The following column was published on April Fools day. In other words, it is a farce.
Starting in two weeks, this column will have a new name and identity.
Allow me to explain.
Some of you may have noticed that “Sordid Tales” was missing from the March 18 issue of CityBeat. That was because I had a bit of an accident. Well, maybe it wasn’t an accident. Maybe it was an on-purpose, which is to say, I freaking overdosed! On what, I don’t know, since I had ingested so many liquids, powders and pills that night, there’s no way of telling what it was that stopped my heart in the same manner that a brick wall stops a speeding egg.
One minute I was recoiling from having unintentionally observed the top of Dan Frost’s inflamed ass crack as he lined up a pool shot, and the next I awoke with a rubber tube down my throat and a small gathering of whitecoats flailing above me trying to save my life.
The procedure is called a gastric lavage (commonly known as the stomach pump), and it feels as though your gullet is being gang-raped by horde of carnivorous alien zombies.
It was there, in the hospital, a few hours after that violent intubation–lying broken and twisted among the rocks and glass at the bottom of my bottomed-out existence–where I encountered Jesus Christ.
Imagine my surprise. All my life I had dismissed religion. All my life I pooh-poohed anyone’s attempt to show me The Light and The Way. All my life I’ve been told by the deeply spiritual that one day Jesus would appear to me, and all my life I snickered at them.
Not snickering anymore.
