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The Last Supper If Jesus Christ Was An Instagram Influencer

Disciples, listen up! There are only two weeks left to get the ambiance for the last supper on point and worthy of the gram.


This is my final chance to gain more than 12 followers before I literally die, so this has to be the dinner party to end all dinner parties. I called this meeting to assign roles and make sure everyone understands attire and grooming standards. Yes, I’m looking at you, Bartholomew. It’s called a razor!


Peter, you’re on sponsored product placement duty. Barefoot Cellars wine and Genesis 1:29 bread have been kind enough to sponsor us, and it’s your job to make sure the products POP on the table. We want the people of Jerusalem frothing at the mouth to eat and drink these sponsored items.


Thaddeus, you’re in charge of the ring lights! Make sure the angels we requested are well rested so their haloes are bright and shiny for the big day. We can’t have any under-eye bags or dark shadows ruining the pic. Be sure to tell the angels the dinner is an hour earlier than it really is, since they’re commuting from heaven and notoriously late.


Philip, you’re in charge of staging all of us around the table. Please put a fair bit of thought into this. Last week, I was at a dinner party where everyone was seated on the SAME SIDE of this weird, long table. Can you imagine? So tacky.


Matthew, you’re on garnishing duty. It’s your job to keep the food looking absolutely fire the night of. I highly suggest you practice at home. If I see one lamb shank not properly coated with bitter herbs I’m going to absolutely lose my shit.


Judas, you’re in charge of pose ideas for the photo. Don’t be afraid to bring the drama! We want this picture to grab people’s attention for centuries. Please, NO fake candid laughter. I encourage you to try something avant-garde and unexpected. Do whatever it takes to elicit compelling and surprising facial expressions from your fellow disciples.


Now that we have duties assigned, let’s talk about your lewks. The attire is funeral-chic. Please come dressed like you’re sad that I’m dying, but also so trendy that no one doubts I have cool friends. Pedicured feet are a requirement, not a suggestion. Finally, please show up with facial hair that is well-trimmed, but also looks just slightly worse than mine.


Dinner will be held during golden hour at 7 p.m sharp. If you are late, you will not be in the photo. A stone will be rolled in front of the door as soon as I break the bread.


I know this seems like a lot of rules, but don’t worry. As long as we get this pic right, there’s no way you could betray me.