Tuesday, April 19, 2016


Rasmussen, I'd rather think ; that
great farmer on the hill. You know
how the prayerbooks slide down off
the backs of the pew, from those little
wooden shelf-holder things, and make
a racket when they hit the floor? Well,
the organist is trying to play and, really,
it should all be pretty quiet but it never
is. And then in walks that Mrs. Montesquieu
in all her fine frippery; busty and proud as
all get-out. No one ever wants to talk to her,
but she goes about blabbing everywhere; about
this or that or her husband's new car or the next
trip they take will be be Eskimo Cabin or maybe
another jaunt to see Paris and France, how lovely
all this is and, oh don't you just love those French
people! But, lady, your supposed to be quiet, so do.
And Father Quintec, that fat Canadian pervert, he
steps in from the side altar doorway and just rushes
to the marble font with all that kissing and bowing to
icons and gold saints and all the rest and then he waddles
his incredibly dumb ass up to the pulpit height to start
telling everyone about the symbolism of Jesus' final
words and how the Pharisees never understood a thing
but whereas they only thought we were,  we instead really 
are living in the end times and soon everything will be
converted to its essential grace and goodness but only  
the most fervent and saved among us  -  we who truly
believe  -  will be left behind, and what a rapture
that will be. But for him, my own God, I hope
the fat Padre eats well after that happens and
I'd hate to see him skinny in his Heaven alone.

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