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Passion Fruit of the Christ

December 24, 2005

“Yes, I’d like to make an appointment,” I say into the phone. I’m calling my general practicioner, Doctor Fireman. A hour later I’m sitting in the examination room waiting for the good doctor with dishrags wrapped around my hands, which made driving to the doctor’s very challenging.

“So what seems to be the problem?” says Doctor Fireman, entering the examination room with his clipboard and toolbelt.

“I seem to be leaking orange juice from my palms,” I reply, unwrapping my hands to show the Vitamin C-rich juice dripping from the middle of my hands.

Doctor Fireman scribbles on his clipboard. “Okay…and how long has this been going on?”

“Since last night,” I say. “I thought a good night’s sleep would clear it up but it didn’t.”

Doctor Fireman furrows his brow and scratches his chin thoughtfully. “I see…and it’s just orange juice? Not tomato, or grapefruit, or mango-rooster?”

“No, just orange,” I say. Usually it’s not advisable to drink your own hand juice, but I did it in the interest of medicine and science…and breakfast. Doctor Fireman has a taste for himself to make a proper diagnosis.

“That’s orange juice all right,” Doctor Fireman says. He then goes back to scribbling on his clipboard. “Did you go to the mall yesterday?”

“Yeah, I did,” I say, puzzled.

“And did you have anything to drink there?” asks the good Doctor Fireman.

“I got one of those Orange Juliuses at Joppy’s Juice Kiosk,” I answer.

“A-ha!” exclaims Doctor Fireman triumphantly. “I believe I know your problem.”

“Oh good,” I say. “Because I can’t check my email while my hands are leaking orange juice. It screws up the keyboard.”

“You have Fruity Stigmata,” Doctor Fireman says. “We’ve been seeing a lot of this in the past couple weeks.”

“How did this happen?” I say, worried.

“You didn’t order an Orange Julius at Joppy’s Juice Kiosk,” Doctor Fireman says. “You ordered an Orange Jesus!”

“I did?” I say, confused. “But it said Orange Julius on that chalkboard by the cash register.”

“Joppy can’t spell,” Doctor Fireman says. “You drank an Orange Jesus and now you have a minor case of Fruity Stigmata. Joppy’s been selling promotional juices for that new DVD, ‘Christ Beatings.'”

I remember seeing “Christ Beatings” over at Bernie the Half-Cyborg Cat’s house a couple months ago. His wife Marlie got it for him for Guy Fawkes Day. Mainly it’s Jesus going around with a camera, picking fights, and then getting his ass kicked in various locations like at a Hell’s Angels Bar, and a beauty salon, and Camden (Bernie fell off the couch laughing when Jesus yelled the N-word at that dice game and got immediately throttled with a pipe). I didn’t think the DVD was that good (compared to Mohammed Goes To Dance Camp, which was awesome), but a lot of fans of his bought it anyway and made it a top-seller, which is good because Jesus really needs the money these days. That boy had a rough year. There was that divorce, and the sexual harassment settlement, and that failed run for leiutenant governor.

“Oh, I didn’t know that about Joppy,” I say, regarding his spelling problems. “That’s so sad. But it does explain that “PasshunFrooot of da Kite” drink on the blackboard. So what do I do about my hands?”

“That’ll clear up in a day or so with some rest and antibiotics,” Doctor Fireman said. “But if you can’t wait, we can go to my workbench for some grout and caulking.”

“As long as my insurance covers it, sure,” I say. And sure enough, it did. Happy day!

Later on I found out that if I had ordered a Sherbert on the Mount drink at Joppy’s I’d have been able to heal sick people. Like go clean out a cancer ward and such. But hospitals depress me.

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