So. Having received numerous interesting comments on the contents of my recent musings related to the latest visit to me by my God, I’ve decided to cogitate on whether to start a new religion, organize a church hierarchy, set some fucking dogmatic rules and regulations, and drum me up some paying followers, all while making regular visits for the next eight weeks to The Great Radiator. Run-on sustenance aside, and likewise ignoring the fact that I don’t cotton to any form of religious dogma, I’ve started running the pro-forma Profit-and Loss spreadsheets on this religion dealio, and I find myself mightily impressed. Religion, it appears, is a quite profitable scam—er, I mean business platform.
For those of you having noticed the typo contained above, herein, it is, quite simply, not an error. As “elucidation and clarity of communication” is my middle name, nurturing support was the intended structural element.
Seems that if you are willing to compromise almost every aspect of your personal and professional integrity, there’s gold in them thar golden gates of heaven! Everywhere I turn, there’s evidence that religion pays the big bucks. I was flipping through the channels of the TV last night—the Squirt had a bellyache and asked me to sit up with her until she could pass enough gas to sleep—and that toothy jackass Joel Osteen, or whateverthefuck his name is, was on the screen telling everyone that he’s no happier now than he was when he apprenticed his daddy as nothing more than a Mega Church Preacher wannabe. Pompous little prick was saying how all the millions he’s making haven’t brought him any happiness at all, and, by the way, “Don’t forget to continue your financial support for the ministries.”
Speaking of Squirtie girl’s gas, have you ever smelled a canned-tuna-and-Blue Buffalo Organic Lamb-kibbles dog fart? Ever noticed how often you type the words “dog” and “God” one for the other? Ever wonder if maybe the two words are interchangeable in ways other than on your keyboard? Ever bared your nekid nether regions to the Austin City Council? Have you ever wondered what it might be like to be an ADHD-addled and completely inappropriate fuckball?
To narrow my personal answers from the above, preceding paragraph, to but one, those dog farts are worse than little Frankie Martin farts. Frankie was this guy back to junior high who was eighteen and still working his way through Ninth Grade curriculum. Frankie’s momma didn’t know how to cook anything but cornbread and pinto beans, which she served with chopped onions and garlic bread from the bakery over to the Piggly Wiggly. There used to be a PW located where 38th and 35th Streets sort of conjoin in this semi Y-shaped spit of land. This particular Piggly Wiggly holds a spot in my heart as it was located maybe 120-yards off Shoal Creek, and just the other side from the Shoal Creek Mental Hospital.
Yes, dear readers, that Shoal Creek Loony Bin. Anytime I could make a break from my confinements therein, I would race to the grocery store to use the phone. Always got caught because, first, I never had a dime in my pocket, as hospital gowns have no pockets—a design feature of considerable frustrations to hospital gown tenants—and I was required to hustle that phone charge before making a call, and second, Piggly Wiggly store personnel seemed to be quite watchful for persons in hospital gowns begging for change.
Frankie Martin was the first person I ever saw light a fart through his BVD’s. A thinking person would have the impression that burning off offensive methane ass gas would lessen its olfactory unpleasantnesses. That person would be wrong, as Frankie’s farts only gathered richer, layered textures with torching. Burn-your-eyes layers of textured stink. Maybe it’s the same science as to how searing the outside of a meat before cooking enriches its depth of character.
The dogs and I sat around lighting farts this one time after a day of eating roasted pig and all the fixings. That was a great day. Dr. Sam considered relocating me back to Shoal Creek when she found out. “You set one of your dogs afire, you inappropriate dumbass, and you’re getting a one-way ticket to Shoal Creek.” I think those were her words.
Anyway, I’m looking for suggestions for how to organize my new church stuff. Squat and Beej have already been offered executive positions, but we’ll need quite a large staff. We need a name, organizational structures and dogmas so you can earn your way to Heaven, and for helping me with this shit you can earn a high-paying job at Mooner’s God’s church.
I’m working on the motto and here’s my current best effort: “Mooner’s God- All you could want, and more!”
OK, I agree it’s a lame effort, but I’m headed to play poker. Which reminds me. I have a secret meeting out to California that will take a few days away from The Great Radiator and place them onto the ass-end of my treatment plan. When not secretly meeting, I’mma playing cards over to the Commerce Casino. Commerce has the world’s largest poker room and it’s a bucket lister for any serious poker player. Me, I think I’ve finally got my brain reorganized after the dehydration, bloat and newly-prescribed medicine befuddlements, and I’ve plans to make some cash out there to Poker Mecca.
Anyone sending suggestions for any of this church stuff can have a free gift package consisting of two pre-confessional excuses, a tithe rate-reduction coupon for a month, and a patch of the last of my bed sheets my God sat upon, autographed by me. But hurry, this is a limited time offer.