Monday, February 06, 2006

what's wit' the christian conversions

what happened??? for a minute jews were the chosen people. I think that was last year, right? now we're the fuckin anti-christ again.

I was cornered yesterday by a born again who freakin' begged me to take Jesus into my heart and be his servant.

since when is religion an S&M thing? why do I have to be the submissive in the relationship? Jesus doesn't feel very butch to me. those flowing locks and that crotchy loin cloth. the walking on water thing, which only makes fat people feel bad.

"oh, look at me, I'm Jesus. I'm thin, and I'm walkin' on water."

and then there's this whole, "he died on the cross for you."

did I ask him to schlep up there and get whacked for me? did I push a stake in the man's belly? did I tell him I had sins?

NO, I most certainly did NOT.

ps: I'm suposed to define a sin?! talk about elusive. it's so open to interpretation, political affiliation and sooo much more. like I walk around with a sin list in my pocketbook.

is he kidding me with this?

I get plenty o' guilt in my own religion. I hardly need to adopt another for more guilt-injections.

This one kills me, too, "live your life doing everything in his name."

so not only do I have to manage my own "to do" list, I have to manage Jesus' list too?! why is this fair?

I could go on, and on... but I'm pausing for now because I'm going to sleep, ALONE. but, I hear Jesus is quite the ladies man. who knows, maybe he'll stop by for a shtup. I hear he is single...

crotch

Ah, my first crotch watch. I was 12. My grandma, Helen took me to the ballet, with binoculars! When the crotchley bachelorinas did the jump squeeze, Helen would gasp like a freshly rouged Iowan at an all you can eat meat and cheese buffet.

For the next two years, I was Helen’s ballet date. It was great. We’d take the subway from Brooklyn to the city, watch the ballet, and then over a slice of pie and coffee at Sarge’s Deli, we’d have crotchversations.

By 14, I was skilled in the art of crotch watching. Gay tops wore faded blue jeans with left hangers. Gay bottoms created the ass lip effect with a high seam. Gentlemen of a certain age had anklets. And fat men didn’t have penises, or so I thought. When standing or walking they were crotchless. When seated, anatomically correct. What’s a girl to think?! So, I asked my father. His response: “What are you a schmuck? What kind ah-fuckin question is that? Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Ahhh, you!”

He never did answer the question, so I asked my middle school teacher.

“Mr. Deprado, do fat men have penises?”

He was a portly gent. I figured if anyone would know, he would. This was not a wise decision. I was suspended for inappropriate behavior. My father laughed and Helen clapped, consumed with pride.

 

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