Bill and Ted found themselves wandering through the middle east, somewhere. The time machine had finally shorted out when Ted connected it to his iPad, causing a brief detour through 1968 Christopher Street in New York and a Royal Navy frigate in 1780 at rum ration time before crashing somewhere into this Semitic wonderland.
They found themselves on a vast flat plain surrounded by low mountains, covered in scrub brush and constantly wafting dust into their eyes and nostrils.
“Ted,” said Bill.
“What is it, Bill?” said Ted.
“Our adventure has taken a most lugubrious turn,” said Bill.
“Bogus,” said Ted.
Instinctively they trudged toward an area where they saw a gap in the mountains. Ted noticed that the sand got lighter in color there, too, which he remembered from an orienteering class meant that there was either a riverbed there, or a road. A sudden noise made them crouch behind one of the scraggly bushes, watching as Roman chariots went past.
Ted looked over at Bill, who shook his head. Whatever these dudes were up to was not copacetic. The two ran in the cloud of dust behind the procession as it mounted a small hill. There, Romans hopped out of their chariots and off horses, and began putting together pieces of wood. Then they dragged three men dressed in rags from one of the chariots.
“This is not looking good for those dudes,” said Ted. “Should we save them?”
“With what?” asked Bill. The Romans, dressed in full armor and heavily armed, stood around the area where the carpentry was occurring. Bill nodded to Ted and they began sneaking between rocks on the fringe of the crown of the hill, getting slightly closer to the action. Finally, silence fell among the Romans; then, there was a hammering of rapid blows, and a groan. This repeated three times.
The Romans cheered and stood back as a horse pulled the wooden structure up off the dusty earth. Bill gasped as he saw that it was a cross, with an unfortunate in rags nailed to it. Then the hammering resumed, with cries of bloodcurling anguish rising into the desert air. “These dudes have most definitely lost their inner calm,” said Ted. “If we can distract them –”
At that point, a noise distracted them. On a nearby hill was a sight familiar to their own time more than this one. Three men with long hair were setting up microphones, drums and guitars. They fiddled a bit, then shrugged and launched into song. The dischordant melodies thundered across the valley, distortion sweeping the landscape like midnight darkness.
“Is that Van Halen?” said Ted.
“Ted, Van Halen does not perform naked,” said Bill. “And this is far from bodacious groovin’ tunes, it sounds like pure aural blasphemy!”
On the other hill, Profanatica finished their first song. Bandmaster Paul Ledney looked out at the valley with a cruel leer. When Rufus had come to them with a time machine made from a dumpster, his first thought had been to attend the crucifixion so that he could mock, scourge and sodomize the fake plastic savior.
The three crosses formed a triangle with one slightly behind the other two. From it came anguished groans as the heretical vitriol of the lyrics and music arrived at the nearby hill. The Romans were nodding their heads, a light like blackness in their eyes, as they continued whipping and tormenting the captives. Their cruelty was as delicious as it was perverse.
Bill and Ted withdrew to get better cover on the hillside facing away from the amplified aural blasphemy exploding from Profanatica and singer Paul Ledney, who was defecating the waste produced by eating 10,000 consecrated communion wafers onto the upturned pages of an opened Bible. The guitarist ritually sodomized a Koran lubricated with pig blood, while the drummer poured the ashes of Rudolf Hess onto an ancient Talmudic scroll.
Just as Bill and Ted thought they could take no more, lights ablaze exploded from a third hill on the other side of the mount of the crucifiers. On that, a man with glistening hair and teeth but dead eyes stepped forward holding a Bible. “I am Joel Osteen,” he said, “and today I am going to tell you that the Lord wants you to not just survive, but succeed and be wealthy! Praise Jesus!”
Osteen recalled a man named Rufus offering to take him to the crucifixion of Christ in a time machine made from a National Park Service public restroom. “Fuck that,” Osteen had said. “I have my paradise right here, and my savior too — my money market fund! Why the hell would I leave this?” But when Rufus said that the book market was a blank slate, Osteen knew he must attend.
