Category Archives: religion

Nuns: What the fuck?

I was patiently waiting (in the cold New England temperatures) and this nun flew past me.  And I was shocked!  What kind of person, nevermind nun, has chutzpah to pull that kind of stunt? 

The bus had just pulled up to its gate and she walked almost all the way to the front, and asked, “Is this bus going to New York?”  And upon hearing an affirmative, she just stayed there. 

Every human being inherently knows that you ask the last person waiting in the line any question related to that line if you intend to begin waiting in it should it be the line you need.  Ya know? 

Anyway.  It wasn’t, in the end, a huge deal.  No jihad was fought.  No back of the liners were turned away.  But what if?  What if.

Times Square is terrible, and lots of people get depressed this time of year, but…

If you find yourself lost in that throng of angry pedestrians taking pictures of themselves in front of the Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and electronic billboards, I recommend walking on the south side of W 43rd between 9th and 10th Avenues.  It will provide respite from the chaos, and it will remind you of one of the simplest pleasures in life–smelling stuff that smells good.  Specifically, the good-smelling scents of these two things:

Pi Pie! (Not necessarily available at this particular pie shop.)

Trees! (Beer can ornaments probably sold separately.)

You may also get a whiff of urine.

Remember that time in Forest Gump when Forrest hangs out with Lt. Dan on New Year’s Eve?  And they end up back in some room with those women they picked up at the bar?  Then Lt. Dan falls over in his wheelchair and the women laugh and leave?  I hope your New Year’s is JUST LIKE THAT.

Or, you know.  I hope it’s awesome.

Sex, Love, and Oatmeal

This one time, I worked at a law firm. All I did was photocopy and file Elvis Presley music copyright documents. For hours. It’s pretty mind-numbing. And then all of a sudden you see Johnny Cash’s signature and you’re like, “That’s cool.” And then you go back to fixing the paper jam.

I was listening to Etta James’ “I Just Wanna Make Love to You” on YouTube when I found this awkward Elvis fan video:

My favorite part is at 1:25 when there are TWO replays of him catching a pair of panties. We humans are a horny bunch.

Speaking of horny bunches, I was catching up with a friend online who I met years ago in a college dorm room. I don’t really know why we talk to each other, except that a few drinks in I told him that I read his blog. And we’ve just talked ever since. See? Keep a blog, make friends.

We were talking about sex, love, and happiness, and how sometimes, or often, those three things go hand in hand…or, you know….other things in other things. I have absolutely nothing profound, funny, or interesting to say about love, but my friend did:

Somewhere deep down in my dark twisted soul, I’m a romantic. Underneath all the science, atheist books, and gigabytes of porn, I can appreciate love for what it is.

I really like it. I could be wrong, but I feel like those are two sentences that most people could change a few of the adjectives and nouns to make it sum up their general feeling, too. For insance, Elvis Presley’s might read something like:

Somewhere deep down in my pelvic thrust of a soul, I’m a romantic. Underneath that weird lip thing I do, the rhinestone-laden leather jumpsuits I wear, and the terribly depressing way I will die on my bathroom floor, I can appreciate love for what it is.

And now, for no reason in particular, I will speculate on how the man on the boxes of Quaker Oatmeal would adapt those two sentences. Wikipedia says, “It is popularly believed that the man on the box is Province of Pennsylvania founder, namesake and Quaker William Penn. The company states that ‘The Quaker man is not an actual person,’ but is instead a generic representation of a ‘man dressed in Quaker garb.'” Mysterious. I’m not sure I buy it.

Somewhere deep down in my pedophiliac leer, I’m a romantic. Underneath the illegal paraphernalia I store within my billows of white locks and underneath my traditional black cap, I can appreciate love for what it is.

He creeps me out.

Don’t You Hate It When That Happens?

Something traumatic happened to me over the weekend.  Well, a few things: I watched one of the many shows about the logging industry currently on television; I flirted with an Irishman many years my senior; and I nearly joined a cult.

I know, I know.  That’s what I said!  I can’t believe Davey McGloughlin almost died from a diabetes-induced coma while operating the skidder in the back woods AND lost his house to a fire all in the same week.  That Discovery channel puts out good shit.

This is from an entirely different logging show, which illustrates the point--you see one show about logs youve seen em all.

This is not from the Discovery channel's logging show, but it does illustrate the point--you see one show about logs you've seen 'em all.

On to the cult.  It all started a couple weeks ago when I saw a poster on the sidewalk promoting a free meditation workshop. It ended up being this two day event. The first day was six hours. The second day was four. And, silly, gullible me, I would have continued on to the advanced meditation meetings had a Google search not introduced me to the controversy surrounding the group and their late guru. And it’s not small controversy like…hiring only people who neglected to do their taxes, or accidentally flashing your vagina in public. It’s controversy like…claiming to be celibate and speak directly with God one minute and turning around and forcing female followers to fuck you the next. And it’s like…harassing Carlos Santana when he abandons you. And…pretending to be able to lift 7,000 pounds.

