The Parable of the Eucharist

Although people might find it hard to comprehend I am about to retell a true story that is about fifty years old, I will do so here for your edification. 

I want to remind anyone and everyone that I came back for the believing flock and not the Synagogue of Satan.


One day, when I was about five years old, my parents went out of town for the weekend.  For the first time, I learned that they were going to leave my sister and me behind with a family I had never met before.  Normally, they left the two of us with my grandmother on Arnaz just south of Wilshire.

As I remember it, this family lived near where we had lived before in Baldwin Hills on Nicollette Avenue near the intersection of La Brea and Rodeo Blvd.  I believe this family’s home was somewhere in the Crenshaw District.  It might have been closer to Leimert Park.  

Anyway, we stayed the weekend with this couple and four of their five children.  The eldest daughter showed up on Sunday.  On that day, we got bathed and went to a Catholic Church with them which was the first time I went to any church and sat through a Catholic Mass in my life.  I asked the family’s father a few questions during the service and was actually astonished that my sister went forward to be a part of the Sacrament.  I was sure that my Mother and Father, both Jewish of course, would object.  However, please keep in mind I was at such a young age that I was very reluctant to reveal what my older sister had done at the church to my parents.  She also told the father of the family she knew he would not participate in the Sacrament because he had already consumed beer that morning.  After the service, we went right back to their home.

My parents picked us up in the early evening and asked us what we thought about this weekend’s sleepover stay.  I remember telling them I thought it was okay but I preferred to stay with my grandmother.  I really thought that was the end of this story at that time.

However, this was not the case.  I learned that the priest somehow got our home phone number and began calling my mother and telling her that he wanted to speak with me.  I was suspicious about all of that.  I remember asking my mother “What does he want to talk to me about?” because I could not understand why a priest wanted to talk to me.  The only thing I could think of is maybe someone thought I had touched the Holy Water in the large metal basin, which I had not because I was told I was not supposed to before I did.  She told me that he would not explain his reason and that he only would say that he wanted to talk to me.  I said “No” because I wanted this man to explain what he wanted to talk to me about first before I was going to be taken there.  But this priest was persistent and continued to call our home phone number, insisting to my Mom that he talk to me, without explaining why.  Over my objections, my mother told me I should go there and find out what the priest wanted.  I felt a lot of frustration about going on this trip, but being a little boy I didn’t really have much say in what my Mom wanted me to do.  I distinctly remember her telling me how I should be dressed before we went there.

On the way there, we picked up the woman my sister and I had stayed with that weekend I attended my first Mass before we went back to the church.  My sister was not with us.  Without going into extreme fine details at this point, I remember how everyone present was dressed.  

The three of us waited in the foyer of the church’s offices for awhile as this priest and the only nun I saw around complete tasks and discussions they were occupied with at the time.  I could not clearly hear what they spoke about only a few feet in front of me.  I remember the priest pointing at me as he spoke to the nun, and the nun giving me a quizzical look, as he evidently explained what I was doing there.  He went back toward the left, out of view, while the nun then went over to the kitchen doors to the right and then back through the doors toward the left.  When she returned to the foyer she told me that the priest was ready to see me.  I asked her where his office was and I was pointed toward a door down a short hallway.

I remember this from my little boy’s perspective.  It seemed like a very far distance because I felt very unsure about what was about to happen as I was walking into a very unusual and unknown situation, unlike anything I had experienced in my little life.  The walk seemed to take a long time for me.  I found the front door of the priest’s office, saw him sitting inside, and he directed me to a small child’s chair across from his desk.  I could go into great detail about how his office was decorated but suffice it to say I would now call it “Catholic, but sparse.”

The priest seemed a bit uneasy as he attempted to begin this conversation.  I have jokingly referred to it in more recent times as a bit of the “break the ice chit-chat.”  I remember him saying that it must seem unusual for me to be speaking to him, a priest since I was not a part of his congregation.  I was actually nonpulsed on the outside as I told him, “It’s okay.”  He then seemed to fumble for words as he asked me if I knew why I was there.  I told him “My Mom said you wanted to see me.”

At that, he nodded and really seemed to struggle for the right way to express what he wanted to say to me. . .

He slowly said, “I think you’re Jesus and I wanted to know if you think you’re Jesus?”

I replied, “My name is Ben, not Jesus.”

He nodded again and continued, “If you were Jesus,” and correcting himself, “If you are Jesus, would you consider joining the Church?”

I was a bit surprised by this question and I replied, “If I am who you think I am then I would be in charge of your church.”

