easter Update; A Pitch For German Grammar

 

So. I’ve had time to think about all things easter 2012, and I’m ready to share with you guys. I must admit that my attitude towards all christians has been negatively influenced by the public displays of assholeness of some christians, and not all christians are assholes. If assholeness isn’t a word, it should be. The fact of being an asshole means that a person has a well of assholeness stored up in their rotten little soul. Acting from said well of assholeness is, likewise, putting said assholeness on display.

OK, stop. The actual displaying of assholeness by an asshole would be “showing his assholenesses”[.] I think English should be more akin to German in the grammatical sense of things. I think German is an easy language to understand because they go ahead an place all the modification words into the root word instead of making up new words to express the thought. Like the German word Donaudampfshiffahrtsgesellschaftskapitan. Or my personal favorite, Rindfleischetikettierungsuberwachungsaufgabenubertrangsgesetz. That second one is the word for “beef labeling regulation and delegation of supervision law” and it’s my favorite because…

“Rindfleischerosaschleimentikettierungsuberwachungsaufgabenubertrangsgesetz” is German for pink slime beef labeling regulation and delegation of supervision law. I’ve got your supercalifragilisticexpialidocious right here. And your fucking pink slime as well.

When attending easter services at Mother and Gram’s baptist church Sunday, I was reacquainted with the knowledge that not all christians—and even not all baptist christians—are assholes. The entire family and extended family from the Johnson ranch went to services yesterday. I rented a party bus and had Streaker Jones drive and then babysit the animals while the rest of us went inside the church. Streaker Jones will not enter a church of any kind and the animals were turned away at the door.

I wanted to be pissy about leaving the pets outside but they were nice in the rejection. They asked me why I thought it was a good idea to bring two dogs, a fucking cat, a 550-pound pig and his boyfriend—the 350-pounds of gay ostrich we call Rick Perry—into an easter church service.

“Well, I started, “the way I see it, if humans have a soul that needs saving, so do my pets. Except for Rush Limbaugh, each of these animals has a bigger heart than most of the people I know who attend this church, and since we baptists think that heart and soul are connected, and…”

The nice lady stopped me. “Oh, I see, Mr. Johnson. Well, how about I promise to put the salvation of your animals’ mortal souls on next week’s prayer list?”

“OK.” I was satisfied.

The nice lady was staring at my chest, turning her head sideways in an attempt to read my tee shirt. The hoodie I wore over the tee was covering the starts and finishes of the five lines of print.

“Sus wa sexu use shop feet?” she said. “I’ve never heard of that store before. Is it in the Domain?”

The Domain is the new high-end shopping area up to north Austin. It’s not a mall, it’s more like an imitation Rodeo Drive with anchor tenants. Her thinking my clothes came from there bespoke of the very high quality of the hemp cloth products made by our little company. I grabbed the sides of my hoodie, did an “open sessamee” and revealed the scarlet letters of my special easter message.

The nice lady stared at my chest, again, and was inclined to once more turn her head sideways in the viewing. “Does that say that je-sus was a homo-sex-u-al, Mr. Johnson?”

I guess they teach you to say homosexual like that at this baptist church. Mother says it that way every time, drawing it out like it’s a complete sentence with verb and noun and subject and modifiers and shit. I looked down at my own chest, cocking my head to the side as well. With my left index finger, I underlined the words as I read them upside down.

“Jesus was homosexual because he washed mens’ feet,” I read to her. “I should have said he was a bisexual because he washed the ladies feet as well.”

“Oh, dear. Your poor mother must be so proud of you, Mooner.” She clasped her hand to her heart just as my martyred mother does, and added, she said to me, “Yes, I can imagine your mother is glad you came today.”

We Johnsons and Johnson affiliates were given a wide berth to enter and take our seats. I led us to the third pew from the front, turned and invited our procession to sit. Mother entered first and moved the full length of the bench to take her place on the far aisle, followed by Mr. Dave, Gram and Aunt Hilda carrying Dubbie-J (Hilda’s shrunken-head-in-a-box), then the P-cubed looking mighty fine in a frilly pink sun dress, then Gnat and her beau, Sister’s wife Anna the Amazon, then Sister herownself, and then me.

After we sat, it dawned on me that I needed to tell the nice lady to add Dubbie-J to her prayer list. When I turned to look for her, an older gentleman behind me caught my attention, and said, “Mooner, who is that man seated with your mother? My wife thinks she knows him.”

