Posted in Almost Dorothy, Aunt Jill, Characters, Family, The Mother, Themes

Tranny Jesus Sings Happy Birthday


Warning: Utterly Offensive.

Mom pissed her pants, caused a stir. Spilled a glass of Chardonnay on her lap to cover it up, which was fine, but it cost her another 10 bucks. “I feel like I’m from outer space,” she said. And I left it at that.

The car in front of us read, “Lea, la biblia.” Mom said it refers to an ancient story about Queen Lea, who was the mother of Thor, not Darth Vader. She caused a biblical scene when she sexually exploited her neighbor’s husband without a plan to marry him. “She was a real badass mistress,” mom said. “Full of gusto.”

But I knew better, I’m not a dumb ass, or from Mars. Mom’s always full of shit and it’s not hard to tell when she’s lying, or making things up, foolish cow she is.

“I took first year Spanish, you know. Yo hablo espanol. Mom,” I said. “Read the bible.”

“Go to hell,” she shot back.

“That’s what it means,” I said back.

“I said what I mean,” she said back, rolled up the windows, and lit a fucking cigarette.

I’m the Siouxsie Sioux to mom’s Banshee. I’m lucky I still have breath. Last night was a blast, a wicked little birthday celebration for mom’s 37th or 8th. It was supposed to be a simple celebration but it turned into a bloody mess. I’m only a child and an only child however I’m looking for a way out of this, but I’m not legal yet.

Mom invited her best friend Sarah, not Palin, and the spirit of our former Aunt Shelly (or Jill, I forgot her name) who had plummeted to her death from the tower of the Alhambra in Spain simply because she was too afraid to fly.

“Look! It’s Tranny Jesus,” Sarah screamed, and it was HIM, all caps, full stop. I knew in my heart it stopped for a second. Heart beat. Tranny Jesus looked just like the real thing, at least the one I’ve seen hanging around people’s necks, but not as gold. In fact, he looked better than the real thing in the full glare of glitter and spotlights. S/he had a body and a dirty mouth beyond Leviticus.

I was offended, of course, but not in the least, I’m only a kid. I appreciate language and its power of excommunication. I didn’t grow up with fear of the dead or the imaginary consequences of the 10 commandments. I don’t believe in Armageddon.

Bread and water. A little white wine. I was surrounded by the only mother I knew who came from a galaxy very far far away. She has this unique inability to foresee disaster, stir tornados and tempests in teapots, Tempest Bledsoe. Mom, Sarah, and I were consumed by this tranny’s vision of peace. She was serene as Jesus Christ, gigantic in her white toga and foam core crucifix, more respectful and honest than any Limbaugh I’ve ever known. As the galaxy of drag queens swirled around us Tranny Jesus ordered the choir to sing mom’s favorite hymn.

“Happy Birthday to you,” Tranny Jesus began. She sang it wearing fierce Moulin Rouge cheeks and baboon lips. Then everyone else in the supper club chimed in: “Happy Birthday to you. Happy Birthday to you.”

It was a happy birthday nonetheless, spotlights galore, acid trip. We were the center of the universe for fifteen minutes, a little round table of horrors. I wore mom’s too thick Clark Kent glasses. No matter how close mom and I come to danger I never ever felt I could get close enough.

“Not even that motherfucking God above will stop us,” she said. “I’m gonna live for ever.”

Amen, I thought.

It was the last time I saw Sarah, not Palin, and mom together holding hands, vinegar holding oil, all smiles, a kiss when I supposedly fell asleep in the backseat. I don’t think they were lovers for a second but mom has a tendency to stray. That night it stormed. There was thunder and lightning, a big check, icing. Thor’s angerbolts reminded me of the day mom learned the news Aunt Shelly was brought down by disaster.

“Happy Birthday, Mom,” I said, cold feet, overtly sentimental and breathless, as she carried me to bed.

“You ruined my vagina,” she shouted back. “That, my friend. I’ll never forget.” Then tucked me in.

Author:

I'm not real, but I'm a writer.

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