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Archive for the ‘Religion (Issue 10)’ Category

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Smack-Talk of the Town

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 8:54 am

“Berkeley Bodhisattva”

by Isa Hopkins, editor-at-large

 

He sits under an ornamental cherry tree, face serene in the dappled sunlight.  ”This is my lotus,” he says, pointing upwards.  ”And I’m gonna die here.”

 

A dire pronouncement from some — but from Bodhi, the guru of Berkeley’s People’s Park, this statement is triumphant.  After all, says Bodhi, how many people can claim such knowledge of their own peaceful end?

 

“I don’t know how it will happen,” the forty-two-year-old continues.  ”But it’ll be right here.  Me and the tree.  And the people.”  He gestures vaguely towards others in the park, the homeless and the students and the weekend picnickers.  ”It’ll be a lesson for us all.”

 

Born James Theodore Marshall III in Mobile, Alabama, Bodhi’s spiritual trajectory has been unique.  His earliest religious memories are of the black gospel choir led by his mother, Alfreda “Alfie” Marshall, at their Baptist congregation in Mobile.  When James was four years old, Alfie moved him and his older brother, Thomas, to Salt Lake City — and when it came to racism, the South had nothing on Mormon country.  The boys’ only saving grace was their new stepfather, the reason they’d moved.  Duane Anthony Michaelson was an attorney and the highest-ranking African-American member of the Mormon Church at the time, regularly upheld by the Mormons as evidence that they weren’t so racist, after all.

 

Duane was well-spoken, kind, educated, and affluent; he never swore or drank, and he was a good father to his stepsons.  Alfie, whose first husband died before James was born, found security in his presence, even though she was barred from joining the famous Tabernacle Choir because of her skin color.

 

“It was tough,” says Alfie.  ”And James — James hated it the most.  He always had so many questions, questions about everything.”

 

Thomas Marshall Michaelson graduated from Brigham Young University and is one of a tiny handful of black bishops within the Mormon Church.  James, on the other hand, dropped out of high school and ran away, a transient in the American West.

 

“I lived on a flatbed truck with two other drifters,” says Bodhi, calm as ever.  ”For three months.  Driver never even knew we were hitching a ride until my buddy Al got bitten by a rattlesnake in Socorro.  Scared me straight, watching an old man die like that.”

 

James ventured to Los Angeles, where an acquaintance talked him into Scientology.  ”I couldn’t afford it,” Bodhi recalls, “doing odd jobs, living on the streets, barely feeding myself — but they gave me work as the janitor, so I paid for my classes.  Made it up to level three, but then they wanted even more money, and I just couldn’t do it anymore on my salary.”

 

So he tried to rob a bank.

 

James Theodore Marshall was twenty-three years old when he was convicted of armed robbery and assault.  He landed at San Quentin, in wealthy and beautiful Marin County, north of San Francisco.  It was at San Quentin that he was first introduced to the Koran.

 

“Islam opened my eyes,” says Bodhi.  ”Before that, all I knew were American religious traditions; it was like the rest of the world didn’t exist.  Also, here’s the thing about Mohammed: he dies of natural causes.  No murder, no mayhem.  It’s not like Jesus, up there on the cross, or Joseph Smith getting murdered, or any of those other guys.  Mohammed just does his thing and then dies of old age.  I really dug that.  I wanted that.  It spoke to me.”

 

James became a fixture at the prison library, reading up on world religions.  ”Hinduism, Shintoism, Confucianism, Sikhs — I know my shit.  But the one that resonated the most was Buddhism.  You know?  Other prisoners, they were busy changing their names to Mohammed, joining the Muslim Brotherhood, all that — I changed my name to Bodhi.  Just Bodhi.  I got out of prison literally a new man.”

 

Bodhi was released after five years, paroled for good behavior.  ”And then I came here,” he says.  To Berkeley?  ”Well, yes, but really here, to this very spot.”

 

For the last fourteen years, Bodhi has sat under this very tree in People’s Park, meditating, dispensing wisdom, and occasionally running into trouble with the law.  According to Rudi von Schechter, the Berkeley chief of police, Bodhi is “pretty much harmless.  I just wish the guy would have a little respect.  Public fornication — that’s what we always get him on.  Not because we want to; this is Berkeley, after all.  But we have to.  He never does it, you know, at night, behind the bushes — it’s always midday, with little kids around.  We gotta respond to that.”

 

“I’m a prophet,” says Bodhi, “and the Berkeley PD can’t always understand that.”

 

Nor can local Buddhist leaders.  ”Bodhi is a crackpot,” says Jason Nevits, a professor of Buddhist studies at the nearby University of California.  ”His spiritual philosophy seems to be centered on not holding a job, having sex in public, and dying under a tree.  That’s all he ever talks about, at least.”

 

“What’s wrong with dying under a tree?” counters Bodhi.  ”Isn’t that, like, the heart of Buddhism?”  (According to Nevits, the answer is “No.”)

 

“Look, man,” says Bodhi.  ”I’m on a journey.  There’s a path — or eight paths, or something.  There’s as many paths as you need.  I’m not just about Buddhism; I’m about everything that got me here.  I’m gonna die under this tree and when I get to heaven there’s going to be seventy-two virgins, and I’ll be able to take many wives, and I’ll party with Tom Cruise and John Travolta again.  That’s my Buddhism.  That’s my salvation.  That’s my nirvana.”

 

There is no heaven in Buddhism, of course, but this hardly phases Bodhi.  One of his devotees brings him lunch: a bag of bread and jar of peanut butter from a grocery store dumpster and tomatoes from a community garden.  He caresses her face in thanks, leaning in for a kiss as he pulls up her shirt.  Nearby, a small child begins to scream for his mother.  ”Don’t tell Rudi,” Bodhi says to me, winking, as he unzips his pants.

 

I take the opportunity to go for a coffee break.  When I return, forty minutes later, Bodhi is sprawled beneath “his” tree, eating his lunch alone.

 

“Those crazy guys on the streetcorners, yelling about Jesus and the end of the world?  They just don’t know how to do it right,” he tells me, tomato juice dripping down his chin.  ”Just find a tree, be a guru.  Just like Siddhartha.  It’s simple stuff, this whole religion thing, really.”

