Wandering into the desert and coming back with a sunburn and some bullshit story about talking to God is the oldest sham in the book. It's been done time and again over the last couple dozen centuries, and every time the enlightened asshole's camera is conveniently absent. I say pics or it didn't happen.
That being said, I recently wandered into the desert and met God, but I got photos of the bastard. He looks like Mr. Clean with a handlebar mustache. He's had an exciting life. Once upon a time he boxed under the apt nickname, "The Holy Man," acted in a string of forgotten (but probably awesome) 80s movies, ran for mayor twice, and served in the army. Now he lives in a tiny room inside his bar, the Meet Rack, in Tucson, Arizona. He also runs a sex dungeon across the hall from his bedroom.
Jim Anderson, better known as God to the strange mix of piss bums, sorority sluts, and tourists who make up his clientele in this sunburned wasteland didn't need an entire book to spread his gospel. He sums it up like this: "You spend the first 10 years of your life drooling. You spend the last 10 years of your life drooling. In between you party."
The bar sits on a dying stretch of road near downtown Tucson where hobos hop the trains that pass behind shitty 1950s motels and their flickering neon signs. He serves well liquor and two types of beer. If you're feeling fancy he has a book stuffed with cocktails named after disgusting (hot?) sex acts.
To give you some sort of a mental introduction the Meet Rack, on a recent visit I saw a topless, middle-aged woman in nipple clamps sitting nonchalantly at the bar while another, better dressed middle-aged couple scanned the room with eyes wide-open as they made out. Twenty bucks says she was jacking him off under the bar. Then a bunch of clean cut college kids cruised in to play ping pong on the patio.
God has fire-branded his face on almost 2,000 customers who, in return, get a .50 cent discount on beers for life. "I branded a girl on her butthole the other day because she wanted to shit through my face," he told me, beaming.
Once, some drunken suburban mom let God stamp his face on her ass in a passionate moment of booze-infused reckless abandon. She woke up and saw God on her cheek and was fucking irate. She sued him and they ended up on People's Court. Of course, being God and all, he won. This, as well as many other equally impressive/hilarious stories are meticulously chronicled on the walls of the Meet Rack.
The only space not plastered with self-documentation is the sex room, which features a gynecological examination chair, sex swing, spinning wheel, and a plush anteater with a dildo for a nose.
This is the wheel. You get her in there upside down like that and eat her like a snow cone. - God
God was such a huge pain in the cops' asses for so many decades in Tucson that they've stopped fucking with him. A dusty letter still hangs on the wall, however, from when the city threatened to pull his liquor license if he kept walking through bars without any clothes on.
Day or night, God will give you a bar tour. He'll describe in detail some of the thousands of yellowing photos and newspaper clippings chronicling his exploits that cover the cavernous drinking hole. As he points around the bar, you will notice his ring: a giant, golden cock and balls.
God showed me a photo of himself standing behind Arnold Schwarzenegger as the Terminator buried his fingers into some permed 80s babe's snatch. He said, "You know who the governor of California is? Here he is taking my waitress's temperature."
We only have one rule back here. Never kiss anyone above the waist... unless she's standing on her head. - God
He also told me about hanging out with Elvis, Michael Gazzo, Jaws from James Bond, Joe Theismann, Telly Savalas, Sammy Davis Jr., Burt Reynolds, Jonathan Winters, Abe Vigoda, etc.
It's hard to tell when he's joking, "This girl came in the other day and I had to hold her tongue to see if it was real. She could suck a guy's dick and lick his asshole at the same time. Good girl," he said.
Depending on his mood and your point of view, the tour is either the funniest or the most tragic thing you've ever seen. It can be the story of a hilarious Renaissance asshole, or a melancholy-soaked trip through the fading memories of a dude sleeping in a tiny room filled with porno mags in the back of the bar, his yellow and magenta hatchback parked out front with a giant set of fleshy balls hanging from the bumper.
He told me that someone recently asked him if he thought he was God. He said, "In this building I am, but nowhere else. I'm my God, not yours." I wondered if he feels tied to his kingdom, if being God in a dive bar in a shithole town has worn him down. I asked him if he ever takes a vacation, "I just came back from Thailand a little while ago. Best vacation in the world. They have girls over there who are 15 to 20 and you can do anything to them that a squirrel can do to a tree."
So yeah, I found God in the desert and he is kind of a creep.