Oh well. Guess enlightenment will have to wait. I’m just thankful that I didn’t end up being that girl. You know, the type of girl who legally changes her name, starts dressing in white garbs, and loses every shred of her awesome personality after gradually being brainwashed.

Blasphemy!

Don’t you love eating in diners?  For me, it ranks right up there with watching Barbara Walters receive a lap dance.  My roommate took me out to one in our neighborhood tonight.  Along with our food, though, we unwillingly consumed an hour’s worth of Pastor Arnold Murray’s Family Bible Study.  Of all the things to blare on a flatscreen television in a New York City diner…The Shepherd’s Chapel from Gravette, Arkansas?  I kind of felt like God was trying to send me a message, especially after I posted my blasphemous Ash Wednesday poem…a casual “shape up or ship out (to the depths of hell)” kind of thing. 

But honestly I’ve become more of a Buddhist lately, so I think I’ll be all right.  I haven’t begun meditating or practicing yoga or pilgriming anywhere, yet, but it’s on the to-do list (right after #11: Be Serenaded, Preferably to the Stylings of This, This, or if nothing else, This).  

At one point Pastor Arnold Murray started going off on, not surprisingly, liberals (though he prefers the term “nutcases”).  I enjoyed the way the word rolled off his Arkansas tongue.  He said the problem with liberals (among other things) is they spend too much time listening to college professors…which I tend to think is the antithesis of a problem. 

There was a speaker directly above our booth, so it really felt like he was right there with us.  In case you’ve never seen Pastor Arnold (despite his Bible study being televised on 225 stations in the US and Canada):

“Life without discipline is not much fun,” indeed.

Happy Ash Wednesday!

JESUS (motioning to the cross he lugs as he bleeds and sweats): "Carry?" KERRY (lost in thought about ketchup): "Yeah, that's me."

I completely forgot about the occasion.  Then something reminded me, then being reminded reminded me of a poem I wrote.  You may have read it in the 2008 edition of a college lit magazine.  If not:

If It Exists, Me and My Dirty Feet Are Going to Hell

My feet are so dirty from walking around the city all day in flip-flops.
A chunk of tar got jammed in the back of them and the heel of my
foot looks like Christians’ foreheads on Ash Wednesday.

Ash Wednesday was always my least favorite obligatory
church-going day.  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust…”
I haven’t been to church in ages.  Mom used to ask me to
go with her again, but on Easter Sunday she didn’t.
“And back to dust you shall return.”

Probably because I told her how I don’t like
the Book of Genesis.  It’s so sexist.  I told her it
sucks that Eve’s supposed transgression tainted
all women for eternity.  I’m glad she ate that apple!
Girl power! Stupid serpent.  Stupid Adam.
I don’t see anyone blaming them.  Or how about God?
He created the tree.

The Bible is weird.  Religion is weird.
But people believe and I guess that’s good.
I don’t know when I stopped.  Maybe I never did
in the first place.

I should wash my feet.  That one time in the Bible
people washed Jesus’ feet.  Good for him.
I can do it myself.

The Things We Do For Love

Oh snap!

Oh snap!

Imagine one of these billboards placed in, say, Effingham, Illinois right next to the world’s biggest:

I saw multiple giant crosses while driving from Massachusetts to Arizona a couple years ago, and the sight never got less alarming.  It’s like…highway, highway, tractor trailer truck, highway, blinding sun, and BAM! GIANT CROSS!  My friend and I had this game going.  First person to see a cactus was entitled to a free beer.  First person to see a free range buffalo: beer.  His ideas were all things from nature, while mine were things like, first person to see a giant, tacky thing on top of a building:

It’s a great game because no one really loses.  But yeah, had I realized that there was such an abundance of giant crosses in Middle America…that would have definitely been one of my road trip drinking game items. 

It’s funny because…that Darwin billboard was one of the first things I saw when I woke up this morning.  (I roll over, open up my phone, check my e-mail, lament that I’ve received no e-mails, and then I click on random links provided by my mobile browser.)  So I was like, WOW!  Religious people are gonna freak!  Then, my mom calls a little while ago and is like, “I found this poetry contest you WILL enter.”  (She means business.)  Then she adds, “If you want to.”  She goes on to explain that it’s sponsored by the Christian Poets Guild…  This so-called guild doesn’t seem to have a website, it just seems to advertise its poetry contests in small newspapers around the country, such as “The Eagle” out of Byron, TX, the “Hot Springs Village Voice” out of Arkansas, and my very own “Pennysaver” out of Western Massachusetts.   

So this is suspicious.  She’s suggested this contest to me before and I’ve always been like, “Yes, I’ll look into it,” when really I’m thinking, “Praise Darwin.”  …Then Mom tells me that I can enter online at freecontest.com.  Moms don’t tend to know these things, but a web address like that is highly questionable!  It’s usually smart to avoid any URL with “free” or “contest” in it, and this one has both.  If you’re brave enough to click the link, you’ll see that this contest in no way looks legit.  My mom was so excited about it, though, that I might risk having my identity stolen or being sold into sex trafficking just to make her happy…