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Salute Our Shorts: The News In Brief

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:31 am

“Madonna: Like A Virgin or Is A Virgin”

by Paul Lander

In what was described as the Miracle at Marie Calendars after a waitress’s narcoleptic fit caused a major Boysenberry Pie stain to occur on one of the restaurant’s walls.  Immediately, customers began debating whether it looked like the Madonna, Jesus’s mother, or Madonna, the pop icon.  Within hours competing interests had surrounded the establishment.  One local clergyman said, “I don’t know whether to pray to it or give it an exorcism.”  By day three, religious pilgrims and fans of the “Material Girl” had to be separated:  One group chanting “Like a Virgin!” The other, “Is a Virgin!”  The incident was resolved when an unknown person commented, “I think it looks like Kevin Federline.”  Numerous protestors remarked “who?” But, upon being told, “The one who was married to Brittany Spears,” agreement was reached.  The Kevin Federline Fan Club tried to protest the wall’s cleaning, but those two people got tired and went home.

 

“List Of Facebook Passwords To Freak Out Any Possible Employer Who Asks”

by Paul Lander

PeopleDiewWhodDontHireMeSeeU2morrowAtOrientation
IKeyed666OnYourFuckinCarOnTheWayInDoucheBag
MyParoleOfficersNumberIs3475682
GuessWhatIDidWithYourWife69
IWasPrisoner543543
ThatAspargusSmellisMeDoingNumber1
ThatWasntAFartIJustDidNumber2InMyPants

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Iambic Ixplosion

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:29 am

“Mr. President Says There’s No One by the Name of Satan East of the Mississippi”

by Brian Le Lay

 

Christ became the purchase in a land
Of pickpockets and false prophets,
You’ll grow hair on your palms
If you masturbate, so stop it

Satan is a matchstick on a spill
Of gasoline, your sins catch flame,
Shame is a parental philosophy,
And Satan is a sham magician

Will saw you in thirds, steal your organs
Satan doesn’t live in Georgia where
They hanged a black man last year,
Cheered for justice, not in DC

With its clan of carnival barkers,
Clowns and jerks, not on our Wall Street
Where a timebomb ticks
Get-rich-quick and bankrupt

The local butcher, hold him upsidedown,
Carve him out, drag his pockets
Tar and feather his earholes and eyesockets
With a slew of false promises

Who would stoop so low as to go
West of the Mississippi, don’t you know
The city of quirks, cons, commies and queers
Satan lives in San Francisco!

Who would stoop so low as to go
West of the Mississippi, Satan’s in an attic
High atop North Beach
Calling for your hand in marriage,

Don’t be fooled, cool clean streets mean
The rats and misfits must be hiding
In the alleys, blended into jazz murals,
Where the city lights burn infernal,

Who would stoop so low as to go
West of the Mississippi, in the East
We’re more transparent,
We keep our raw sewage

Bubbling in the streets
For all to see,
Which some mistake
For honesty

 

“Scientific Findings on the Life of Australopithecus”

by Meg Eden

 

lucy did not have

opposable toes. lucy

had socks on, and she walked

with the outside of her foot because

of the limp, a birth-defect. she was ex-

communicated because of her cartoonish

ape-like features. she had to carry

her freak-child on her back and walk

for a very long time.

lucy had long arms that dragged

dangerously near the ground, stretched

like a gumbi rag doll. lucy had

a lover for two days, who beat her

with a metal rod, the first tool –

lucy looked at the hair covering

her genitalia and wondered

what it meant to be a woman.

 

lucy was a hagar, carrying an ishmael

through the desert, but God did not

save lucy this time. lucy and child collapsed

with an eroding cliff, their bodies

consumed by rubble, their bones

broken into fine pieces like bread,

and all that could be found

were moments of indiscernible dust,

which could mean just about anything.

 

“westboro”

by Meg Eden

 

satan parading down the street in panties, bra

over his eyes, dancing with pickets digging

into his palms — i am Jesus! he screams. passers-bys in pajamas

and boxers and facial cream stare, holding up their bibles — it

all makes sense now! barbie smiles, talking. talking. satan

in paper mache mask and stick-on dollar store mustache.

satan waving his fire arms, smearing blood

on passer-by’s eyelids, noses, collar bones — see!

he wiggles his fingers. see, and tell them how much I hate

fags. like a loud noise, they scatter — like deer interrupted,

they stagger with curlers and flapping breasts and hairy

legs, throwing bibles like lethal tampons holy water timed grenades:

I am here for talking. talking. we close the doors between

their noses. we know better than this. God sits somewhere

above us, head in his palm, mourning –

what have you done, my people? oh, my people.

 

“God Picks Me Up As I’m Dancing on the Bar and Carries Me Home”

by Christine Reilly

 

But I was having fun, I say.

 

 

 

Outside, we can see a little leak in the moon.

She’s just getting it out of her system,

he tells me.

She has too much hormone inside.

 

Her insides rock-salt colored,

Spilling, spreading open like a silk umbrella

 

You can’t keep doing this to your body, god tells me.

Easy for him to say.  His body’s as thin as a wafer,

a gamey bouquet of flint and cloud.

He digs a hole inside me,

Pulling out a worm.  12 3 Tequila I yelp.

It’s too late.

 

“Red Sadness”

by Peter Shin

 

Oh what red sadness splattered on the ground,
The sweetest and fairest I know from all around.
You slipped from my hand,
And fell on the land.

Oh such sadness, why did you have to fall?
You were the sweetest, the sweetest of them all.
Why tomato did you have to spatter?
You were supposed to be served on my platter.
Great tomato you were to be put on my salads,
Now because of you I write such sad ballads.

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Photographic Evidence

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:24 am

“Larry, Curly, Moe, and Homer”

by David Martin

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Musical Notes

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:20 am

“Hobo Harmonica”

by Glenn Dysarz

 

Some kids walking along the railroad tracks found the body down by the creek where the trestle bridge crosses over.

 

Sheriff Joe thought the old hobo got caught out on the trestle the night before. A train must have come along and that was it for him, knocked him clean off. We rolled the body over and it was a god awful mess.

 

James from the coroner’s office was going through the hobo’s pockets, looking for personal effects, when he exclaimed to me, “Hey, Deputy Roy check this out.”

 

There in his outstretched hand was a gleaming chrome harmonica. It was in perfect condition. Engraved on the top side in fancy lettering script was the name “Charlie.”

 

James held the harmonica to his lips and blew. There was a long, low raspy wail

sound, and as he slid the piece along his lips the sound changed to a high pitched squeal.

 

“Boys this here is a keeper, pure quality,” he smiled. “I used to play you know.

I call dibs if nobody claims her.”

“Bag it up, Jim,” called Sheriff Joe solemnly and James complied, slipping the

harmonica into a plastic evidence bag.

 

We got the deceased bundled up and James and I carried him up from the

creek and back into town.

 

A week went by and nobody came for the old hobo, so he was given a John Doe

burial out at the town cemetery.

