From Diary of a Fat Slob:
…In the late afternoon, there was BS from a different direction. Four Jesus freaks started working the pedestrians at my corner, sharing their tall tales of what wretched sinners they’d been before Jesus H Christ made them such swell people. They didn’t just stand at the corner, they wandered around, preaching at people near the corner, which included me. One of them leaned over my table to complain about the sacrilegious fish, and added that Jesus loves me anyway.
“I love Him too,” I said. “Why, I’ve been a Christian for twenty years, and I teach Sunday School at the Nazarene Church two blocks thataway.” A 24-carat lie, of course, but it was the best line I could think of to bluff his bluster, and it seemed to work. He looked at the JR ‘Bob’ Dobbs fish I was wearing on my hat, couldn’t reconcile it with what I’d just told him, and walked away confused, to bother other people instead.
The four of them took turns standing on a milk crate, preaching to the heathens of downtown Berkeley, but we heathens weren’t very interested, and I don’t think they made any sales or conversions.
There was a great moment that started when a panhandler in rags flashed them the Satan sign (index and pinky fingers up, which I wouldn’t have known if Sarah-Katherine hadn’t shown me (and thank you, dear)). The Christians saw the sign of Satan, were greatly offended, and one of them started screaming at the panhandler, so he stood on a very sturdy trash can and started counter-preaching their preaching.
“The Bible is full of lies,” he hollered, “and Christians have killed more people than Hitler.” Probably true, though I haven’t seen the stats.
One of the Christians started screaming at the homeless guy, “You don’t deserve His love, but God loves you!”
And this shaggy, skinny, bearded man — in sandals, yet — screamed right back, “Don’t listen to them! They’re Christians, and Christians are fools!”
“Oh yeah, listen to a homeless wino instead,” one of the Christians screamed back.
The wino hoisted his paper-bag-wrapped bottle above his head and whooped, “At least this is something real! Maybe I worship a bottle but you fuckers worship thin air!”
“We worship the one true God!” one or two of them shouted back.
“I’ll drink to that,” said the bum, and he did.
“He’ll drink to that,” said one of the Jesus Freaks derisively, and another said, “The only thing you believe in is that bottle!”
The bum lowered the bottle, looked at it lovingly, shook his head and said, “Praise the Lord.”
All this quickly devolved into so many shouts — “Worship the whiskey” and “May God forgive you” and “He’ll forgive me as he’s licking my ass” — I couldn’t take notes quickly enough. Four street preachers against one unbelieving bum, and after a few minutes the bum mellowed and went back to panhandling. Gotta make a living.
“I’m going to Hell,” he said, “so I’m gonna be thirsty. Spare change for a beer?”
The witch vendor next to me said something disparaging about the guy, so I gave him five bucks, a cookie from my lunch bag, and a pat on the back. He said thanks and vanished.
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