Jesus is Stalking Me

Maryland is a strange place, Interwebz.

After our long, uke-filled car ride, we were eager to get settled into our room at the world famous Hampton Inn of Fruitland.  A ridiculously chipper blond manned the desk.  I plopped Herbert, sheathed in his powder blue bag, atop the counter and began rummaging through my bag.  “Checking in,” I mumbled, barely raising my eyes to meet hers.

They were the size of saucers and trained on poor Herbert.  “Is that an honest to God ukulele?” she squealed, clasping her hands to her mouth.

“Seriously?” I asked, dropping my wallet onto the faux marble tiles.

“I’ve never seen a ukulele in real life,” she panted.

“Ok.  Yes?  It’s a uke.  His name is Herbert.  Do you…um…want to touch him?”  It all felt incredibly dirty and weird.  So obviously the only way to make the situation better was to add my little brother into the mix.

“Say, you probably get this a lot, but did Hampton ever really stay here?” he quipped, rescuing Herbert and plucking away on his strings.  The blond girl’s gaze vacillated from confusion to delight as she followed him around the lobby.

“Is this hotel pager friendly?” Rocco contributed to the quickly unraveling situation.

“Lonon.  Last name is Lonon.  Is our room ready?” I interjected.  Be damned if I was going to spend another hour in a car with Thom if he didn’t get his much needed opportunity to crap.

Eventually we made it to our room (and Thom to his all-tile room) without further incident.  Though be advised, there’s nothing quite as disturbing as having your little brother emerge from fifteen minutes of shower-less bathroom time and announcing, “New product idea: soft serve carbonated ice cream!”  I don’t think I ate again until we made it to Ocean City four days later.

Lime is Sublime

Speaking of Ocean City, there were two boardwalk moments I need to share with you.  First, Rocco was faced with a tremendous fashion dilemma and I (due to that damn Fail Whale ruining my plans) was unable to ask the Interwebz for advice.  So now, far too late for your input to matter, I’ll share his original question – “Are these my color?”  In the end, we decided they’d be far too baggy and moved on.

Second, remember how I found Jesus in Ohio a while ago?  Then He was struck by lightening and burned to the ground?  Well hold on to your inappropriately tight, neon green ladies running shorts, people.  I found Him again – right alongside the boardwalk in Ocean City, MD.  I’m starting to think I need a restraining order.

Actually, I counted at least five Jesuses.  (Is it a sin to pluralize Jesus?  If so, it has to be a lesser sin than sticking a metal pole and floodlights in his forehead, right?)  Obviously someone fed him after midnight then got him wet.

Hallowed Be Thy Forehead

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  1. Or, dare I say it, “SKEWERED be thy forehead.” Poor Jesus. I’m guessing that’s where blasphemy came from. Well that and all the other places he was skewered really…

    I’m so happy your vacation/wedding fun included Herbert because really he is one of the family. You know, my dad’s name was Herbert. I wish I could tell you I was kidding but I’m not. He hated it with a passion and as he grew up being called “Bert” by everyone he’d tell new people it was short for “Robert”. I only knew him as Robert, but we’d get mail all the time for this mysterious “Herbert” person.

    I know, this is all so fascinating, right?

  2. If the Jesi (or Jesuses) start looking like Morgan Freeman I want in on the next road trip!

    And I think you’re right, we ARE related. I’m thrilled and frightened at the same time! I’ll leave you to break the news to Thom that we can’t get married, unless he doesn’t have a problem with producing flipper children.

  3. jesus loves me, this I know.
    ’cause he shows up where I go.
    his presence I can not escape
    despite how loudly I berate.

    yes, he’s a stalker.
    yes, he’s a stalker.
    yes, he’s a stalker.
    He needs to be restrained.

  4. Why do I still feel like I am going to burn in hell when I laughed out loud on your caption, hallowed be thy head. Fuck. I am a buddhist and proud of it. OMMMMMMMM.

  5. Because simply viewing such a sand sculpture would be enough to convert me. Sort of like seeing the virgin mary in my toast.

    And seriously, Elly. How do you manage to find so many hilarious things in a given week? Maybe I need to get out more.

  6. ‘hallowed be thy forehead’ Too funny! I don’t see Jesus anywhere, ever. Maybe you’re being stalked because God is trying to tell you something.

    Or in could be you just travel in more religious circles. Here in California, the “if it feels good, do it” state, we just run amok, without Jesus’ supervision.

  7. Dude now I have pictures of Jesus following you around in a trench coat with a bottomless pocket and sleeping on a pillow made of little bits of your hair. Okay it’s official I am now going straight to hell.

  8. Okay, everyone in this house now thinks I have lost my mind…..first I totally started laughing like a mad woman when I saw Sand Christ…….then I was actually humming the tune to Bob’s new age verson of Jesus is a Stalker, which Somebody has absolutely got to record and put on youTube, that shizz is too funny to go unrecorded! Just sayin. I’m all for some blasphemy, Labor Day isn’t a religious holiday anyway.

  9. I’d like to order a pair of those shorts in an extra-small. My husband would like to wear them to drop the kids off on the first day of school.

  10. That Jesus sand sculpture has been there for years. Rumor has it the same guy keeps it up.

    Marylanders are friendly, yo.

    But not as friendly as your mom. Hi-ohhhhhh! (That’s a little Jersey for you.)

  11. Why is Jesus stalking you?! You get all the good stalkers…*whine complete with pouty face and foot stomp*…I never get good stalkers! I’m just as sacreligious as the next girl!! I mean, I belt out ‘Craig Christ’ all. the. damn. time.

    I’m now adding ‘Jesus Stalks You’ to my repetoire.


    1. You start rocking those shorts in public and I guarantee you’ll come across some pretty bizarre things yourself. (I actually didn’t mean that as dirty as it sounded, but now I kinda like it.)

  12. Did Butter Touchdown Jesus teach you people nothing? Lightning bolts? Fireballs from the clouds? People speaking in tongues?
    Leave it to Ocean City to construct a Jesus head that seagulls can crap on and inebriated sunburned guys can bury their budweiser next to.
    And WHY is there not a photo of you giving him a kiss?

  13. I’m reading “Traveling Mercies” by Anne Lamott. At one point, she talks about feeling like Jesus is a little stray cat that followed her around and wouldn’t leave.

    1. Who are you? What have you done with Sarah? Please tell me you didn’t harm her perfect rack in any way. But if she is dead, can I have her flying vagina motorcycle?

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