 

James laid claim to the harmonica and sometimes, late in the evening, he could be heard blowing out tunes while he worked alone in the coroner’s office down the hall.

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The Scrotal Sector

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:19 am

“Religious Education”

by Eric Leja

 

I have no idea how it came to this. I found myself sitting under those fluorescent lights, being hypnotized by their hum. The room reeked of farts and other smells children tend to emit. The desks, placed neatly in rows of eight by nine, were dinged and carved into. This was my new nightlife. At least it was better than the pizza joint I spent my days in. I had a masters degree in World Theology. It’s a degree about as marketable as a bag of shit. I would’ve been better off learning how to be a janitor. Like I said, I don’t know how this happened. I just took an elective about religion and it interested me. I kept going with it for some reason and ten years and a bajillion dollars in loans later, I’m spending my nights teaching kids who can’t afford a private school about their faiths, and my days delivering slices for Freddy’s pizza.

However, I was very good at it. And I knew it all. I taught Catholics on Tuesday, Jews on Wednesday, Muslims on Thursday and all types of protestants over the weekend. It made me feel good about myself, I must admit. I instructed youth in their respective religions, so they may go into the world confident in their God. And all my bases HAD to be covered; when I reach the pearly gates, I don’t care if I’m looking at Jesus, Allah, or motherfuckin’ Buddha, ’cause I’ve dabbled in every damn faith there is.

The first of the kids began trickling in. The scuffing of their shuffling feet gave my ears a break from the mind-numbing buzz of the lights. They were completely miserable and unenthusiastic. It was a little unfair.  Just because their parents couldn’t afford to send them anywhere but the godless state funded battleground of public education, they were punished with an extra hour of class. I felt for them. At ten years old the last place on earth you want to be at is in a classroom after three in the afternoon. So I tried to keep the class as interesting as possible. I actually had a great lesson for today about the last supper.

The little hoodlums had all finally shown up and were sitting at their desks in the yellow, smelly, humming room. I was about to start when Timmy raised his hand. Timmy was a little dipshit who always asked the most asinine questions: “Is it stealing if I pick a penny up from the floor?” “Is SpongeBob going to hell?”

However, nothing could prepare me for the doozy he was about to drop on me this time. Glaring at the curious kid, I addressed everyone, “Good evening, class. Aaaaand Timmy already has a question. What’s on your mind, Tim?”

“Mr. Teacher, I think I sinned the other day.” He was near sniffling. Jesus Christ.

“Well, Tim, that’s something you need to speak about with-” Shit. What was today? Oh yeah, Tuesday. Catholics. “That’s something you should discuss with the priest in the confessional, okay buddy?” He looked scared. And his big, innocent, ten year old eyes, filled with a ten year old’s concern, caught the better of me. I curse the moment they did forever. “Are you okay, Tim? Maybe we can talk after class.”

He sucked on his lip nervously, “But I don’t wanna wait. And I… I don’t want the father to yell at me. But… well… I was watching this show… and this lady came on… with these really big… um… boobs…” There was a collective giggle, and even I had to smirk.

“It’s not a sin to see women on TV like that. But make sure you get permission from your parents before you watch any shows on television.” I said, genuinely trying to be caring.

“Well, my mom was downstairs, and the lady on the TV was wearing almost nothing… and I… I kinda started playing with my wiener a little…”

My God. The class erupted. Some girls “Ewww”ed in disgust, and boys laughed.

“It’s not a wiener it’s a woo-hoo!” Little Ross chimed in.

“Nuh-uh! Only girls have woo-hoos!” Someone in the back corrected him. They were all giving their two cents now. This was a rather slippery slope.

“My mom said it’s called a ‘Paul Walker’.”

“Hey I saw a movie with Paul Walker!”

“Gross! Sammy watches wiener movies!”

A collective “Ewwwwwww!” from the class.

“Children!” I yelled, “This is not talk for the classroom. And, Timmy, this is an incredibly private matter. And you should talk to your parents about it before you talk to anyone else.”

He simply went on to explain, his innocent eyes still near hell-fearing tears, “Well, Teacher, my mom did come in the room. But I was so scared I hid it. I have this teddy with a hole in the back. So I shoved it in there. But that didn’t help. That only made it awesome!’

I put my head into my tired hands. Just then, a curly haired, cranky, little girl, with more attitude than any adult should even have, jumped in. “Did the bear consent?” She demanded, cocking her head.

Timmy was more nervous now, “Uh… I don’t know…”

“Then you raped it.”

My head popped back up like it was on a spring, “Angela! How do you even- Okay, never mind. That’s enough. We’re learning about the last supper today. That’s Jesus’ last night on earth before He died for our sins!” I lost them. They were all looking at Tim and waiting to hear what happened next, my passionate explanation of their religion fell upon deaf ears.

“So, anyway, I went running out of the room when my mom came in. I had to hold up my pants with one hand, and I had to use the other one to hold teddy on… my… Paul Walker…” He looked at the boy who suggested the moniker as he nodded with approval. “…And I ran outside. I know I’m not ‘sposed to go into the street, but I was scared. A big car almost hit me, and the guy inside started screaming all sorts a bad words at me. I dropped teddy and ran down the block. Then, there were a buncha big girls, like almost grown ups, down there. And they were REALLY pretty so that didn’t help my Peter Walker go away.”

“It’s Paul.” Someone corrected.

“No you can call it a Peter too, you can.” David, formerly one of my best students, added. A little too confidently.

All these dick terms had Tim a bit confused. “Oh. Okay. Well, then the pretty girls started laughing at me when I ran by them. Which was really mean. So I turned around and I called them a bunch of skanks.”

My eyes widened at that one.

“I heard it on TV once. And boy the pretty girls didn’t like that. They started chasing me. I was running real fast. But it was hard with my Peter out and everything. I just kept screaming at them too. I don’t remember how long I ran, but I was getting real tired. And then a policeman came up with his car! His sirens were going and everything!” The class gasped.

Erica perked up in her desk, “Really? Wow! My dad says you need to always stay away from police!”

“My daddy said the police are our friends.” Shayne argued.

“My daddy says he’ll come home again when the police leave him alone.” A timid voice from the back added.

“Hey kids!” I yelled, desperately, “Anyone want to know about Jesus!?” They looked at me, as if to be surprised I was even still there.

“Yes, Mr. Teacher. But I thought Jesus might’ve sent the police at me. On account of playing with my wiener. So that’s why I ran from them too.” He had the class’s complete, undivided, unsalvageable, attention. “I knew his car was fast, so I ran through people’s yards. One lady was outside and she screamed real loud when I went through. And I banged my wiener on one of her tomato plant thingies and it really hurt! But I kept going. Boy, I didn’t want that big old policeman to get me. I ended up in an alley somewhere. And there were big kids. Boys this time. They were smoking.”

