Jesus Morning Star

 

(The world is filled with devilish cults.)

Yesterday, I woke up at 5 a.m. and drank a cup of instant coffee. Then I read the headlines on my smartphone while taking a nasty shit. Jeong Myeong-seok is a Korean cult leader who runs a group called Jesus Morning Star. Back in 2018, he molested a couple of white ladies who were his devoted followers at the time. They pressed charges, and now he’s facing thirty years in prison for his crimes. Netflix actually did a documentary about the guy. This dirty old bastard got an amazing amount of fresh young pussy by claiming to be the messiah. His antics continue to blow my mind.

I caught the bus just in the nick of time and got to my office at 7:30 a.m. My colleague Richard Hurtz stopped by for a chat. He’s a gym teacher who stands nearly seven feet tall.

He said, “I’m getting really tired of this gig.”

“Why?”

“All of my students are a bunch of sissies.”

“The males or the females?”

“Both.” He took a sip of water from his mug. “I have this one clown who claims that he’s suffering from depression. I asked him to run a campus lap, but he said that he was too sad.”

“What did you do?”

He shrugged his giant shoulders. “What the fuck could I do? I let him sit on one of the benches while his classmates exercised.”

“Maybe the kid is actually depressed. Have you ever thought of that? Is he getting the help he needs?”

Richard smirked at me. “Don’t worry. Junior has both a psychiatrist and a social worker at his beck and call.” He paused for dramatic effect. “I liked the old days better. Mental midgets and the physically infirm simply withered away and died. It was natural selection at its finest.”

“Be careful. You’re talking about eugenics.”

He shrugged his giant shoulders again. “It is what it is. Nature takes care of itself. I don’t make the rules. I just hope that this loser never has children. The last thing the world needs is another pathetic fat ass who can’t run a single campus lap. Present company excluded, of course.”

After getting that off his chest, he left the room silently and closed the door behind him.

I’m a huge fan of Mr. Hurtz. He might be a Nazi devoid of human empathy, but he’s one of the few guys at the school who actually speaks to me. I’m becoming a geezer, and nobody likes to hang out with old people. And who can blame them? I’m a lonely fat dude with bad posture and rotting teeth. I wouldn’t want to hang out with me, either.

I called my mother using Facebook Messenger.

I said, “It’s almost Thanksgiving, huh?”

She smiled at me. “Only a few days to go. Your niece is here with her boyfriend, and your sister is driving in tomorrow.”

“Sounds great.”

Mom sighed heavily. “I wish you could celebrate the holiday with us. Chicken Ken is even making ice cream for everybody.”

“I just read a poem with my high schoolers called The Emperor of Ice Cream. The writer is Wallace Stevens. He once visited Key West and badmouthed Ernest Hemingway’s sister. Hemingway beat the shit out of him, and poor Wallace spent a week in the hospital.”

“What does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”

“Not a thing.”

I eventually returned home at 6 p.m. and ordered groceries off Coupang with Rice-Boy Larry. We bought bacon, hash browns, Chinese dumplings, and four cases of bottled water. The price tag came to eighty bucks.

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