Me and Jesus were hanging out watching TV. We’re tight that way. He likes to hang out. Then on comes the news: another school shooting.

“Hey Jesus, this isn’t right. What are you doing about it?”

Jesus never got mad or anything. He just looked back.

“What are you doing about it?” I was sitting on the sofa eating ice cream.

Jesus is like that: He messes with your head all the time, but in a good way. He’s a bit weird, but he’s smart; smarter than me, and I’m super smart.

Jesus kept looking at me with those puppy dog eyes.

“What do you want me to do?” I said. “I’m not there with them; there’s nothing I can do.”

Then I swore. Jesus doesn’t like it when I swear. He didn’t say anything, but I knew He wasn’t cool with it. He’s cool with me, but not with everything I do.

Next up, the Orange Nazi is on TV. Turns out he’s coming ‘round to play golf in the old country. There you go.

Jesus doesn’t say nothing, but yeah, I could go and give the old wigbag a piece of my mind. Me and the whole of Scotland want to tell him. That’s one guy that gets us all riled up.

“That’s something I could do,” I say.

Of course, there’s security and everything. But he’ll hear us in the clubhouse. We will be heard. When it comes to this shit (sorry, Jesus), we in a class of our own. That boy will be telt. I think about going down to Turnberry with a golf ball hidden in my armpit, then with one throw, I could skelp POTUS on the nut.


Checking Twitter, I can see there going be a big demo. Jesus turns away; He doesn’t like Twitter. But there’s some funny stuff on there.

“Yer maw wis an’ immigrant, ya roaster.”

“Yir heid’s foo o’ mince, ya blithering bigot.”

“Say naw ta the tangerine walloper.”

“Chipati tae yer heid, ya bam.”

“Trump is a pure fanny.”

“Git yer fake tanned bawface oot a Scotland.”

“Bolt, ya rocket!”

“Hey, Donald, gonnae nae dae that.”

“Trump is a c*nt.”

Jesus doesn’t like that last one, but it’s the truth.

“I’m going to the protest. I’m going to stand up for what’s right. That’s what you wanted me to do, Jesus.”

He nods. I go and get a card and think about what I’m going to write and wave at the protest. I’ve got the markie in my hand, I’ve got a cracker slogan to write on my placard.

Before I start, Jesus asks, “Why do you hate him so much?”

“Come on, Jesus,” I say. “Isn’t it obvious? The man is a racist, he condones violence against woman, he’s sexist, he’s homophobic, the list goes on.”

“Wait,” says Jesus, “aren’t you a bit racist? After all, you are white.”

We’ve had this conversation before, me and Jesus, who is not white, by the way, in case you don’t know. Jesus says that all white folk are racist and that we can’t help it. He says that black folk and Asians are racist too, but they can’t do much about it because the shoe isn’t on their foot.

“Yeah, but—” I start to protest. Jesus just looks at me. That’s the thing with Jesus: you can’t kid him. He knows.

“I try not to be,” I say. “I try to love everyone.”

It’s not easy. I don’t ever want to admit that there is ever anything ugly inside me: racism, hate, envy. Jesus makes me look inside and see what’s there. If it’s bad, I have to pull it out.

“I try,” I say.

“How do you know he doesn’t?” asks Jesus.

“Oh come on, you’re kidding me.”

Jesus shakes his head. “A soft answer turneth away wrath.” Jesus is very good at quoting Scripture at me, and if there’s no suitable passage for the moment, then He can just make up new ones.

“It’s not the same.”

“And why beholdest thou the mote that is in thy brother’s eye, but considerest not the beam that is in thine own eye?”

“It’s a whole lot more than a mote in his eye,” I reply.

Jesus says I’m taking the metaphor too far and the point stands.

“Besides,” he says, “you should feel sorry for the guy.”

“Now who is taking things too far?”

“Seriously,” says Jesus, “I bet he was chubby as a kid. I bet no one liked him even as a child. I bet he was the kind of kid that you picked on at school and took their lunch money.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” I mutter.

“I bet he never had girls paying him attention when he was young. I mean, look at him. You’ve never had to mail order an Eastern European bride. You’ve never had to pay for it.”

Jesus is right. I’m not as cute as when I was younger, but girls like me, people like me, dogs like me. I don’t have to flash the cash to make friends. I don’t need to hide my ugliness behind orange face paint and a plaited wig. I don’t have to hang around with golfers, the least cool people on the planet, and drink gin and tonic with a lot of stuck-up rich jerks.

“You know his dad was a Nazi sympathiser,” says Jesus.

“My dad was an asshole, too.”

“So you should know what it’s like.” Jesus keeps at it. That’s another thing about Jesus: he never gives up.

“What about the Kennedys?” He says. “They were sexist.”

“They’re dead,” I counter.

“Bill Clinton.”

“He was impeached.”

It’s not often I win an argument with Jesus.

“What about Mick Jagger, what about—”

“Okay, I get your point. You win.”

Didn’t win this argument either.

I look hard at that card. I still have the felt pen. Jesus is waiting.


There: I’m ready to do something now. Jesus smiled and gave me some skin.