Ah.
Easter Sunday.
The day Catholics around the world let out a cummalitive sigh of relief and indulge excessively in everything they gave up during lent, such as cheese, chocolate, foul language, booze, and reality t.v.
Oh. And there’s also that whole, Christ is Risen bit, which is sort of a big deal if you aren’t too busy watching “Kendra” and getting loaded on that solid mik chocolate Peter Cottontail you’ve had your eye on since that fateful encounter in aisle 6 on the morning of March 7th. Hypothetically of course.
Anyhoo,
a traditional, long, overcrowded, early-morning mass is part of the festivities; little girls in frilly dresses, little boys in button-down shirts and neatly pressed dockers, picture-perfect families praising the Lord in their Sunday best.
Um. Unless you’re the tween that’s sitting two rows up from us. Where the frack is your frilly dress? I too enjoy the old saying “shake what the good Lord gave you,” but from my understanding, you’re not supposed to shake it directly at the Lord. Are your parents blind? I mean, like actually, legally, braille-reading, without-sight, retina-challenged blind? Because that would be the only way to excuse them from letting you out of the house in these and not calling CPS (Catholic Parent Sinners) on their, ahem, @sses.
(Please don’t make fun of me as I was in a hurry to shave prior to taking this photo and I might have missed a spot)
Then there’s that whore mother of three, perched suggestively in the pew to the right, who, though her desire to provide for her children is admirable, apparently forgot to change after her shift at “Clive’s House of Cleavage.” Let’s just say her hard boiled eggs were in some serious need of being hidden.
And you Sir. Yes, you. Slouching in the back. Mid-thirties. I know that God gave us all free will and blah blah blah, but yours should be revoked immediately. Why you ask? Well, because clearly you aren’t fit to make your own decisions, judging (which is exactly what I’m doing) by the 10 inch metal barbell protruding from your nose. God may be all-loving but even he recognizes an unforgivable fashion faux pas when it dangles dangerously from one of the dumber sheep in his flock. I just pray sir, that you do not sneeze in this direction. There are a myriad of ways I have pictured myself dying; bludgeoned by a snotty facial sword is not one of them.
So. As you can see, our Easter Service was filled with lots of prayer, celebration, and quiet reflection. Also, people who thought the flyer said Clothing Optional, women who dyed their hair to match their handbags, and a priest who, and I swear on this blog that this is the God’s Honest Truth, uttered the phrase “What are you smoking?” during his homily.
Basically, it was way more “Catholics Gone Wild” and far less “Hallowed Be Thy Name.”
But somewhere in between taking it upon myself to condemn people to hell and fantasizing about my smooth, silky, milk chocolate Peter Cottontail waiting for me at home, I managed to bow my head in silence and thank God for everything and everyone in my life.
Including you.
"sister gone goth" didnt make it in there…(sigh of relief)…again, im at my desk in tears…of joy this time…you rock crazy lady!