Lazarus didn't die.

Hey, yall. What's up? I'm confused today because one of my nice commenters (Lelo in Nopo) asked me to do a "meme." I had no idea what she was talking about, and then when she told me what she was talking about, I wondered why they found it necessary to call it a "meme." It's just answering a question and posing it to five other people. Where I come from (Ethiopia) that's called a "chain letter." That's why I'm going to do it. Because everyone knows if you don't forward a chain letter, someone close to you dies in a very horrible manner. So… thanks, Lelo!
Okay. The question is "Why Do I Blog?" Hmmm… it's kind of a long story. Okay, so the bible, right? It tells this story about me in the book of John, about an old buddy of mine named Lazarus. As the story goes, he had two sisters named Mary and Martha, and they all lived in the town of Bethany, a two-day walk from where I was staying at the time. Allegedly, one day Mary comes running up and says Lazarus is deathly ill, and could I come heal him. I say yes, but for reasons only known to John (who wrote the story) I sit on my patoot (Pardon my French) for two days until I leave. By the time I get there, Lazarus is not only dead, he's been buried in his tomb for four days. Everybody freaks out, but I say, "I'll handle it." I get the locals to roll away the rock in front of the tomb, and tell Lazarus to come out. He does, everyone celebrates, and because I'm so awesome, I get two spikes hammered through my wrists. THE END.
I hate this story. It's stupid on a number of levels, but if you really care, here's what really happened. Lazarus was an old fishing buddy of mine, and what we call an "obliteration drunk." I mean, he could really get blotto. One day he had one snoot-full too many, and passes out in the middle of the marketplace (kind of like an old-timey 7-11). His sister Mary asks me to help her pick him up since I owned a donkey and cart at the time. Unfortunately, I was in the middle of getting my hair cut, and said I'd drop by in 20 minutes. By the time I got there, Pilate's soldiers had gotten there first and threw him in the drunk tank. It costs 30 pieces of silver to bail him out (which I was forced to borrow from my friend Judas), and when Lazarus stepped into the street, he's still completely stinko, and starts screaming, "Lishen, everbody! Jeshus here shaved me, I wash a dead man, shee? But Jeshus raished me from the dead!" Then he vomited on my sandals.
A few desperate people believed Lazarus, one thing led to another, and the next thing I know, I'm hanging from a cross with two spikes through my wrists. So… thanks, Lazarus. And thanks, John. THE END.
And that… is why I blog. Because that's the last time I let John write anything about me.
THE END.