I distinctly remember his bug-eyed reaction to my reply, but I continued to explain, “If I was Jesus, why would I bow down before a statue of Jesus because I would be bowing before a statue of myself and that doesn’t make sense.  And why would I drink the wine because I would be drinking my own blood and that would be weird?  And why would I eat the crackers,” (Please note I had it explained to me that the wafers were like crackers) “because I would be eating my own flesh and that would be really weird.”

Only later, as an adult, could I begin to understand the very unusual reaction this man had to my explanation.  The only thing I could comprehend at that time was that my response was making him feel bad.  I tried to wrap up my lengthy explanation as this man went from sitting upright in front of me to a turned position ninety degrees to his right, was completely bent over, and he was holding himself up with his left arm on the desk.  I remember concluding my response with the words, “when I get older and I understand things better.”  I was trying to make myself clear that I did not expect that church to be turned over to me immediately, as I was not completely sure that what the priest was thinking was right and I wanted both of us, if not more people, to be sure about all of this first.  I was aware I was just a kid.

I waited.  The priest was looking about strangely and seemed to have trouble keeping himself in place.  After a few moments, I asked him “Is there anything else you wanted to ask me?”  He could only shake his head in a negative response as his condition seemed to be getting worse.  After a few more moments I asked, “Can I go now?” He gestured with his left arm upward in a motion I understood to mean I could leave, and I remember that he looked back at his left backward facing palm as if he was unsure if he was doing something wrong.  I waited a moment to be sure that this man was going to be okay if I left the room at that point.  It seemed to me he wanted me to leave and so I decided it was the right time to leave his room.

I got up from the little chair and walked back more confidently at this point because I was happy this little meeting was over, I was glad to be leaving, and I knew my way back to the foyer.  My mother and the other woman were not exactly as I left them before and I remember looking both ways for them.  I found them a bit closer to the glass-enclosed front wall as I walked closer.

I gestured with my head toward the front door and told them “We can go.”

I remember my mother, much larger than I was at the time, bending over to me and asking, “So, how did it go?”

I said, “It was okay.” I looked again toward the glass doors.

She pressed me further, “So, nu?  What did he say?”

I looked up at her and said with a smile on my face, “He thinks I’m Jesus.”

My Mom’s face looked concerned as she asked me, “Are you going to convert?”

I replied with a smile, “No, I told him I didn’t have to.”

To which she quickly responded, “Good, because I don’t want you to convert.”

I remember the other woman’s face had a strange smile on it as she looked at me before we left.  We went through the doors and got in our car and drove away.  I remember thinking about what had happened.  I went over the whole thing in my mind.  For the first time, I was confronted with a very bizarre issue I had trouble attempting to understand.  I didn’t know if I was Jesus.  I thought maybe it was possible I was Jesus but didn’t know it: that the priest was right but I might not be old enough to understand what being Jesus meant.

My mind was full of thought as I took the woman’s spot in the car’s front passenger seat after she went to her home.  My mind was filled with new and unusual questions as I was attempting to understand what being Jesus means and how I could learn the truth.  I remember my mother telling me, “Don’t worry about it, Benji.” and telling me that everything would be okay.

By the time I got home, I understood I would have to read a lot of books that I was not old enough to read yet.  I also knew that my Jewish school friends would not like it if they found out what I would be doing if I did and I would have to do so without letting them know.  

I remember feeling overwhelmed that I had a very large amount of work to do that I was not ready for yet.  I think I was more confused than I had ever been as I walked to our front door.

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A screen grab from yesterday’s video

From Krakatau

Screenshot from 2018-11-18 10-37-49

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Because of Girls

I recently bulls-eyed another little flirty ass amateur and now I have been complained about as the harasser. I rebuffed her and her friends, and their many attempts to cross the line, and within a few weeks a computer screen says I am the problem so I have to lose a bit of dinero as the price for being right.  Like I didn’t help the vice squads bust a high priced call girl ring while living out of the backseat of my car in LA.  Like I didn’t know what one of Steve Fossett’s sugar babies (AKA the Kiss of Death) was up to.  Is it any wonder why I have chosen to be chaste and sober for so many years?

Little girl conspiracies are what I can take down in my sleep, or awake, or even with lack of sleep, especially the strangely empowered ones. You should realize by now that little girl’s inexperienced improvisations have ruined my life over and over, and they haven’t been very kind to any of you either. They also have terrible timing. Of course, I have no real use for them.  Maybe the little girls in the RCC need to move out pronto before I send all of them to Hell. 

I have been just fine without them.

Aw fuck it; if you want the RCC to get it’s shit together stop going to Mass and stop donating money to it because just like little girls they only understand shit when it hits them in the pocketbook.  Even then, they are slower than a large house. 

Help me to shutter all RCC locations, except for food and clothing donation facilities!

Yes, the Matrix WAS my idea back in 1996. 

Remember I posed for the statues that were installed at Crystal Cathedral. 

