18 January 2006

Or, Nun of the above

I stood behind the nun in the check out line. She wasn’t a desiccated, sour old harridan; no indeedy! She was a tasty young thing with (I’m guessing here) significant breasticular enhancement and red hair.

It was just about this time when a voice inside my head said “Dude, she’s a ‘Bride of Christ’! You’re drooling on one of God's old ladies!”

Normally I ignore the voices in my head. What have they gotten me, other than a cross armed sports jacket and some lovely Thorazine? however, this time, the voices had a point.

Things could get quite serious as he knows when you are sleeping, eh knows whe you're aw.... no, that’s that bloke that brings me lumps of anthracite for my coal fire. The creator of the universe knows everything, including what I’m thinking.

Pissing off the creator of the universe is a bit more serious than irking Santy Claus; after all, he turned water into wine, so just think of what nastiness he could do to my whiskey.

It wouldn’t take much of a miracle either; I frequently turn whiskey into urine, and I’m not particularly gifted in the miracle department, so I figure I’d best apologize right quick.

“Sorry about oogling one of your wives.” I pray. “But it’s not like you don’t have a few hundred thousand of them. I mean, if I were to so much as marry one more, I’d end up in the clink. And while I’m on the subject, one of your birds; remember Sister Spirella with the hairy cheek mole and the ruler? She’s a right bitch.

"Sorry. I’m just saying, that’s all.” I rubbed the back of my hand in memory.

The voices shook their virtual heads. “Now you’re definitely going to Hell, Moron!”

“Probably. But I’m taking you lot with me.” I replied to them.

“Eh, can’t be worse than the time you were trapped for three days in Newark airport broom closet with Barbara Striesand.”

Thanks for reminding me, you bastards. Now I’ve got to go back for more therapy.

And that's the way I likes it.