As a musical number commenced on the Osteen hill about the Biblical necessity of low interest rates, the Romans cheered and Bill looked to where they were looking. A cloud of dust was coming, but moving more slowly than a chariot. As it drew closer, he saw that it was a crowd wearing motley. The Romans began lowering the third cross, the one containing the battered body of Jesus Christ.
The cloud of dust reached the foot of the hill. The first person up was a figure both Bill and Ted knew well. “Donald Trump?” they exclaimed in unison.
“One and the same, my lads. Now let me meet this Jesus fellow, because I have some deals to make.” Unfortunately for Trump, he had not paid the requisite bribes to the Cathedral-like structure of corruption in the Roman ranks, and he was detained and forced to wash dishes at a popular Roman hotel resort.
However, the next person to venture forth was also known to Bill and Ted. “Michael Jackson!” they exclaimed in unison.
“Back from the dead,” he said, and flung off his jacket while embarking on a dance number that involved synchronized motions by Jackson and thirty very buff Polynesian dancers. As the chorus kicked in, they formed a line behind Jesus and began sodomizing him. Jackson pumped his first in the air while thrusting as Jesus cried out in terror and pain.
Then the Polynesian dancers took their turn, lubricating themselves with whale and bear fat before tearing into the ravished anus and rectum of the incarnate savior. Ted dozed off, but woke up as the Oakland Raiders mounted the hill, each one bearing multiple STDs and a can of WD-40 for friction reduction.
“What a nightmare,” said Bill. “Is there anything we can do?”
His hopes were dashed when the next to mount the hill were seen. The entire executive board of Goldman Sachs, wearing sandals with socks, approached and whipped out their fat members. Christ shuddered and screamed at the expert violation, and then was presented with a bill.
Bill looked over to the adjoining hill. The blaspheming blasphemer of the blasphemous blasphemations, Paul Ledney, was receiving a handjob from Kim [[[ Kelly ]]], a half-Irish metal journalist who had forced her way into the scene through a combination of projecting guilt onto others and being flexible with her ethics and throat. Ledney spurted across her face, and she screamed, “Patriarchal oppression!” and fled down to the hill into the waiting hands of New Guinea cannibals, who quickly disemboweled her and feasted on her internal organs while she watched while twitching in pain.
Next up the hill were a group of Wikipedia editors. In shrill voices they fought for their places in line, then unleashed reed-thin members which they used to inexpertly but pompously defile Jesus, who at this point was covered in blood, feces, dust, semen and cologne from the bankers and may not even have been conscious.
Others surged onto the hill. First came the entire population of the NWN and FMP forums, carrying stacks of musically worthless but collectible records. They began arguing over who was most cult and eventually someone produced a bottle of oil made from the boiled fat of Dead and Euronymous, and soon they were busy wrestling naked on a heap of rare Conqueror LPs, with the winners raping the losers to delighted sighs and gasps.
Next came up a collection of record company execs, most of whom were former musicians or otherwise productive people who had gone bad like a capacitor in an aging Apple Macintosh Pro, and they began to do to Jesus what they had been doing to metal for decades. Intestines flew as the inept pummeling sodomy reached a crescendo.
Finally a bearded man of a ragged middle eastern appearance and a fat, jolly blue-eyed Indian fellow appeared. They danced a Russian harvest festival jig and then flung off their clothes. “That’s Mohammed and Buddha!” gasped Ted, who had awakened with a pounding headache due to the intensely repetitive rhythms of anal penetration. “Wish we could get them for our report.”
“Naw, Ted, we can’t use these guys,” said Bill. “Look!”
