To me, it’s no different than if I were to hang sharks teeth around my neck with prices printed on my t-shirt. Having been the victim of an oppressive — damn near inept — police department here, I wouldn’t dare do that. The Myrtle Beach cops would kick the crap out of me, douse my wounds with saltwater, pour tar on my burning skin and cover me with seagull feathers.
When I use the term beach preaching, I’m not talking about mentioning God or Jesus when chatting with someone in front of one of our many overpriced hotels. Heck, I invoke the Lord’s name every half hour or so when I step on a sharp shell. I’m referring to people whose sole purpose for living is to push non-stop nonsense about a magical playground of eternity in the sky.
Last summer, two fellas approached me in front of my favorite gift shop, The Gay Dolphin. I prepped to give them the normal speech: “Homey doesn’t play that game. Homey’s heterosexual.”
Then I got a better look at their faces. Their eyes were vacuous and they had slight grins — like the chicken-crap losers who walk into places and murder innocent people instead of just killing themselves.
“Oh no. No. Say it ain’t so,” I thought, before checking to see if they were carrying weapons. “Not BEACH PREACHERS.”
I did my best to avoid them, but they honed in on me as if I were blood and they were sharks.
“Are you looking for shells?”
“No, I’m finding sharks teeth.”
I showed them about twenty or so teeth that I had in my pocket. They feigned interest before getting down to business. One of them asked me if I had been saved.
“Saved? No, I’m a pretty good swimmer.”
“No, we mean, have you received salvation?”
I quoted my idol, Bob Dylan, to further confuse them. “I bargained for salvation and they gave me a lethal dose.”
By this point, they knew they had messed with the wrong Mexican. In fact, they probably thought they had encountered El Diablo himself. Nevertheless, they continued their spiel, telling me that they were in town for a convention, Two Thousand Years And Counting, or something like that.
I explained to them that, to me, nature is God and God is nature. They looked at me with disdain and walked away. “Have fun looking for shells,” one of them said.
Oh, sarcasm. Homey does play that game. “They’re sharks teeth, Jesus freak,” I shouted, “and your chartreuse Volkswagen Microbus is the other way.”