We Were All Someone Else Yesterday by Omar Holmon

Author:Omar Holmon [Holmon, Omar]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-943735-83-9
Publisher: Button Poetry
Published: 2020-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Jesus Christ Super Toaster

During a phone conversation over religion,

I told my ex that I didn’t pray.

I believe in God, but it’s just something I don’t do.

After this discovery, she said she didn’t know if she

could date me anymore,

said I wasn’t devout in my faith.

I said, hold on.

How you goin’ judge me?

Sayin’, “I’m lost?”

Sayin’, “I’m not devout in my faith?”

Sayin’, “I’m not a man cause I like to sleep with a

sunflower night-light on?”

“I didn’t say … you told me that was a Glade Plug-in”

“Whatever yo … Listen!”

I then proceeded to inform her … I’m sorry,

school her, on a small company in Vermont

that produced a toaster that burns the image of Jesus

Christ onto slices of bread.

I don’t know what the name of the company is,

so let’s just call it freaking awesome,

because 40 dollars later plus shipping and handling …

guess who’s got a freaking awesome toaster?

That’s right, me, and it doesn’t even stop there!

This toaster knows no race, gender, or creed,

it accepts all types of bread equally.

I’m talking White bread, Rye Bread,

Pompernickeeeeeel (ha), Raisin bread (ha),

Sour dough (ha).

I even customized it so that when the toast pops up,

the toaster goes,

“Ahwwwwwwwwww”

and doves fly out.

If that isn’t devotion (huh), I don’t know what is.

Then I told her, how you goin’ judge me

when I seen Devil ham in your pantry?

What? Blasphemous!

Devil Dogs all in your delicatessen!

What? That’s straight blasphemous!

Me? I have breakfast with Jesus every day.

Can I get some sour cream?

Now who said they can’t believe it’s not butter,

(what?!)? You can’t believe?

Let the breakfast club say amen!

Now pass the jam!

Said I love me some Jesus.

My Jesus is great (well).

My Jesus is strawberry preserves on whole wheat.

My Jesus is delicious as a mutha fucka

with some cream cheese.

When I die,

my will shall dictate that I be buried with my

Jesus Christ Super Toaster (I don’t know what the actual

name of the toaster is, so I call it that),

and when I roll into heaven on a fire-breathing yellow

hippopotamus, iPod in one hand and Jesus Christ Super

Toaster in the other,

Jesus is going be all, “What up Omar?”

I’ll be like “Nothing.”

He’ll say, “That’s cool.”

Then I’ll say, “Here, this is for you, Jesús,”

and he’ll be like, “whaaaaaaaaaaaat!!?”

And when that first piece of toasty delicious pops up in

front of him, making him think

he’s looking in a stained glass breaded mirror,

Jesus’ll be like, “Oh my Gawd this shit is hot son.”

Now I know what you’re thinking, and yes,

this is what Jesus sounds like in my head

and on Facetime.

He’ll be all happy, saying,

“That’s me yo! Yo, Dad check this out.

Where Lucifer at? I’ma rub it in his face

like ahhhhh stings don’t it. Take that. Take that.”

Now mind you

she actually hung up somewhere around

Jesus being delicious with some cream cheese,

but I kept going on anyhow cause, the way I see it,

if heaven has a sense of humor,

I’m so in there,

and if it doesn’t, well,

I had a good run.

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