the only game I don’t want to play is Who Stole my Tupperware Lid.”
The plastic bounce house crumbles and melts. The kids get stuck inside. At first, Jesus panics that they’re fetuses in a womb being aborted, then he realizes they’ve already been born and he loses interest in their well being.
“Jesus, we all returned the Tupperware you lent us.”
Jesus searches the cupboards frantically. His containers of various sizes are all there besides one lid. There’s nothing that needs saving at the moment, but there could be later. There’s always something to be saved. Jesus lived to save things: dates, letters from former lovers, the ties for bread bags.
“Jesus, we’ll just buy you a new set.”
“That’s not the point. This is for the principle of the matter.” His million fingers are pointed at everyone. “I swear if no one admits to it I’ll give each of you cancer.” A tear sneaks out of Jesus’ left eye, rolling down his cheek, burning a hole through the marble floor and into the Earth’s core. All of the guests look into the pit that’s forming underneath Jesus’ house. There’s piles and piles of garbage; greasy pizza boxes, stacks of reusable to-go cups, soiled diapers. The guests gasp at his trash. On the very top sits a plethora of Tupperware lids.
The melting tears continue until it burns a tunnel through Earth to the other side. The ocean rushes into the core and extinguishes the heat, causing the planet to die.
“Well, it’s been real y’all.” Jesus waves goodbye and teleports to another planet with life forms. It’s barren — for now. All purple rocks with the first hint of water forming. It’ll take a million years to get there. Jesus sits on a boulder next to the planet’s small puddle containing the first sign of life.
“Hey. Hey you down there.” The puddle vibrates with the planet. “You want to see a magic trick?”
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