“My brother smokes. It’s so cool.” Dylan informed us.

Angela spun around, “Smoking makes you die.”

Tim continued, “I know it makes you die. So I was scared at first. But the big kids didn’t yell or chase me or anything. One of em just looked at me. And he told me to put my wiener away. Only he called it a… a cock. But I don’t think you’re ‘sposed to say that, right, Mr. Teacher?”

Finally. An in. “Right, Tim. You’re also not supposed to talk when the teachers trying to-”

“So I put it away,” He went right on with it. Little shit was getting cocky, “And fixed my pants up. And the big kids were actually really nice to me. They said a lot of bad words. But they were kinda cool. But I wanted to get home so I had to say bye. But one of em gave me his cigarette.” Another collective gasp. “I didn’t want to smoke it. But I didn’t want to get yelled at anymore, so I puffed on it as I walked home.”

“Wooooaaaahhhh.” Dylan was impressed.

“I only smoked it for a little bit though. It was kind of gross. I got rid of it when I got near my house.”

Oh my God, was this the end? Finally. Let’s get back to class.

“My mom yelled at me when I got home, but she wasn’t mad for very long. But then later that night I put the TV on again, and I saw another really pretty lady…”

“Tim. Story times over, come on now.”

“But this time I played with my wiener real hard and something crazy happened!”

Holy Mother of God. “Tim! Enough!”

“And it was super cool but it made a mess everywhere! And then my dog started licking at it and I felt really really bad.”

The class, was awestruck. All these kids just stared at their new hero. Their new, weird, little fucking hero. I ran my fingers hard through my hair as I realized this was probably the end of my career.

“So, does that mean I sinned, Mr. Teacher? Am I going to go to hell?”

I stared at little Timmy and answered him as matter of factly as possible, “Tim, there is not a doubt in my mind, that you will go straight to hell. Where you will burn, for all of eternity.”

Since then, I’ve only delivered pizzas.

 

 

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The Palate Cleanser

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:18 am

“Church of the Purple Mango Oma”

by Eric Suhem

 

“I must find the Purple Mango Oma, he will have the answers to my
questions of existence,” murmured Elba the Waitress, staring at her order
pad.

“Well that’s wonderful, but we would each like a tuna melt and a Sprite,”
said the Johnsons, having arrived at the restaurant in matching magenta
sweaters. “Now — uhmm — Elba,” said Bill Johnson as he squinted at the
waitress’s name tag, “We’d also like an order of onion rings and –” But
Elba didn’t seem to be hearing them. Although she was writing on the
order pad, it didn’t pertain to the Johnson’s meal. She was scribbling
the words “Why am I here?” furiously over and over again, tearing off
pieces of paper and throwing them onto the floor.

Elba was feeling that something was missing in her life. She was getting
tired of the dead-end waitress job, and had had another argument with her
husband earlier that morning, over his habits: On Tuesdays he would
dress up as a stern nun and speed across the church lawn on a tricycle,
demanding a bushel of crunchy seed from the confused squirrels and birds
in his path. “This Tonka toy, Lincoln log, erector set society will not
withstand the steady ooze of the human protoplasm soul juice,” said the
stern nun, staring out from a habit, sucking on a Mr. Frosty popsicle.
Elba and her husband were having issues.

Looking to fill the void, Elba turned to a book written about the Purple
Mango Oma. She had found it in the street. On the book’s cover was a lone
figure, out of focus, frolicking in a Tibetan meadow. It was said that
the Purple Mango Oma had sat for 4 years on the shore of a lake, not
saying a word, in deep meditation. He had attracted a huge following, and
was revered as an enlightened sage. People would sacrifice their lives to
him if he twitched that desire. Elba had not initially been one of the
Purple Mango Oma’s followers, but had slowly been drawn in by the utopian
promises in the book.

The Purple Mango Oma was actually a man named Kevin who had ingested a
household drain cleaner, mistaking it for an energy drink. After nearly
dying at the hospital, Kevin somehow survived, and was wheeled out of the
hospital on a white cart, his ravaged, pale, bloated body twitching
about. A group of people were somehow drawn to Kevin, and became his
disciples and worshippers, renaming him the Purple Mango Oma, enraptured
by his manner of confused simplicity and dazed harmony. Thousands would
throw flowers to him, and grapple with each other to touch his purplish
spasmodic flesh.

Elba glanced at the Johnsons’ newspaper, and was stunned to see that the
Purple Mango Oma was in town for a publicity appearance at the Civic
Auditorium. She threw her waitress apron on the Johnsons’ table, and ran
out the restaurant door, headed for the auditorium, arriving as the 573rd
flower landed on the Purple Mango Oma’s left big toe. She bought her
ticket and jostled her way past pamphlet salespeople to the front of the
audience.

“Oh Purple Mango Oma, what is the meaning of life? I need the answer!”
beseeched Elba. The Purple Mango Oma only belched, drooled, and rolled
around on the white table, his handlers dousing the sweat from his pores
with large sponges. Elba looked into his blurry eyes, seeing nothing
there. The Purple Mango Oma belched again, and fell off the white table.

Elba left the auditorium, and drove back to the restaurant, staring at
the flowers in the street’s median strip. She’d never noticed how
beautiful they were. She thought of her husband. He was disturbingly
eccentric, but only on Tuesdays, when he put on his nun’s habit. Elba
thought of her job, deciding that it wasn’t so bad, the tips were good.
And even if things were not perfect, they could be worse.

In the restaurant, she found the Johnsons, who were still at the table,
in their magenta sweaters, looking at their watches. “You’ve been gone
for three hours!” said Mrs. Johnson.

“This is going to be deducted from your tip!” said Mr. Johnson sternly.

Elba smiled and went to the kitchen to get their tuna melts, onion rings,
and Sprites.

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The Astral Plane

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:17 am

“Obits From the Future”

by Mrs. Sowerberry

Snoop Dogg Alive and Well

June 11, 4019

It has become apparent that celebrated rapper and marijuana enthusiast Snoop Dogg will never die.

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No, YOU’RE Fucked Up!

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:15 am

“The Confession”

by Michael Moran

 

Mary Margaret McBride was a devout Catholic and a prominent parishioner at the Church of the Immaculate Conception. She went to mass every morning and to confession every Saturday. Most people felt that the sins she confessed on those Saturdays must have been those of thought because her words and deeds were always in keeping with the tenets of her faith. She had six children all of whom had attended or were currently enrolled in Catholic schools or colleges. Today, however, Mary Margaret was worried about one of those children.

