This Easter, Jesus H. Christ has risen from the dead (again) — this time in Versace platform heels with tickets to the new “Barbie” movie.
He has risen rocking a metallic chainmail mini dress from Revolve.
He has risen with cute little gift bags for the Eleven Apostles (fuck you, Judas).
He has risen cuddling a Jellycat chocolate croissant plushie.
He has risen ripping a Malibu-flavored Elf Bar.
He has risen skrrting on Heelys to Wellesley College, in search of divine lesbianism.
He has risen, shocked to discover how woke the girly-poos have become.
He has risen, immediately canceled for the numerous religious wars his legacy has caused.
He has risen, depressed that people aren’t as hyped about his resurrection as they were the last time.
He has risen, swapping his “Barbie” tickets for “Lyle, Lyle, Crocodile,” in order to atone for the church’s sins.
He has risen, enacting self-punishment by listening to Shawn Mendes voicing a juvenile reptile one-and-a-half hours.
He has risen, finding much to be disappointed with in the modern world. And he didn’t even get to see “Barbie!”
He has reverse-risen and gone back to sleep.
Night-night, Jesus Christ.