Jesus is not an easy person to track down. Oh, they will tell you he is everywhere, but finding him and securing an interview is like trying to find Santa at a hardware store in the middle of July. I finally caught up with him in a bar just south of the Peruvian/ Columbian border and traded two tequilas and a cheap whore for an interview.

Zero: So, what made you do it? I mean the whole religion business and all that.

Jesus: Well, Bob, it is not something I had intended from the start. Back when I started out, guys like Zeus and Apollo had a corner on the market. They had temples and harems of women. I delivered fish in the desert. One day I backed over a guy while I was dropping off a load to a crowd of people and the next thing I know they are calling me the messiah. To make a long story short, being the son of God is a little bit of an upgrade from handling dead fish, so I made up a back story and went with it. Word of me spread like wildfire. People were a lot easier to fool before cable news and the internet came along.

Zero: That’s cool, but my name isn’t Bob. So, if it was all a hoax, what about the miracles and the whole crucifixion thing?

Jesus: The miracles were all smoke and mirrors. I had hired some actors to convince people they were sick or diseased and then I would come in, say something wise, lay my hands on them, and they would get “better”. We worked hundreds of dumb villagers for everything from their livestock to their daughters. Those were really good times.

The crucifixion is another story. You see, there were only so many little villages around the desert at that time. We got too well known. One night I was sitting around the campfire with Judas and some Romans drinking wine and smoking opium and we came up with a little plan. I can’t really go in to specifics, but let’s just say that while that other guy was rotting on the cross, I was laying down with a couple of busty maid servants in the Emperors private chamber. They buried that poor schmuck in a cave, then, three days later I show back up and the rest is history.

Zero: Wow. That is an incredibly wicked lie to perpetrate on people. Don’t you feel some sense of responsibility for the hundreds of years of war that lie has caused?

Jesus: Not really, Bob…

Zero: My name is not Bob.

Jesus: Like I was saying, not really Bob. If it wasn’t me it would have been someone else. All the guys did it. Buddha, Mohammed, even that David Koresh guy got in on the act a few hundred years later. It’s all about business. I’m pulling in more than Bill Gates here, Bob. I got a store on every corner. And I’m not the only one making money here either. I’m sure you have noticed that your local pastor is not driving an old Honda…

Zero: You are a terrible, terrible man. I feel like just meeting you somehow made me a really bad person myself.

Jesus: It’s all about perspective, Bob. You’re not looking at the big picture here. I just did what every other asshole in my situation would have done. Someone has to take advantage of the people, if not me, who? Gandhi? He is a big pussy. Buddha? Sure, give it to a fat ass that claims to never eat. Thor was a tough one but he gave up all his rights to religious domination when he joined the Avengers.

Zero: I think Captain America would kick your ass…

Jesus: See, a few hundred years ago a mouth like that would have gotten you burned at the stake. Now you got all these god damn environmentalist hippie liberals out there who cry every time you try to drown a woman for witchcraft. I personally blame the Buddhists, but what can you do…

Zero: So, with all this money you are raking in, what in the blue hell are you doing way out here, in the jungles of South America?

Jesus: They don’t ask questions when the hookers disappear.

Zero: Well, this has been fun. I thank you for your time and wish you the best on your world domination thing.

Jesus: Didn’t you mention something about a couple of shots and a hooker?

I recall one time as I was working as a grocer for a Thebian Produce company, that a particularly difficult customer provided me with a connundrum, He wanted a basalt colored turnip genetically meshed with the flavor of Pez candy, he claimed it was very important and neccesary for his line of work (attorney?) However I set off at once to fullfill this arduous task, I drove 73 miles to his home address, slaughtered his family in a terrible bloodbath with the only object available to me at the time, an over-sized turnip that I had in the backseat of my 74′ Ford Falcon. And having beaten to death this mans entire family I simply drove to the mall and purchased several basalt colored overalls and placed the dilapidated corpses in them. I then returned back to the produce company towing his bleeding loved ones mangled bodies from the back of the vehicle. When the man, patiently waiting for my return, viewed my current state and the condition of his erstwhile family, he became greatly distressed, but ever the customer service afficianado – I simply handed him the bloody turnip and calmly told him that while I couldn’t get a basalt turnip flavored like pez, I did kill his whole family… in basalt. He was still distressed slightly over the manged state of the oversized turnip, he was so overjoyed he became catatonic with pleasing shock, and that, dear interviewer, is why I deserve this job…. Also I will eat you. (just repeat that verbatim)

Let me explain something to everybody out there on the Information Super-Wal Mart Highway: frogs live behind my apartment. Now when I write “frogs,” I do not refer to three or four frogs; I’m talking about millions, possibly billions, of frogs. If I was Carl Sagan, I would describe the quantity of frogs by claiming there are “millions and millions and millions and millions of frogs,” and then you would get really freaked out because, hey, I died in 1996. Additionally, when I use the term “live” in regards to the description of the word “frogs,” I do not mean the frogs simply occupy a portion of land outside my window where they actively engage in standard frog activity. No, these mutant hellspawns spend every waking second of their lives churning out frog sex noises in a never ending attempt to attract frogs of the opposite gender so they may have a frog orgy and produce sets of tinier frogs that love grunting out even more frog sex noises. They begin their ritualistic frog mating carnival of wasted lies sometime around 6:00 PM and wrap things up near 10:00 AM the following morning, so my sleep pattern each night is directly affected by the amount of ongoing frog sex in the XXX swamp behind my bedroom.