Her youngest son, Bobby, now a freshman at Holy Redeemer Academy, was basically a good kid, but he had always shown a rebellious streak. Recently Mary Margaret noted a troublesome change in his behavior.  Instead of going to confession at the Immaculate Conception, Bobby was confessing his sins at St. Rocco’s church in the next town.  To most people, where one chooses to go to confession may not seem like a reason for concern. However, in this part of the country, Catholic churches reflected the predominant nationality of their parishioners. The Immaculate Conception was considered an Irish church, St. Stanislaus on the other end of town was Polish, and St. Rocco’s across the river was an Italian church.  To the Protestants in the area, Catholic was Catholic, but many of Catholic faithful would drive miles out of their way to attend church with their own kind. The McBride family had always structured their lives around the Immaculate Conception church, and for Bobby to start going to confession somewhere else was a concern.

The fact that Bobby had chosen St. Rocco’s was particularly galling to Mary Margaret. Although she believed it to be a sin and probably owned up to it in those Saturday confessions, she just did not care much for Italians. She blamed them for the fact there was never an Irish Pope. She often referred to the members of the Holy Name Society at St. Rocco’s as “made men” as if they were members of a crime family. But those who knew Mary Margaret best knew that her animosity toward the people of St. Rocco’s was not rooted in papal politics or Mafia allegations, but in jealousy over sausage sandwiches.

Every summer most of the churches in the area sponsored festivals or bazaars where ethnic foods were a central attraction.  Mary Margaret always chaired the planning committee for the annual shindig at the Immaculate Conception. The specialty food of the Immaculate Conception was potato pancakes made from Mary Margaret’s family recipe. The potato pancakes were popular and tasty, but they never received the notoriety of St. Rocco’s sausage and pepper sandwiches. Every year people all over the valley raved about the sausage and pepper sandwiches at St. Rocco’s. The sandwiches even received mention in a regional travel guide. All of that so infuriated Mary Margaret that she never ate sausage or peppers in any form, always sneering, “They give me gas.” She prayed for forgiveness and asked God to make her more charitable toward the people of St. Rocco’s but she just could not get past her feeling.

For her son now to begin receiving one of the sacraments at this church of Sicilian sausage makers just did not set well with Mary Margaret. Why was he doing this? Could it be that he was attracted to one of those cute Italian girls? She hoped not. She did not fancy the idea of having grandchildren named Vito, Guido, or Salvatore. When she finally asked Bobby why he went to St. Rocco’s, he said that he liked to play basketball behind the church with some of the guys from that parish. Because Bobby had never been much of a basketball fan, she remained suspicious.

One Saturday afternoon Mary Margaret followed Bobby and some of his friends to St. Rocco’s. Wearing a hat with a black veil that covered her face, she slipped into the back of the church to watch the people at the confessionals in the front. She noticed something odd. Bobby and his friends we willing to wait in line at one confessional, that of Father Tomassetti, rather than going to another one that was open. Her curiosity was now piqued to an even greater level. Although it posed a moral dilemma for her, she began trying to listen to conversations between Bobby and his friends.

About a week later Bobby and some of the neighborhood boys were watching a ball game in the family room in the McBride’s basement. Mary Margaret, upstairs in the living room, was down on her hands and knees with her ear close to the air duct in an effort to hear some of the conversation among the boys. Between the play-by-play announcer on the TV and the generally poor conduction through the air vents, Mary Margaret could hear only bits and pieces of the boys’ conversation. She heard Jimmy Murphy say, “It’s not right to do it with anybody let alone a priest.” Another voice said, “We’ll probably go to Hell.” Then amidst loud cheering from the ballgame on TV she was certain she heard the word “AIDS.”

Mary Margaret recoiled from the air duct as if she had received a jolt of electricity.  ”Oh my God!” she exclaimed to no one in particular. She had read with disgust about the scandals in the Church related to inappropriate behavior by priests, but she never thought anything like that could happen in her community. Could there be something like this involving her son and a priest? Holding her head with one hand and her stomach with the other, she walked in circles for several minutes then, staring up at the picture of the Blessed Virgin that was displayed on her wall flanked by pictures of John and Robert Kennedy, she decided to do what she always did in times of crisis, go to the family priest.

She hurried off to the rectory without so much as a phone call to warn of her arrival. She had to see the rector, Father John Conlin.  Father Conlin, who reminded those of a certain age of Spencer Tracy in the movie Boys Town, was a wise and compassionate man beloved by young and old alike. He was not surprised to see Mary Margaret at his door in a state of panic. Such visits had become an all too frequent ritual over the years. In most cases Mary Margaret’s concerns were diffused with some calming talk and a cup of Earl Grey tea. For example, there was the time when her oldest son, on the day of his first communion, forgot about the three hour fast then required before taking communion and had absent mindedly eaten an M&M as the family was preparing to go to church. Mary Margaret feared that she would have to pull the boy out of the first communion ceremony. Father Conlin assured her that there was a special dispensation for children and bridegrooms allowing them to break the fast. This of course was baloney, but Conlin knew that God would not be offended by a seven-year-old who ate an M&M. Then there was the time that Mary Margaret was upset because her daughter Marie was dating a Jewish boy. She ran to Father Conlin asking, “Isn’t it true that Jews have no better chance of getting into Heaven than they do of getting into the local county club?” Father Conlin assured her that there were Jews in both Heaven and in Fox Hill Country Club. “As a matter of fact,” he told her, “I play golf at the club with Rabbi Silverstein once a month.” It turned out that the name of the boy that Marie was dating was Cone and not Cohen and that he was not Jewish but Methodist. That only made Mary Margaret a bit less uneasy because Methodist or Jew, he still wasn’t Catholic.

Today however, Mary Margaret’s fears could be set aside so easily. Few years ago Father Conlin would not have thought anything of Bobby’s behavior. But he too had been appalled by the recent scandals in the Church and, although he knew Silvio Tomassetti to be a good priest, he felt that the issue could not simply be dismissed.

“Mary Margaret, I’m sure that this is not anything to be concerned about. But, we should get to the bottom of it quickly. Please tell Bobby come over to talk with me this afternoon.”

Shortly thereafter a knock came at the rectory door.

“Hello Bobby.”

“Hi Father, What’s up?”

“Come in and sit down. Bobby, your mother tells me that you have been going to confession at St. Rocco’s.”

Bobby, squirming a bit in his seat responded, “Yes Father.”