Ted looked, but quickly wished he could tear his gaze away. First Mohammed sodomized a goat, and then the goat sodomized Buddha, who was busy sodomizing a pig with a reacharound. As Mohammed reached for Aisha, his six-year-old bride with a rectum now as wide as Bin Laden’s cave, Buddha gently whipped the pig with a golden whip and it mounted Mohammed from behind, re-arranging his intestines with its corkscrew penis.
“You’re right, Bill,” said Ted. “This would be a totally non-triumphant final project.” As he said that, he observed that Buddha and Mohammed were now busily defiling the corpse of Madalyn Murray O’Hair, her corpulent body rippling like jellied calf brains at each thrust, while Jesus was getting railed by Joel Hodgson as Anne Frank watched, her lithe young brown hands stroking her sex through the striped prison shift that she wore.
In the meantime, Osteen had drawn a massive crowd. It turned out that he could speak ancient Aramaic, at least the words about money and God, and he was waxing rhapsodic with the idea that Jesus loved capitalism and universal acceptance, making him — just like the hippies — a man who sought wealth through pretending the opposite. Jerry Garcia clapped from a wheelchair.
When Thomas Jefferson and Robespierre skipped up the hill wearing matching tutus, Bill gestured for Ted to start sneaking down the hill. They were stopped by the arrival of the entire US Congress in Hawaiian-patterned muumuus. Jefferson whipped off his shirt, revealing a full pair of breasts, and Robespierre did the same. Then both joined the line of angry sodomizers behind Jesus.
Alexis de Tocqueville stepped from behind a rock. “Here we see democracy as it reverts to its native condition,” he said. “It is merely the rabble formed into a mob, conscious only of what they do not have and thus what they must destroy, which effectively weaponizes humanity through a mental virus of resentment and a desire to control.”
J.R.R. Tolkien nodded next to him. “Sauron was the embodiment of the empty place at the center of the human soul, outraged at being made to suffer second-class status to the gods, and incensed as its own mortality. Channeling all of that hatred and bile into his soul, he made himself into an eternal form of black evil that today lives on in YouTube comments.”
Martin Luther King, Jr., appeared at the top of the hill, flagellating himself while kissing a Communist flag. “I’m fucking for God! I’m not a Negro tonight,” he shrieked1 in his best Al Jolson imitation. Behind him, Che Guevara dropped his pants. “The black is indolent and a dreamer; spending his meager wage on frivolity or drink; the European has a tradition of work and saving, which has pursued him as far as this corner of America and drives him to advance himself, even independently of his own individual aspirations,” he said.2
Bill and Ted looked at each other. This was not the history they knew. As the carnival beat onward, they collapsed onto the sand, rendering themselves incomprehensible to avoid the spectacle.
Dear Readers, history is a fabrication. The human species has since its earliest days been dedicated to denying reality so that its members can pretend to be special important monkeys, and this leads to all of the evils we know, while the few who understand a broader picture are demonized, beaten and replaced with fake heroes. As Jesus fades from life, maybe he would do well to attend to this quotation:
Throughout history, poverty is the normal condition of man. Advances which permit this norm to be exceeded–here and there, now and then–are the work of an extremely small minority, frequently despised, often condemned, and almost always opposed by all right-thinking people. Whenever this tiny minority is kept from creating, or (as sometimes happens) is driven out of a society, the people then slip back into abject poverty. This is known as “bad luck.”3
You innocent herd, we-the-people, the voters and the common man. You are the fuckup at the center of the human fuckup. You insist on power but cannot wield it. And so, for all time, humanity fights itself, while ignoring the great gift that is life itself, akin to metaphorically sodomizing itself. And still, your pretense and self-pity prevent you from seeing this. “We have met the enemy, and he is us.”
The rectum of Jesus wept.
1 – J. Edgar Hoover tapes of Martin Luther King, Jr. in his Washington, D.C. hotel room, Jan. 6, 1964.
2 – The Motorcycle Diaries.
3 – The Notebooks of Lazarus Long, by Robert A. Heinlein