While recently easing through the short-cycled yellow of the new traffic light in Portales, I heard surround-sound caterwauling. Anticipating bull-horned patrolmen, instead I was up-close-and-personaled by about 15 sign-waving teenagers and adults.
“Perhaps they are protesting the engineers who designed the signal,” I conjectured hopefully. Even though I shared their irritation, their “burn in hell” placards seemed a bit harsh.
Upon closer inspection, the signs revealed that — without repentance — it was actually the “Jews, Muslims, Catholics” on the highway to hell. With rapturous, subliminal silk-screening, their Saturday-best T-shirts suggested, “Love Jesus or Burn in Hell.”
(Knowing that most engineers are not rabidly anti-Jesus was comforting.)
Their signs made me think about a woman I’d recently been to happy hour with at the Dawg Houze. Although I’ve never considered myself the devil — maybe devil-may-care — I do apologize if my company has potentially exposed her to an eternally hot time.
While I appreciate the scriptural-inerrants trying to save their misguided brethren from the fire-and-brimstone factory, I am hurt at their disregard for me.
Had their signs included “Wendel” with the other miscreants — whom they obviously wanted to save from infernal regions — I can testify that it would have scared the devil out of me.