“And I understand that you confess only to Father Tomassetti, is that right?”

His face starting to turn a bit red, Bobby managed a barely audible “Uhuh.”

“Bobby let’s cut through the malarkey, I want you to tell me if there is anything that I should know regarding your friends and Father Tomassetti.”

Now, his voice trembling, Bobby said “Father, If I tell you what we’ve been doing, you’ll tell me we’re going to Hell.”

With a knot in his stomach and his most stern expression on his face, Father Conlin said “Bobby, you won’t go to hell you’re just a boy, but it is important that you tell me what is going on.”

“Well,” Bobby said, “Some friends at St. Rocco’s told us that Father Tomassetti was losing his hearing and if you go to confession and whisper your sins he can’t hear you. He won’t admit that he can’t hear so no matter what you confess, he always gives you the same penance, five Our Fathers, five Hail Marys and a good Act of Contrition, and no lectures. So we started going to confession to Father Tomassetti because we knew we could tell him anything and he wouldn’t hear it.”

With the knot in his stomach beginning to loosen, Father Conlin said, “Your mother thought she heard one of friends mention AIDS, did she hear correctly?”

“Yes, Father, the Bishop told Father Tomassetti that he should get hearing aids. Since he got those aids he hears everything you say in confession. So we might as well just go to you for confession. No offense Father. Father, am I going to Hell?”

Putting his head down to try to hide the smile that was slowly spreading across his face, Father Conlin said, “No Bobby, you’re not going to Hell. But when I tell you mother what you were doing I’m afraid you’ll think you’re in Hell. See you at mass Sunday.”

 

 

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Department of Human Resources

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:13 am

“Divine Justice”

by Tim Chorney

 

The bellow rumbles through the cavernous office shaking the florescent lights and enveloping the shabby space in a cloud of falling dust.

 

“Paul! What the fuck is the matter with you?”

 

“Holy crap!” shouts Paul. “It’s the big guy. Just be quiet and let me handle everything.”

 

The disembodied voice takes the form of a well-groomed, diminutive man sporting an elegant Italian suit and gray suede shoes. He stares silently at Paul like a boxer trying to intimidate his opponent during the pre-fight instructions. His silence does not last long.

 

“For fuck sakes! You have me appearing on a tortilla in Mexico City tonight at 7:50? I was on a waffle in Guatemala two days ago and a bun in Honduras the night before. Are you planning to burn my image into every piece of dough in Latin America? It’s also Grammy night. You know how fucking busy I am on Grammy night. There’s nothing more important than the Grammys. How long have you been doing this goddamned job?”

 

“I’m sorry,” stammers Paul. “We’re always told that you have to do this sort of tortilla stuff to reconnect with ordinary believers.”

 

“I’m aware of that. But not on Grammy night! Despite what everybody thinks, I can’t be everywhere at once. Fuck the tortilla! I have to get my ass to the Grammys. Kanye West and Carrie Underwood are both up for awards in the same category this year and we have to pick a winner. I’m going to intervene like always, but it’s a brutal choice. They’re both such hardcore believers. Paul, I’m leaning towards Kanye. I understand he’s a prick, but I’m not partial to Carrie Underwood and you know how much I hate country music — especially the new shit.”

 

“I find Kanye’s new one derivative,” responds Paul.

 

“It’s a banal piece of crap, but he is a true believer and I have to acknowledge that in some way.”

 

The dapper man’s gaze turns towards me. His bellicose mood dissolves and a wide smile stretches across his face.

 

“Hello sir. I’m Jason,” I say awkwardly. “I don’t have a clue what’s going on. It’s my first day.”

 

“I know,” says the man as he steps closer to me, his hand tidying his impeccably quaffed hair. “I know everything.”

 

He directs a corny wink my way before theatrically slinging an arm around me.

 

“Don’t worry. You’re going to do fine in this job. Remember, it’s all about setting priorities. Don’t be afraid to make mistakes. I’m not as vengeful as a lot of people say. Paul can be a bit of a fuck-up, but he’ll guide you through.”

 

I do like Paul. With a bright red face and a wildly contrasting bob of white hair, his appearance is startling, but demeanor unpretentious and affable. His deadpan sense of humor has kept me happily off-balance all morning. One could certainly be burdened with a less pleasant boss on a new job.

 

“So, have you chosen?” asks Paul. “I’m not making this call.”

 

“Yes,” replies the man decisively. “It’s going to be Kanye. Paul, make it happen. I don’t want any mistakes this year. This is very important as you know.”

 

With that, the outrageous visitor is gone.

 

“Holy shit!” I blurt. “That was amazing. God is much shorter than I thought he would be.”

 

“You know he can hear you,” warns Paul.

 

“He doesn’t look at all like he does on those pieces of burned toast.”

 

“That Jesus image with the beard and long hair tests the highest with focus groups,” explains Paul. “So it’s the look we most often use. Maybe it’s because he resembles John Lennon. I don’t know. But it continually scores through the roof with all the believers we sample. That pleases the shit out of our team of marketing gurus. And believe me, God doesn’t make a move on anything image-related without consulting a bevy of advertising heavyweights.”

 

“I had no idea,” I say. “He’s a bit vain isn’t he?”

 

“No comment.”

 

“Grandiose too.”

 

“Well, he is God.”

 

“Still, I thought he would be a bit more understated. And he hates country music? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

 

“Yup,” nods Paul. “Garth Brooks, Toby Keith — he hates em all.”

 

“He sure swears a lot.”

 

“You try to run a universe without swearing.”

 

“He also stands too close to you when he talks.”

 

“Yes he does.”

 

Heaven is a strange place. Not only did I learn that God can’t actually be in two places at once, but he also has no concept of personal space. Who would have thought? Then again, I didn’t think that I would have to work after I was dead either — but such is death.

 

Incidentally, the revelation that God can’t be in two places at the exact same time has serious implications for me on my new job as a logistical coordinator. Matters of life and death, happiness and sadness, Grammy or no Grammy, are all determined by God getting to the right place at the right time. It’s my job, along with countless others, to make sure that he does.

 

“When bad things happen to good people there’s no malice involved,” explains Paul. “It just means we didn’t do our job. There is no such thing as evil — just bad logistics. By the way, there are no such things as miracles either — only hard-working stiffs like us doing our jobs right. Here’s your desk. Get to work, and don’t worry, I’m right here to help you.”

 

I squeeze behind my weather-beaten, faux wood desk ready for action. The workspace is okay, but a little cramped. I have less room than I had at Hewlett-Packard when I was alive. I somehow imagined heaven would be a little roomier. One of the wheels on my chair also squeaks. I wonder who I could talk to about that.

