In The Name Of Christ?; Fuck Rick Santorum

 

So. We’re all at breakfast this morning, sitting at the big table. The table is crowded today since the two most recent Texas Aggie underclassmen victims of Gram’s catch-and-release man-fishing practices have stayed close to the boat after their release. Gram snagged these pimply-faced engineering students while trolling the A&M campus in her Ferrari on Saturday afternoon and when offered the requisite ride back to College Station Monday afternoon, the one named Robert asked, “Can we stay a few more days, please. We haven’t eaten this well since we moved into the dorm.”

Usually, the young fish Gram hooks with her shiny sports car come to their senses within the first forty-eight hours of captivity, become severely embarrassed with the knowledge that they have rubbed blisters on their pecker bumping uglies with a woman who would make a good model for a garden scarecrow, and get all meek and scared.

“Will you please take us home, Gram Johnson? Please?” are the first words most often heard uttered by these boys at the breakfast table the morning after. Oft times the words are whimpered and often the young Aggie Corpsmen don’t even make it to breakfast. Many is the time I’m awakened at dawn by the shrieks and howls a 12-cylinder engine makes when over-revved while cold when Gram hauls her catch back to Aggieland.

I’ve tried to get my grandmother to take a few minutes to warm her car’s engine before hauling ass. “I ain’t got tha time ta warm steel, Mooner, I’m a old lady what got tha hot crotchies.”

I figure my randy old grandmother doesn’t care that it costs $3,000 each to re-sleeve the dozen tight-tolerance cylinders that power her little red hot rod. I likewise figure I don’t care either as long as she keeps carding these boys to insure she lands legally caught fish.

Anyway, we’re at breakfast and Robert, and the other boy whose name I still don’t know, are bartering for room and board for the week. “If you’ll get Mr. Mooner to teach us how he cooks that tomato sauce with the secret ingredients, we’ll stick around and do chores ’till the weekend,” Robert told us.

“Son, if you call me “Mister” again, you’ll end up as fertilizer for the secret ingredients,” I told him back. “The secret to that sauce is my home grown tomatoes for their flavor and Gram’s magic mushrooms for their texture. The buzz is just a pleasant side effect.”

The boys giggled, I guess at the mushroom part, and the TV caught my ear. Pricky Rick Santoria and Herr Schmidt Romney were on the tube in a lowlights dealie from last night’s Reflublican debate. “The problem with America is the family is becoming fractured,” is what I heard that Catholic bigot Santorum say.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I asked the TV and the room. I grabbed the remote out of Mother’s hand and jammed a finger to the Off button. “Mother fucking asswipe Christian chalky-skinned religious shit-headed Catholic right-wing Republican fuckball!”

I took a deep breath while I wished I could have said how I really felt. I’m finding myself getting truly angry with the Republican’s political issuing for this election. I’m pissed at them because they are true bigoted assholes. But I’m getting really pissed because I clearly understand that the reason the Republican issues are political issues is because their voter base has been polled, and those polls say their base thinks that way.

I sat and fumed at the table while my fellow diners sat quietly poking forks at their plates. I guess my little diatribe had caught them by surprise. But I quite simply didn’t give a shit. As stated, I was fuming.

I slammed my fist on the table. “Jesus fucking Christ, what is wrong with people? Are sane Americans actually supporting this bullshit? Are grown up adult women really in favor of giving Rick Santorum control of their bodies and minds?”

“Mooner,” Mother sternly said. “You will not take the Lord’s name in vain in my presence.”

I felt my blood pressure pounding in my ears and the blood vessels of my eyes engorge with anger. I jumped from my chair pitching it backwards where it slammed to the floor, and then I pounded both fists on the table top. “Fuck Jesus, fuck God and fuck you too, Mother. If you don’t like the way I act then the three of you need to get your asses out of my house. This shit has gotten out of hand!”

In all the years my mother has thought of me as her son-tyrant, this was the first time I have ever actually been one. “Fuck you, fuck you and fuck you some fucking more!”

And with that, I steamrolled out the back door.

For the first hour I sat on the fishing dock staring at my reflection in the murky water, I wondered how my own mother could be so terribly stupid—ignorant even. Mother is a smart, honest, hard working and quite decent educated woman. I spent the second hour wondering what has happened to me that I would lose my temper that way. I don’t lose my temper like that—I’m always the level head in a crowded bar.

I think I understand why my mother, and millions of other Americans think as she does on these political issues floated by Republicans in this Presidential race. It came to me when I remembered a conversation I had with Mother last week when she drove with me to take some things down to the Food Bank.

Out of the blue she asked me, “Do you ever worry that you won’t make it to Heaven, Mooner?”

“Not for a single moment, Mother,” I answered.

My mother sighed and turned to look forlornly out her side window, sighed again, deeply. “I sometimes worry I haven’t done enough, been a good enough Christian woman. My only daughter is a homo-sex-u-al and you’re… Well, Mooner Johnson, you are my only son.”

When we had this conversation, I thought it was typical martyred Mother talk—Mother’s usual lament that neither of her offspring were good Baptists. Sitting on the dock in reflection, I decided instead that my mother is fearful that the sins of her children will be judged as the sins of the mother come Judgment Day.

I decided that my mother is driven by fear. My mother thinks it isn’t good enough to be a Christian, she worries that she must be the right kind of Christian to get into Heaven.

That is the answer to my question. That, dear friends, is what is wrong with those people who support the likes of Rick Santorum and the other pricky Rick, Texas Governor Perry. People are afraid to not support them.

