8676. THINGS ARE DIFFERENT NOW, #187

187. THE BLOOD 

ROOT TREE

One time in the seminary,

we had this guy, Bishop

Euphorious or something,

traveling in from Washington

D.C. and for some and

whatever reason, taking

a stop at our simple

seminary  -  kind of to see

what the regionals were up

to or whatever. It was a

Saturday thru Tuesday

visit. A big deal. I guess

it meant a lot for the

brothers and priests,

because it certainly didn't

mean much to us. I mean,

just the name  -  some of

these guys were almost

female in the way they

went about their taking

of names. What 'guy' is going

to call himself 'Euphorious'

to allude to piety? Just every 

so often, as in this case, you'd

get the inkling of what the

person's inclination in taking

that name sort of meant : in

this case, the happy-talk

factor of 'Salvation'. The

euphoria of being saved.

There wasn't any much

other way to tell. This fellow

came with a driver, in some

fancy black car, and wherever

he went he had all the

trimmings. You know how

it is that people, 'the 'right'

people, always end up

making righteous fool fun

out of the supposed stupidities

of others  -  like the Ku Klux

Klan (which most people, I

found, bragging on about their

own righteousness, always

manage to mis-label as the

'Klu Klux Klan'. I figure, if

you're going to ridicule 

something at least get the

name right), or the Elks,

with their 'Grand Exalted 

Ruler' stuff and Wizard hats 

and all that  -  well I'm

telling you, take a look

someday at some of the

crackpot regalia of these

Catholic Royalty people, 

mitres and crowns and

sashes and beads and all,

and you tell me what the 

difference is. This one came

with all the pieties and altar

sweet-talk homilies and such.

At least, because of him, the

food got a tad better  -  we all

had to eat in a more formal

'bunch' that Sunday meal, a

he attended up at the head 

table, next to Father Edward,

who was our fearless leader, 

so to speak. Intense, wired

guy, red hair, tight, pink facial

features, all pinched and 

arranged, and constantly  -  

even here as he ate, as usual

at the high-master table, five

or so steps above us, 

watching down  -  he smoked.

Endless, endless cigarettes.

It looked as if his very red

face was always about to

explode in a riot of red 

blood, like from one too

many, finally, cigarettes  - 

any one of them now could 

be the one that would

overload and blow his head

to lethal smithereens all over

the walls, and our food, and 

now this Bishop Euphonious 

guy too. (I know that wasn't 

his name, but I always like 

to play with names and 

words. Here the emphasis 

shifts to the 'phony' in

EuPHONYus. Even if 

he did have euphoria. 

Those cats at the head 

table were all doomed 

if Father Edwards blew.

-

At these dining confabs, no

matter the food or the dessert

or whatever, they were always

reading aloud the damned

'Lives Of the Saints'  -  just

like it sounded, some crazy

Catholic compendium since

the beginning of Catholic time,

(funny how all these religions,

Christian, Jew, Muslim, Hindu,

Zoroaster, and the rest, all have

their own starting dates for the

beginning of time and all creation.

How weird is that they can't even

get themselves lined up at the

starting gate correctly so as to

at least have a fair and equal

footing to their stupid race). 

The Lives Of the Saints is 

one weird book, let me tell 

you, and I could never believe 

these people fell for this stuff.

Here it was, I'm supposed to be

eating, and this crap never failed

making me spit up my food in

incredulous gag-shock at that

I was hearing. This stuff puts

today's instant saints, like Padre

and Mother Theresa  to shame

-  sanctification once used

to take about two centuries.

Miracles had to be found and

attested and vouched for (?),

and all the proper hearings

and papers arranged. Now, 

some media-star crud like

'Padre Pio' and even Mother

Theresa, in two weeks there

are people telling how she

touched their broken arm and

it was healed, or how she 

smiled at them and they no

longer needed braces and 

all. Yeah, I mean teeth.

Two months later, they're

freaking saints, and on the

cover of Time or Newsweek 

like that's supposed to be a

big deal. Should be Mad

Magazine instead. These

ancient saint guys, they were

ridiculous. St. Alphonso the 

Left Handed, say, who  -  at 

the Battle of Irigimonte to 

retake the Holy Land, 

prayed to Jesus Lord for

12 days straight, sitting on

a horse illuminated by the

light of God and who, at

the end of that time, was

able to walk the battlefield

whereupon all the sundered

and broken bodies of 274

Christians were put back 

together, limbs re-attached,

horses too, and they all came

back to life and accompanied

St. Alphonso back from the

Holy Land, singing God's 

praises the entire journey,

which only took them 6 days!

Well, we weren't suppose to

applaud, just instead keep

quiet and keep eating and 

think long and hard about 

our personal faith and the

praise and goodness of God.

This went on, every day. Not

one saint, but like a whole

book of 365 of these crazy

things. Make the lame blind,

and make the blind lame, 

I always said. That would

be a miracle. These instances

of sainthood would always be

praising the stupidest stuff;

and the female saints were the

worst. In bed for five years,

bleeding through her pores,

seeing angels on the wall,

growing a crown of thorns

and then dying peacefully

muttering the Virgin's name.

And then, of course, they 

had to find or concoct three

miracles, like the tree that

bloomed in Winter when 

they threw a bucket of her

blood onto the bark of the

tree. Really, folks, really.

For this you put your money

in the collection tray.

The blood-root tree.

-

The seminary was good for

stuff like this. Real hokum.

And I think everyone knew this,

but no one ever mentioned 

anything untoward about it, so

the big, unspoken secret became,

'just go along with this crap,

and don't sweat it.' You could

tell sometimes by the smirk

on these big table-guys, with

their cigarette smoke wreaths.

They'd go back into their

communal priest house, which

too had its own little church 

and chapel, and they'd hear 
each others' confessions.

I bet that was a real hoot.

When this Bishop Erroneous

guy was here, he heard their

confessions (big, special

treat there). It was a sort

of special treat for them;

made no difference to us, 

but fun to imagine what 

must have gone on. Give 

me a dutiful break. Except 

for boy-sex what could these

guys possibly do wrong?