 

Within minutes of manning my computer, I’m making life and death decisions. Reading someone’s prayers and sending God to intercede is obviously more responsibility than I had as a technical support manager at HP, but I grasp the basics quickly. By noon, I’ve intervened in a boxing match, diverted an elevator accident, and helped Stevie Wonder write a new song.

 

Maybe God can’t be everywhere at once, but he comes pretty damn close.

 

“How’s it going?” asks Paul, leaning over to view my computer screen.

 

“I just saved four people in this bus crash,” I assert proudly, only reluctantly adding a caveat. “Unfortunately, three people did die.”

 

“Why didn’t you have God step in before the bus actually crashed?” asks Paul. “If you prevent the accident in the first place you won’t have to scramble around trying to save people after the fact.”

 

“Yeah, I guess I could have just stopped the bus. It’s so simple, but didn’t occur to me. Not to make excuses, but I had a kid down a well at almost the same time.”

 

“It makes us look ridiculous to have an omnipotent God who can’t stop a stupid bus from going off the road during a blizzard,” explains Paul. “You made God appear less useful than a good set of snow tires. Shit like this gives every loud-mouthed atheist around the ammunition to challenge God’s very existence. When we make mistakes like these I’m amazed we have any believers at all.”

 

“Am I in trouble?”

 

“Big trouble.”

 

“Really?”

 

“Nah,” says Paul glibly. “Just kidding! I’ve been here since the fifth century and that’s a fuck-up we can’t seem to solve. It happens every minute. Don’t you read the papers? Why do you think there are plane crashes or subway accidents? Bad logistics. Some jerk behind a computer with his head up his ass falls asleep and all hell breaks loose. No offense.”

 

“Or sends God to appear in a tortilla on Grammy night.”

 

“It can happen to anyone is all I’m saying,” responds a slightly annoyed Paul.

 

“Do you see Marty over there?” he whispers. “The Titanic hit the iceberg while he was busy lighting up a cigarette. We’ve never let him live it down. If James Cameron only knew.”

 

“What do I do about the agnostics or non-believers?” I ask, apparently only now realizing that I’m intervening exclusively on behalf of believers.

 

“Nothing. They’re on their own. I hate to sound cold, but those are the rules. Their lives are governed by free will and random chance. We don’t get involved.”

 

“What if two believers are praying to win the exact same contest?” I ask. “Obviously they can’t both win.”

 

“Those are tough calls,” says Paul. “I once had eight Olympic sprinters in the blocks all praying to win the same goddamned race. Try to sort that one out!”

 

“What did you do?”

 

“I just picked the guy who was wearing the biggest gold cross on his neck. It seemed like the logical way to go. I never got any flak from the big guy so I assume I made the right choice. You have to use your common sense in those cases.”

 

“When prayers go unanswered, don’t people question their own faith?” I ask. “I’m surprised you didn’t have seven atheists on your hands by the end of the race.”

 

“You would damn well think that,” laughs Paul. “But it rarely, if ever happens. People are funny that way. No matter how many times their prayers get ignored, they always come back to God with their faith intact. It doesn’t make any sense to me, but I’m not a psychologist.”

 

Now I’m really getting curious.

 

“Why is God so interested in the petty ambitions of singers and athletes?”

 

“I don’t know. He just is.”

 

“Have you ever sent God to intervene in a sporting event and a plane crash happened at the exact same time?”

 

“Don’t ask.”

 

“What were your computers like a thousand years ago?”

 

“Very slow,” says an increasing frustrated Paul. “Could you please get back to your screen.”

 

“Sorry Paul, just one more question. Is there any way I can look in on my son back on earth? I promised him on my deathbed that I would be there watching when he graduated, got married, or maybe won an Olympic medal. He is an excellent competitive swimmer.”

 

“Yes, but I wouldn’t recommend it,” cautions Paul. “Don’t assume, like everyone seems to, that your kid will be doing something wonderful when you decide to look in on him. Whenever I checked on my son he was either picking his nose or masturbating.”

 

Maybe I’ll think it over. The Olympic medal was a long-shot anyway. It’s time to get back to work.

 

The afternoon comes and goes with remarkable speed. However, after presiding over an unbroken string of prayers involving car accidents, university exams and cancer tests, I’m getting tired. I only barely refrain from making a sweatshop joke — probably a bad move on your first day.

 

“Paul, do I have to do this job for the rest of eternity? It seems like it might be a long haul.”

 

“You complain now, but I think you’ll find that it goes by in a heartbeat. Then you’ll bitch that it’s all over much too soon.”

 

Either he’s putting me on again or Paul’s notion of eternity is different than mine. I try to focus on the less abstract short term.

 

“When do we get off tonight?”

 

“Crap!” screams Paul, his bloodshot eyes fixed upon his watch. “It’s 8:00 and I forgot to cancel God’s appearance in that damned tortilla in Mexico. This is horrible!”

 

“Yeah, but God knew about that himself,” I say reassuringly. “Didn’t he just go to the Grammys on his own?”

 

“There’s a glitch in our system. I still have to make the change here or he’s on his way to Mexico. I’m in such shit. It’s not fair. You kill three people in a bus crash — no big deal. I lose Kanye a Grammy, and I’m probably going to end up giving Augustine of Hippo sponge-baths for the rest of eternity.”

 

“Big deal. Didn’t you say that eternity would go by in a heartbeat?”

 

“Not funny.”

 

“What are you so worried about?” I ask. “God said that he wasn’t the vengeful type.”

 

“Yeah, tell the Sodomites,” mumbles an unconvinced Paul. “He’s a goddamned sociopath.”

 

“Can’t he hear you?”

 

“Paul!” screams a familiar voice.

 

God is now in front of Paul, with no more than the width of a tortilla separating them.

 

“You twat! You sent me to Mexico after I specifically ordered you otherwise? Kanye lost because of you. I’ve had it with your incompetence! You’ve fucked up the Grammys for the last time.”

 

A melodramatic click of God’s fingers and Paul drops to the floor convulsed in pain. I watch in disbelief as my new mentor and friend screams like a man being burned to death from the inside.

 

The divine one observes his handiwork intently as his victim continues to writhe. Paul begs for mercy, but his pleas only elicit a sadistic grin from the pint-sized deity. God is actually enjoying himself! Paul begins to plead for death, perhaps in his agony forgetting he’s already been dead for some 1500 years. I turn my head and press my hands to my ears, but the hideous concerto continues to echo through my brain. Can God be so unmerciful?