Now don’t get me wrong; I have nothing against the concept of frog sex. These amorous amphibians can do whatever they like with their own personal lives just as long as they don’t decide to break up and take each other onto the “Judge Judy” show because, quite frankly, the mental image of a haggard old witch-judge screaming grade school insults at a frog dressed up in a suit and tie and glasses makes me laugh uncontrollably until I begin crying and subsequently vomiting to the point when my eyes start leaking clear fluid, which also accurately describes how I react upon seeing a gorgeous woman. However, the mutant strain of supersexfrogs inhabiting the swampland behind my apartment exhibit no traits similar to your average, garden-variety “normal” frog. Allow me to present to you a brief list of discrepancies, courtesy of the four hours last night when I sat in bed, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling and failing to sleep thanks to Frog Sex Expo 2003:

1) These super frogs have access to an advanced mixing studio equipped with a 10-jillion watt speaker system. I do not know which charity decided to donate this rig to them, but you can bet your sweet black ass that I will not rest until a “misguided” Tomahawk missile flies through the reception area of their headquarters and incinerates at least half their staff and the water cooler.

2) Out of the 50 million billion zillion of the lumpy gravy beasts infesting the swampland behind my apartment, roughly 105% of them can be scientifically described as “horny as all hell.” If I have learned anything from watching nature documentaries in a half-drunken stupor at 5:30 AM, it’s that I should probably shoot myself in the face next time the horrible realization that I’m routinely getting drunk and watching nature documentaries sinks in. Additionally, I have been told that frogs only produce their patented “I’m being squished underneath a car wheel” sound when they are attempting to mate with bulbous counterparts of the opposite gender. The same logic applies to most men; whenever we talk or make grunting noises, you can safely assume we’re trying to either trick somebody into having sex with us or we’re trying to trick somebody into thinking we’re not trying to trick them into having sex with us. Now that I think about it, the average male human resembles a male frog in just about every way, except we possess the ability to wear a suit and tie and glasses on “The Judge Judy Show” and not appear completely ridiculous. Haha, oh man, a frog would look so goddamn goofy in a suit and tie.

3) The frogs lack any kind of union organization. If they had union support, you can bet they would at least have 30 hour breaks every 20 minutes or so. Instead, the poor suckers are forced (possibly at gunpoint) to churn out their coarse, droning, wretched sounds of love until they are forcibly shut up, once again possibly at gunpoint.

4) The terms “frogs” and “toads” are synonymous, interchangeable terms, no matter what any fancy pants, high-fallootin’ scientist may claim. The only people who attempt to point out differences between frogs and toads are the dullards who are very proud they passed their junior high school science course, and trust me, you don’t want to be hanging around with these people. These are the same bozos who claim spiders belong to some mythological “arachnid” group, when it is clear to anybody with half a brain that spiders are clearly “insects” just like ants, moths, lizards, and Carol Channing.

A wily toad attempts to seduce a homosexual child. Don’t let this happen to your kids! Speak to them now about the frog menace!

The topic of supersexfrogs and their repulsive greasy songs of love brings up the eternal question that mankind has been trying to resolve for decades: does the frog mating ritual cause us to drink alcohol, or does drinking alcohol cause the frogs to mate? Of course the answer is clear; the frogs damn well force me to drink beer each and every night. Anybody who claims otherwise has severe mental defects which can only be resolved by having a soda machine launch cans into their head at 200 miles an hour as in the movie “Stephen King Presents a Stephen King Production of Stephen King’s ‘Stephen King’s Maximum Overdrive’ starring Stephen King as “Stephen King’.”

Now I know how normal frogs act and sound. I’ve caught living creatures such as tadpoles, crawdads, leeches, swamp demons, rocks, water gnomes, and wives of famous police officials. I’ve been exposed to the seedy underbelly of the frog sex life and I know how ugly it can get at times. Have you ever had a frog lunge at your neck with a broken beer bottle and an unquenchable jealous rage? Well I sure as hell haven’t, but let me tell you, I’d probably run like hell if that happened, particularly if the frog was wearing a suit and tie and glasses. Frogs are timid, shy creatures who physically recoil when you attempt to pet or shoot them with a handgun. If you try to invite them to a housewarming party, they more than likely won’t show up, although not because of prior engagements. As you sit in your worn-down chair, crying softly into your hands while your lack of houseguests saturates your brain, the frogs will be squatting in the mud outside your house, mocking your every precious tear. The average frog does not care about your feelings because they simply live to cause us misery and eventually witness our downfall. However evil that may sound, and trust me, it sounds highly evil when you make a text-to-speech program read it aloud, frogs are cowards at heart. Theoretically, any of us could go outside right this moment and stamp on a frog until it becomes very dead. There’s probably some law against this though, so I am in no way advocating a mass frog stamping organizational movement, unless of course it would somehow result in people sending me a large amount of cash.