“Well, sir, that is the famous Mr. Dave, famous for the Japanese eggplant-sized pecker he uses to service the genteel older ladies of Austin. Perhaps your wife has made his acquaintance at tea.” I looked at the wife and she had that classic “holy fucking shit, now I remember him” look, and it was literally plastered on her face.

I winked at the lady and said, “I think he has an opening Wednesday’s at three o’clock.”

When I turned back to face the front, the harsh noises of a whisper-fight were almost concussive on the back of my hoodie. The service started with the organist playing a stylized version of “I Walked Through the Garden Alone” and it was hushed and quiet—almost eerie. I liked it and was feeling calm. I wasn’t expecting to feel calmed.

Then the children’s choir walked to the stage and started singing “jesus Loves Me”[.]

My sister—my sweet, strong, kind and big hearted lesbian sister—started crying. Quietly and with fat tears rolling down her cheeks. She was holding Anna’s hand and reached for mine. She has the grip of a steel worker and I thought my knuckles would break from her grasp, and she cried through all four verses of the children’s song.

It dawned on me then that my sister still believes in the full-blown accept-jesus-as-your-savior-and-gain-everlasting-life stuff. When we were kids “jesus Loves Me” was always her favorite song. She sang it to herself whenever people called her queer or fag or lezzie, and that happened often. She told me that she found solace in the song’s words.

I was moved. I stood from my seat and turned to the sea of faces behind me. I opened my hoodie and displayed my tee shirt, turning once each to left, then right. I sat down.

There were no boos or angry words or even gasps at my shirt. I managed to take some air from the big chapel, but I didn’t disrupt it. The rest of the service went as Pastor Browningwell planned, but he made a concerted effort to avoid looking my way.

If jesus truly was the actual savior as christians think, then he loves all the children in the world. He loves the gay ones and the dumb ones and the different ones. If he doesn’t, he is an asshole.

Which reminds me. Why is ham a favored meat on easter tables? Me, I love me some ham and all things of the pork persuasion. But why ham on easter? Think about this one with me, OK? Since he was an oldie-times Jew, then jesus didn’t eat ham, right? Hogs eat slop just like crabs eat ocean slop, and bottom feeders are verboten in a Kosher diet.

So, again I ask you—why ham? Why not goat or rabbit, or maybe one of those big lizards that roam the sand dunes back to the Middle East? Do rabbits live back there? Maybe Jackrabbits could take the harsh conditions.

Isn’t ADHD fun?

I smoked our ham this year, and it was actually a whole smoked hog leggie. Yum-my! I drank too many beers and told too many stories and ate way too fucking much smoked pig. From the moment we walked out of church and until I went to bed easter night, I was waiting for the eruption from Mother. I expected her to go all ballistic on my ass about my tee shirt display. But not a single word.

Then again, she had Mr. Dave for the day and he likes everyone to stay chilled. Which reminds me. Little Timmy Tebow spoke to an area church easter to tell people to make more and bigger public displays of their faith. I’m too mellow to rant on that now, but know that the turnout was less than half of what they expected, so they sold less than half of the Tebow gear expected. I hope the church that sponsored the visit took it in the shorts on Tebow’s speaking fee.

Manana, yall.

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3 Responses to “easter Update; A Pitch For German Grammar”

  1. squatlo says:

    What was Mark Twain’s quote about the German language?
    “Whenever the literary German dives into a sentence, that is the last you are going to see of him till he emerges on the other side of his Atlantic with his verb in his mouth.”

    You sat through a Babtist Easter service? Shit, I think everyone should be proud all you did in the way of disruption was display a shirt… I would have expected a full-blown Mooner show for the occasion.

    Nice restraint!

    Up here they played up the Timmy Tebow tent revival as if he’d done everything except walk on water and turn that water into wine. Or fishes. Maybe it was loaves. My Bible knowledge is spotty…

    Get on over to BJ’s and read his lawn mowing exploits when you have time. Classic.

  2. chrisinphx says:

    Way to take one for the family Mooner and big props for the T-Shirt!
    Breaks my heart thinking about poor Sister crying in church, just about sums up everything that is wrong with that place.

  3. mel says:

    Oh how I wish I could have been there. I can only imagine seeing that shirt on you in a church would bring me more joy than I can image.

    And I have been ignoring the Timmy crap. My husband decided I needed to know about it and I ignored him while he read me an article about it – I do recall him laughing. I do totally love that they didn’t get the turn out they thought they were going to…THAT makes me smile too.

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