Don’t forget Crocs or Under Armor.

No, you need to stop killing me off in the movies.

Sensible older ladies understand me when I talk. 

Little girls do not.

I must have made a mistake 2,000 years ago when I stood up for one ho.  Now, look what this world has turned into.  Please don’t play stupid with me.  My problem is I see things too well.  Girls are hard-wired for drama and often get a charge out of taking down other girls and they love to use me to make other guys jealous.  I won’t even begin to describe how my mother’s and sister’s separate attempts to fix me up with different girls have all backfired. 

Or maybe it is my fault because you little girls believe I am supposed to chase you.  Even worse; you think you will be mine if I slay the brute you have been sleeping with.  Then change your mind after that.


Image result for V for Vendetta

Women have the upper hand on men because they know men are stupid especially when they think with their dickheads.  Ok, all the time.


(i.e. A woman will make someone suffer if they reject her)

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Driving a Hard Bargain

It would have been nice if Wells Fargo had helped me out.  I am pulling my money out of this institution as soon as I can.  The first step, which I just completed, is purchasing a good vehicle to help me.  Here it is:


It felt good on the drive back from the seller’s office.  The next episode is about to begin.

I will keep you posted.


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If I was Shamai

I don’t believe in you and I don’t believe in you.

And you and you and you and you and you I don’t believe.

And all of those people over there I don’t believe in any of them.

I only believe in Hashem, the Torah and the Prophets and Writings that HE AND I MADE TO CHANGE.  I don’t believe in your house or your rules or your traditions.  All of that is bullshit.  I don’t need to see your ass when you might have tried to console me or help me.

Flirty girls never did a damn thing for me.

You only believe in money and you do not even understand money.

I believe in my dead friends more than I believe in anyone who is alive.  I believe in animals more than I believe in people.

You are only dust to us and dust you will become again.


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Forget the past and be condemned to repeat it. Thanks to you, freaks!

All I can say is that this is one of the most pathetic things I have read on any Veteran’s Day.  I thought Heavy Metal’s Summer of 2006 issue was dark.


Maybe the SDF-1 Macross will fall out of the sky.

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Honestly ask yourself

Which do you prefer?

Ugly on the outside but pure on the inside.

Pretty on the outside but ugly on the inside.

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I said it before

Since this story could be considered to have started in 1996, let me remind you of the following important players.

Two Biggest Bitches Are: Calvin and Todd

The Biggest Weasel Is: Sean

Now you know!

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Weather Report

Clear with a chance of three asteroids.

Jesus might help you if I feel like it.

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Open letter to you

I want to let the authorities in Southern California, the USA, and the rest of the world know how grave your future is going to be.  People have known for over twenty-two years how bad my situation has been and what needed to be done.  Your inability and unwillingness to solve it for me is not going to be forgotten.

For over nine years, I have done everything I can to avoid Leora Rochelle Tobias (the female version of Ruhollah Khomeini I had to deal with my entire life) and I have had to resolve yet another raging scenario.  I want to remind you she has done nothing but repel people and cause destruction like a parasite, an out of control buzzsaw, and an imbecilic lunatic.  Remember the fire she started in West Hollywood when she forgot to watch an open skillet of paraffin.  Let me be clear: Haman can be a woman.  Recently, my cousin made the mistake of contacting her.  I had to travel at some considerable expense, for me that is, to explain the danger my sister poses to anyone who might provide her some energy to feed off of.  Her hysteria cannot be fixed, only obliterated.

Leora sucked the life out of my Mom, Uncle, Dad, and Aunt.  She has been a terror in my family since she was able to speak.  For many years, since I was revealed as the Messiah, I had to put up with her attacks and her attempts to get flaky boyfriends to take me out.  Why you are so adept at treating minor threats with alacrity and her uniquely persistent form of terror with apathy is really what people will long remember, for an extremely long time, along with the other examples of the pig-headed stupidity of the people on Earth.

The only thing I can remember from the recent past about her that was funny was when the white herons in the parking area at Marina Harbor squawked at her to “Shut up! We’re trying to sleep” in 2006.  The birds wanted her silenced all this time, even the pigeons in Beverly Hills felt that way.

All the others who have suffered and died due to a Khomeini (this uniquely bad tick of Taurus and Metal Rat) should have been a testament as to what you could have and should have done years ago.  Tupak Shakur and Chris Wallace should have been spared and the real threat up the street on Fairfax should have been eliminated in 1996 or 1997.  I would even go so far as to say I could have resolved my misunderstanding with Peter Tosh many years before if not for her terrible interference.

Remember this letter when you see all of the dead and crying babies in the near future.  You will all face a very harsh sentence on the great and terrible day of the Lord.

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