My point is that “normal” frogs are cowardly simpletons that will often shut up when you approach a 100-yard radius of them. Additionally, frogs will cease their infernal croaking noises when you shout racial threats in their general direction, regardless of what race you choose. Frogs are full of fear, and if we could somehow find a way to exploit that fear then perhaps it could power all our vehicles instead of the standard Iraqi baby blood which Exxon pumps out. Unfortunately, the supersexfrogs behind my apartment lack this fear. I believe they are the result of complicated genetic engineering aimed to create a frightening new bioweapon that could be used against North Korea or Texas. They are brazenly loud, determined, and unwilling to ever throw in the towel no matter how high the stakes are and even if the heat is on and he’s a good cop gone bad, framed for a crime he didn’t commit. I have, at previous points in my life, opened up my bedroom window and screamed “SHUT THE FUCK UP YOU GODDAMN HORNY ASSHOLES!” Other times I have left my apartment and began running around the surrounding swampland like a retard trapped in a McDonaldland playground. Needless to say, I do not consider these to be high points in my life. However, they do illustrate the point that these are no ordinary frogs, and I staunchly believe they are planning something more sinister and nefarious than simply emitting a constant stream of wet farting sounds for 16 hours straight each day. One of my theories involve the Anime-inspired concept that when an assortment of small, similar objects join together, they create a gigantic version of themselves which is completely autonomous and can destroy entire city blocks with its penis. Needless to say, I’m very glad that I’m moving soon.

This duck haunts your dreams.

If you were foolishly naive enough to believe that all my problems end at 10:00 AM each day, I’ve got some bad news for you: the only reason the frogs shut up and die around 10:00 is because that’s when the ducks move in. Yes, these two distinctly different species of animals work in shift up here, all part of the CIA’s nefarious “Operation Insanity” which they enjoy testing out on unfortunate webmasters across the globe, or at least possibly across my apartment. The frogs clock out and the ducks punch in at that time, and soon the sounds of frog lust are replaced with the grating, aggressive quacking coughs from approximately one thousand squat, ugly birds.

Many people have bought into the popular media misconception that ducks are friendly, cute creatures who would look good on a secretary’s calendar. For reasons that do not make sense to me, the left wing (no pun intended, unless of course you find puns to be witty, in which case it was intentional and I also hope you are killed by a steam shovel) liberal media paints a rosy, idyllic portrait of ducks. “Oh, ducks are cute and harmless,” they’ll preach to us on the front page of USA Today. “There is no reason whatsoever to loathe the very existence of ducks! Also, embrace the New World Order.” Let me explain something to you: ducks are disgusting, filthy walking asses with feathers and a beak glued onto them. Ducks hate us even more than we, as a human race, despise the cursed sun. When I was five years old, I was attacked by an irate duck who wanted to drill its beak / bill thingy into my soft, supple skull. I bravely defended myself by running away and weeping, which is still my preferred method of dealing with life’s difficulties, but the duck still managed to take a fist-sized chunk of ham out of my lower leg. I have been marked for duck death ever since that fateful day, and no matter how hard I attempt to escape these foul beasts, they always catch up with me in the end.

I attempted to silence the duck uprising yesterday, venturing out of the safe confines of my apartment for what I believe was the first time in several months. As I approached the location that appeared to be the duck nexus, a representative was sent out to greet me. I instantly spotted the malice in his eyes and knew my very life was in risk; this was no ordinary diplomatic missionary sent to greet and welcome me to Duck County, it was a deadly assassin hellbent on completing the job the ducks began when I was five! I attempted to run away, but my lack of coordination resulted in a temporary communication error between my brain and legs when they tried to join forces and cause me to flee. Instead of the standard alternating “right, left, right, left” set of commands that are issued during the running procedure, my legs were sent a faulty order of “left, right, right, right” request, causing me to trip and fall over. At that point all hell broke loose; I had attracted the attention of ALL the ducks around the swampland, and the burning, undying, seething hatred in their eyes drilled holes through my very soul. To make a long story less long and significantly less boring, I somehow escaped from that sticky predicament, presumably with the help of the US Air Force and a caravan of Humvees equipped with armor-piercing missiles.

If you’re wondering why I wrote this article, there is a very good reason for this: the goddamn frogs and ducks have screwed up my sleeping pattern to such a critical degree that I no longer possess the ability to think in any coherent fashion whatsoever. The tag team of audio annoyances have obliterated my ability to even distinguish between days at this point, and my life seems to consist of a nonstop slideshow featuring frog fucking and ducks on parade. So if you envisioned a cutting edge update full of poignant social commentary and side-splitting remarks about the Internet, then hahahahahaha, what goddamn site did you accidentally think you were visiting?

Go here and vote!