It’s fear Mooner, you dumbass, fear is the fuel for this rhetoric.

I walked back to the house and into the kitchen and found but one occupant. Mother was at the sink doing dishes with her back to the door. “Mother,” I said in a hushed voice, “Mother I’m sorry for what I said.”

I got no response other than the chilled silence she so often gives me when I disappoint her.

I walked and stood behind her and put my arms around her waist. I rested my chin lightly on top of her head and stood quietly. I could hear her sniffle and felt her body twitch as she cried.

“I love you,” I told her, “you know I do. And I know that you see me as your biggest failure. But it isn’t your fault that I learned to think for myself.”

“I did the best I could with you and Sister, Mooner, and you’re both going to Hell to burn for eternity. Don’t you know what a burden that is for a mother to bear?”

“I guess I don’t,” I told her. I squeezed her and kissed the top of her head. Her hair smelled of lilac perfume, the scent of which told me she had spent the night in the company of Mr. Dave. Mother likes to dress all the way up when she schedules a visit. I suppose she sees these conjugal moments as courting. I know she doesn’t see Mr. Dave as a male prostitute whose services are paid paid this self-same Hell-bent son.

The humor of the hypocrisy started niggling in my addled brain, and I felt the laugh start as a tingle at the nape of my neck. The tingle worked down my sides and when it made it to my belly, my belly started laughing. Once I started I couldn’t stop. I was “Ho-ho-hoeing” like a manic Santa Claus. I laughed so hard I lost my breath and sank to the floor with the giggles. When I could catch enough air to speak, I decided against it.

My poor mother thinks she is going to hell because she is sexing it up with Mr. Dave. What a dilemma that must be for her. She’s so horny and lonely for male companionship that she’ll risk going to Hell to bang Mr. Dave.

People do terrible things in the name of religion. This current crop of Republicans are feeding Christ’s followers a steady diet of bigoted fear, and that might be the most terrible thing a man can do in the name of Christ.

Like I said, fuck them all. Manana, y’all.

 

 

Print Friendly

5 Responses to “In The Name Of Christ?; Fuck Rick Santorum”

  1. Granny Ook says:

    Ah, Mooner, the stupid… it burns! I think you’ve been standing too close to the flames and it’s getting to you. You need to take a break- from your fambly AND the boob toob… think happy thoughts… that review by the lesbian atheist was a really good one, no?… maybe go somewhere and play some poker? Wish I had some better ideas…

    (If you are up to it, the lead article today over at http://www.alternet.org on the “Republican brain” has an interesting take on how Republicans “think.” )

  2. mel says:

    wow. time to smoke a bowl, dude. seriously.

    if it helps, dim-mitt is not ahead in the polls in his “home” state. though i can’t figure why…oh wait…this might have something to do with it…http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-february-20-2012/moment-of-zen—mitt-romney-on-michigan

    soooo….did the boys stay or did you scare them away?

  3. Granny. I think that I’m suffering from living inside the walls of the craziness. Your link speaks to the deep denials of educated Christian right-wingers. My very own mother could be their poster child. Except my very own mother is a follower and not a leader.

    Mel. OK, first, I find it impossible to get stoned enough to ignore the stupid hypocracies. Second, while I know that none of these assholes will become President, I feel them hammering wedges of polarizing steel into the fabric of American society. It sacares me that they have most of the guns.

    Thirdly, Robert and what’s-his-name have been mucking cow pens and hauling the manure to my compost piles. I think Robert might be in love…

  4. Granny Ook says:

    Once more before I STFU…

    Your sweet mom isn’t stupid, but she is a fully indoctrinated member of an insular tribe.

    A tribe that fervently believes that accepting Christ as your personal savior is a get-into-heaven-free card– that anything you do after that makes no difference– whether it’s merely against your moral code, like fooling around with Mr. Dave, or something monstrous– up to and including lying to start wars that kill tens of thousands and ruin entire countries.

    You may believe that evil on such a scale would disqualify anyone from any hope of a paradise, but to your mother, “W” is still a good Christian with a ticket to heaven.

    You may be an a**hole, but you are also a soft-hearted jamoke and it plainly upsets you to feel that someone you love is suffering. I doubt your mother really fears hell-fire, though. She may feel guilty, but she has been saved, and thus has her ticket to heaven, after all.

    Since you also admit to having been saved (twice!) she may not even be concerned about your going to hell, either– but she is plainly acutely embarrassed to have both her children not only leave the tribe, but flaunt their disdain for it and its beliefs. The flaunting being worse than the leaving. It probably makes her close to a pariah in her tribe.

    In short, she IS hurting, but maybe not for the reasons you think.

    I know this won’t make it any easier to take. I’m sorry for what you are going through, Mooner.

  5. squatlo says:

    Mooner, I’ve got an older sister who worries (actually worries, not just says she worries…) about my soul. I’m not sure she’s positive there’s a heaven or hell, but she’s hedging her bets because “What have I got to lose for believing?” and I always want to suggest “Perhaps the respect of at least one of your siblings…” but don’t, because, well, I love her and she’s been a blessing in my life.

    So I let her prattle on with little digs about my hedonistic life before I was roped and broken by the Igloo Queen you met when you were here. I figure it’s the least I can do, since I already delete ALL of her non-personal email forwards without opening any of them. All she ever sends are emails that are about Jesus or Obama, and as you might suspect, they’re never on the same team, those two.

    Give her a hug. She’s put up with your ass, and THAT must be worth something. Shit, you’re probably the reason she’s crazy enough to think Rick Perry’s a fine Amurken.

Leave a Reply