who made who

He's sitting on the couch and I hear him muttering to himself and it's an unusual sort of muttering, not the cheerful kind but the monotone kind, and I look at him and his eyeballs have been replaced with one X and another X like this ( X X ) and he says, in this newly cultivated monotone, GOD LOVES US EVERYONE.

I lean through the door from the kitchen. "What did you say, Evan?"

"GOD LOVES US EVERYONE." ( X X )

I step tentatively toward the television and it's playing, a DVD loaned by one of his little friends. It's a talking cucumber. It's a talking cucumber who's talking about The Lord. I reach up and shut the TV off and Evan's eyeballs turn into eyeballs again and he returns to his lego and I feel super duper creeped out and I'm not sure why.

Why give the cucumber eyes and a mouth and a nose, but no hands and feet? Also: why is he called Larry when, clearly, he has no crotch, let alone a penis? Did Larry's cucumber parents conceal his true gender until he was old enough to choose it himself? Was he born with a sexless name? Oshyn? Did he disappoint his family when he settled on 'Larry'? Did his family then cast him out? Did he sing Lady Gaga back to them about how he'd been born this way, without realizing he was singing about The Gays? Was he then nudged by a carrot who said Dude, that's a song for sinners and we hate sinners, well, not really, we love sinners but hate everything they do and stand for and besides, they're just Not Like Us and then did Larry the Cucumber spit on the ground and cross himself or do cucumbers only do that in Rome?

I walked back into the kitchen knitting my brows.

NO MORE VEGGIE TALES FOR YOU, KIDDO.

Why? What's the problem with God infiltrating my family in the form of a celery stick? knit-knit-knit.

If Christian propaganda is propaganda that includes a skateboarding tomato, is it really propaganda? knit-knit-knit.

How can Junior Asparagus's mother pass him his teddy bear when neither of them have arms? How can Junior Asparagus quote Proverbs 17:17 back to her when he's never had hands with which to turn the pages of the bible? knit-knit-knit.

The next night, Evan and I lie on the top bunk giggling because I've just made up a song about farts. Then he goes quiet.

"Who came first, mommy? God or Mother Nature?"

I imagine God and Mother Nature in a variety of ass-kicking Shark vs. Train contests.

"What do you think, Evan?"

He thinks. "Mother Nature."

We slap-five.