The invisible Christian missionaries who sometimes leave evangelical comics at the supermarket where I work must have gotten a new shipment. I will be reviewing a number of JTC’s masterpieces. The funny thing about the anonymous leaving of the comics is that they’re left in certain isles which are worked by certain people, because the three recipients of these comics who bring them to me are: Mush-Mouth Mike, who looks like a roadie for ZZ Top, Steeve-o Bristol, of the copiously tattooed neck, and Trent Jackson, mohawked Indie Wrestler. We may adduce from this that these are older Caucasian missionaries.

Each comic is 22 pages minus the cover. The inside back cover, which is an ad for Christian literature, and the back cover, which is a blank ordering label. Each of the pages is 2.5 x 5” and has two panels. Guaranteed that page 22 will show a man in repentant prayer, committing his soul to Lord Jesus Christ, accompanied by a complex questionnaire for the reader. There are only two answers to the questionnaire: yes and no.

1) Do you believe Jesus died on the cross for you? Yes or no?

2) Did you ask him to come into your heart to save you? Yes or no?

If you did, sign this so you can remember when God saved your soul.

Date:

Your name:

As for the story of The Greatest Insult, 13 panels are devoted to the unjust treatment and ultimate execution of a good king by his toothless, grinning, vermin-infested subjects. After the parting of the king from his head, God is described as the real king, and the biblical stories of Adam and Eve and Noah are related with the credit for wiping out the world by flood, unfortunately going to Jesus rather than going to his patriarch, which is one of the few inaccuracies in JTC publications, usually being well-researched with citations. His picture of God shows a faceless, robed giant, sitting on a large, simply outlined chair, hands resting on the arms tranquilly. A burst of light is outlined around his seated figure, outside of which are gradations of cloud-shaped darkness. An insect-sized family approaches the stairs to his throne.

Partially, due to the hard work of JTC, I remain a contented Christian sympathizer. Sky gods have their appeal. On the other hand, my editor noticed a not too holy-looking sandaled angel, ejecting from his large hands, the naked body of what seemed to be no bigger than a toddler boy, down to the fires of hell which are shooting brimstone up past the head of the boy while he free falls into the flames, his arms flung open in the Moro reflex which results when a baby startles and opens his arms to grab ahold of his mother. My reply to this bit of nay-sayery is that the toddler was certainly Terrence, my son’s next-door neighbor.