I've often joked with people about the possibility that Osiris a.k.a. Russell Jones a.k.a. Ol' Dirty Bastard was indeed Big Baby Jesus. What better way to upend the current state of Christianity than by forcing evangelists to embrace a black lunatic who likes it raw. Instead of scatting in John Norris's face for three minutes (a memory I'll always treasure), he could do it on The 700 Club while Pat Robertson debates suicide. Dubya would be forced to don multiple pairs of sunglasses and let his personal savior scream "Wu-Tang Is For The Children!" at his next press conference as a boombox blasts Lumidee at top volume. Jesus, what's your take on birth control? "I'm all for makin' babies. I love makin' babies. But ain't nobody gonna be burnt by gonorrhea again on MY watch. Wu-Tang!" Journalists would run out of questions rather than scurry after their elusive political prey.

If Tuesday was Mardi Gras, I'd have complete faith that the excess of jubilant titty would inspire him to rise again and instigate an unspeakably perverse yet golden age. Some would have to bloat rehab-style for their trespasses as he did, but he would forgive us our sins and teach us how to play and let play. The chances for his return are slim, but my fingers remain crossed.

I have N*gga Please, Enter The Wu-Tang and an a capella edit of "Shimmy Shimmy Ya" (courtesy of The Tofu Hut), but embarassingly I lack a copy of Return Of The 36 Chambers. I'll never mock those post-death sales booms again.