Wait, goggles don’t feel right.
And GO.
Wait, wait, wait. Didn’t set my stopwatch.
GO, DAMMIT!
Alright, just like Youtube taught me. Legs stiff, arms extended and forehead barely cresting the water.
One.
Cresting. Gross. It sounds like I’m being birthed. I could go for a good cry right now. Or maybe a spanking.
Two.
What jaghole decided to make open swim from five to eight in the morning? I bet they’re old, like everyone else in here besides me.
Three.
Including this bag of wrinkles in my lane. How are there THIS MANY PEOPLE here right now?
Four.
Alright, chill out. Focus on your breathing. Close your eyes. You’re the only one in the pool. You’re the only one in the pool.
Five.
Fuck! Ouch. Goddamn rope! Am I bleeding? I’m probably bleeding. I should probably stop and make sure I’m not bleeding.
Six.
NO! You will stay in this pool and continue racing this ancient merman! Even if he has no idea he’s in a race.
Seven.
Son of a Speedo! This guy is like the lovechild of Flipper the dolphin and one of the California Raisins! Is he propelling himself with farts or what!?
Eight.
I quit. Racing. Not swimming. Must keep swimming. Must stay fit. Must look good naked.
Nine.
According to Men’s Health, a summer of lap swimming leads to a six-pack. Men’s Health wouldn’t lie. Men’s Health is infallible.
Ten.
Speaking of bibles, I wonder if Jesus was a swimmer? He had GREAT abs.
Eleven.
Maybe he wasn’t walking on water at all?
Twelve.
Maybe his leg kicks were so fierce, he just appeared to be walking on water?
Thirteen.
I wonder if Jesus would’ve been so influential without those abs?
Fourteen.
Would people be so willing to wear him around their neck if he looked more like St. Nick?
Fifteen.
Who has the money for that much precious metal? Rappers. And Baptists.
Sixteen.
What if Jesus wasn’t Jesus at all? What if the Jesus we all know and mostly pretend to love is really just the FACE of Christianity?
Seventeen.
And the real Jesus was like Beyonce’s song writers.
Eighteen.
They create inspiring lyrics about inner-beauty and self-respect, while she performs them in designer outfits and gallons of makeup.
Nineteen.
Real Jesus was probably a hefty gent who ate one-too-many pieces of unleavened bread while rolling through his scrolls.
Twenty.
No matter how compelling his philosophies were, no one could look past the crumbs in his beard.
Twenty-one.
Then one day, while passing a construction site, he spotted a svelte young man telling a joke to a larger audience than Real Jesus could ever even pray for.
Twenty-two.
That’s when he decided to let this sexy carpenter do his preaching for him.
Twenty-three.
Real Jesus started by feeding him a few simple parables, but the underlying messages went right over the crowd’s heads.
Twenty-four.
So they started performing “miracles,” like the time Hot Christ distracted a wedding party with his abs while Real Jesus filled the water pitchers with wine.
Twenty-five.
Or that time when Hot Christ stood on a makeshift surfboard while Real Jesus discretely pushed it across a lake.
Twenty-six.
Or the time when Hot Christ climbed to the top of a mountain and started glowing because Real Jesus reflected the sun on his face with a shiny rock.
Twenty-seven.
That one probably wasn’t even intended to be a miracle. That was just Real Jesus playing a practical joke on his buddy while he was trying to take a leak.
Twenty-eight.
But then things turned sour once Hot Christ let all the hero worship get to his head.
Twenty-nine.
He started believing he truly was the son of God and started writing checks his abs couldn’t cash.
Thirty.
Hot Christ’s preachings went from Real Jesus’ parables to promising everyone eternal life and a blank slate if they committed their lives to him.
Thirty-one.
Real Jesus tried to warn him the authorities were getting a little weary of these radical thoughts, but Hot Christ was already gone.
Thirty-two.
Next thing you know, Hot Christ is getting nailed to a cross and Real Jesus is back to being ignored by everyone in Jerusalem. Especially the ladies.
Thirty-three.
Even Hot Christ’s most avid listeners started forgetting all of Real Jesus’ philosophies.
Thirty-four.
Real Jesus knew his life’s work was decaying like Hot Christ’s body in the cave, so he came up with one final miracle.
Thirty-five.
One morning while no one was watching, which didn’t take long because everyone was kind of over the whole crucifiction thing,
thirty-six,
real Jesus removed Hot Christ from the cave and carried his corpse around town, Weekend At Bernie’s style.
Thirty-seven.
The disciples bought it and quickly wrote down everything they could remember from their time with Hot Christ. And so began the New Testament.
Forty-seven.
Did I just come up with the plot for my first Dan Brown novel, or did I just guarantee myself a warm seat in hell right next to Satan?
Forty-eight.
BOTH! Wait, did I just lose count? Wasn’t I just in the thirties?
Forty-nine.
Son of a BITCH! There’s no way that’s right. I have to go back. Let’s say...
forty-five.
Forty-five sounds about right, right? Is this Karma?
Forty-six.
No, Karma is an Indian thing. What’s the Indian religion again?
Forty-seven.
I want to say it starts with an “H...”
Forty-eight.
HINDUISM! Oh man, talk about a religion you can have some fun with. They do it like gymnasts and all their gods look like Goro from Mortal Kombat.
Forty-nine.
But, that will have to wait till next time. One more big stroke and...
FIFTY!
Jesus, that sucked.
There I go taking the Lord’s name in vain again. Granny always told me I shouldn’t do that. You know who else’s name you shouldn’t say? LORD VOLDEMORT.
Jesus is Voldemort! Do I smell a sequel?
No, that’s just chlorine.
I’ve gotta stop thinking and swimming.
Written By: Mark Killian
Photo By: Christian Goy
