Spam

Jesus slowly devoured his bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich, licking
his fingers clean of mayonnaise and glistening pig grease. There was a
distant, crazed look in his eyes. He was seated on a toilet in a small
bathroom. The plastic plants in the corner added a merry, joyous feeling
to the room, like a slightly out-of-key Christmas carol played on a tin
flute.

Finishing the last bite of the sandwich, Jesus stood up and crammed
his fingers deep into his throat. A giant stream of vomit poured into the
toilet violently. It sounded like a waterfall. Little Niagara.
He staggered up to a mirror hanging over the sink, staring long and
hard into his own eyes, as he smeared bright red lipstick onto his lips and
chin, inspected his long arching eyebrows, and then chuckled, although it
seemed forced and nervous.

In a sudden explosion of anger, he slammed his fist into the mirror,
shattering it and splattering blood across the shards.
“Fat bitch!” he screamed, feeling much better.

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