In the Sunday Obits

In the obituaries, everybody went home to be with the Lord. It doesn't matter if he was the meanest sonofabitch alive or if she was the biggest whore on the block. They are all angels in the Sunday paper... gone home to be with the Lord. It takes the glory away from those who actually lived like saints. There they are, side-by-side, with the local drug dealer. They are ALL knockin on heaven's door, wakin in the arms of Jesus, walkin the streets of gold. (No matter, as mortals, how many drugs they sold.) It's like kids' sports teams everybody gets a trophy... doesn't matter if you're MVP or the waterboy. All trophies look the same. All rewards are the same. The church lady (who sat home with her impotent husband every night for 50 years, who never smoked, never drank, never cussed, never let her hair down,) is probably mightly pissed that Buffy, the local hooker from down the street, is right there beside her in the (SUNDAY!) obits getting the same accolades. Jesus, who made extra alcohol at parties, who hung out with prositutes at the watering hole, walks through the obits with the might-as-well-have-been-a-nun 70-year-old housewife just as frequently as he walks with Bambi, the party girl who had six husbands of her own and a few of y'alls too, just as frequently as he walks with Junior, who got himself fried stealing copper, or Jimmy who died in a meth lab explosion that he caused. They're all: red and yellow, black and white precious in his sight. Black and white and read all over and read over and over every Sunday in the obits.