 

Finally the screams cease. Paul has vanished. Only the broken remnants of his Knights Templar Crusaders coffee cup remain to document the appalling event.

 

“Sociopath, eh,” says the self-satisfied master of the universe. “That should learn the bastard.”

 

“Did you send him to hell?” I squeak.

 

“Worse,” grunts God. “Shipping and receiving. Hell is too cushy these days. Look kid. I know I told you that I’m not the vengeful type. I lied. I’m a nasty son-of-a-bitch. Strictly Old Testament. Mean. Arbitrary. Self-centered. I might even be a fucking sociopath. Either way, I don’t forgive and I don’t forget. And don’t ever confuse me with George fucking Burns. I get results by kicking ass, not telling cute jokes.”

 

“It’s only a stupid Grammy,” I blurt, summoning all of the foolish courage I can. “Nobody respects the Grammys anyway.”

 

“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that. Listen shithead. The aspirations of God-fearing musicians are my top priority. More important than car accidents. More important than tidal waves. And certainly more important than some snot-nosed brat who’s fallen down a well in some shit-hole town in Texas. Get it! I put Saint Peter on the rack for all of eternity because he jammed Michael Jackson out of a Grammy in 1980. Imagine what I’d do to you. So here’s the best advice I can impart — don’t you ever screw up the Grammys. Eternity is a long time and I’m a vengeful motherfucker.”

 

“Template Obituary of the Pope”

by Janice Arenofsky

 

John _______, lovingly called “The Pope” by those who knew him, died at the Vatican in Italy from complications of _____________. Originally baptized _____________ , John _______ never married or had children, but according to the NEW YORK TIMES, he learned to speak several languages and write rap songs during his many global business trips. He also raised great sums of money, forgave the Jews for killing Christ and denied denying the Holocaust.

When he was just a sprout, John ______ got on his family’s nerves due to his habit of smiling and waving at strangers. But years of grassroots activism against __________ helped buoy his confidence and inflate his sense of worth. His relatives relaxed, sipped a little cabernet, and predicted huge career success for their favorite __________.

A workaholic, John _____ spent his days writing encyclicals, giving audiences to celebrities and other Special People and deciding whom to canonize. To do this he had to visit Lourdes and other out-of-the way places, buy some souvenirs and practice finding the Virgin Mary in cake frostings, fog banks and cumulus clouds. He spent ____ years in Rome, supervising more than 150 upper-level managers known collectively as clergy, but reviled individually as bishops, cardinals, priests. Some 5 million devout believers troubled over recent religious abuse allegations that clergy prayed too strongly over the dead and tickled young boys until they promised to drop all law suits swore they would face off against the Pope. But as you now know, His Holiness died before they could save enough money to bribe a Swiss Guard to admit them to his presence.

As president and CEO of a global network of Bible-thumpers of every known vocation, John _____ introduced many innovative liturgies, which he sent to his agent who then forwarded them to New York publishing houses where they appeared on amazon.com in hardcover and kindle.

Private, group and “up close and personal” audiences were an integral part of Pope John’s management philosophy. Regional supervisors attended monthly workshops called “retreats,” at which time seminars were given on ring kissing, reciting catechisms backward, wild and crazy exorcisms, and driving the Pope-mobile. John _____was so skilled at time management, he never seemed impatient. He would smile that cheery little smile, wave his hand like a flag and give a great impression of Tiny Tim with his “Hello and God Bless” greetings and salutations.

On rare vacations, he hiked or returned to the old neighborhood. There, he went to a spa, freshened up his joke collection (which his inner circle said dated from the Borgias) and watched a few movies on the church’s no-no (“banned”) list. His favorite ethnic joke? How many _____ electricians does it take to screw in a light bulb in the Sistine Chapel?

In ______ he toured the United States. In the city of ______, he was so happy to see the sun shine that he performed a few miracles. One was the extreme makeover of a girl with buck teeth, pimples and wedge cut. When John _______left, she was laughing and telling the world, “Someday, they’re going to make that guy a saint!”

Most of John ____’s employees never said a bad word about him. That was partly due to the fact that the nuns ran a tight ship, but also to occupational-related perks like tithes, naughty confessions and lifetime guarantees on all the holy water you can bathe in or tap for laates.

John ____’s eccentricities never allowed him to attend office parties or shmooze with the competition (he was always standoffish at ecumenical councils). Nevertheless he dressed well, if a bit too flashy for some people’s tastes, and knew how to accessorize. The staff and hat combo did wonders for him! A couple of times a year–around Christmastime and Easter–John _____ would cater a Texas-style barbecue in Rimini or Bologna for the employees’ families (aka the “unwashed masses”), and everyone would eat, drink and be merry until John _____ would go to his favorite balcony, grab the mike and orate in pontifical fashion. It might be on something topical like euthanasia, contraception or abortion. Or the subject might be esoteric like how many angels can stand on the head of a pin or how many times real fast can you say “incunabula.”

Sources say John _____ died peacefully surrounded by his Jesus collection of beanie babies, his loyal food tasters (they hate running all over the globe, but they can make a mean lasagna) and a few million hot-off-the-press labels boasting “I touched the pope today.” Memorial services were delayed so the Heads of State of Every Nation in the Western Hemisphere might prepare proper eulogies. Contributions can be made to John ______ ‘s favorite charity, Men in White, P.O. Box POPE, Vatican Square, Rome, Italy. Oh yes, his last words? “Ciao, baby.”

 

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Department of Bad Trips

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:10 am

“Airport Security Memories”

by Alex Bernstein

 

One cold Sunday afternoon in 1980, we took my Dad to the airport for a business trip.  Greater Cincinnati Airport (which is in Harrison, Kentucky, by the way) was quiet that day with only a handful of travelers roaming around.  Dad was late and trying to hurry through security.  And I was restless, and bored, and wanted to say goodbye to him in a clever 17-year-old kind of way.  So, just as he went through the X-ray machine, I yelled out:

Hope they don’t find your gun!

From out of nowhere, dozens of security officers appeared, grabbed my father — as well as the businessmen in front of and behind him — threw them all up against the wall, and frisked them, and tore through their luggage.  Dad and the men were incredibly pissed but hurried to get on the plane.  Mom was just wall-eyed.  And a snarling, burly attendant came right up to me.

“Kidding!  Kidding!”  I said. “It was a joke!”

She pointed to a large gray sign, not two feet away from me:

Making jokes is grounds for criminal prosecution.  NO JOKING!

And I thought, wow, they knew I was coming.

 

 


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Annals of the Flesh

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 7:08 am

“Ask Papa Ratzi”

by Pope Benedict XVI

 

Infallible advice from the Vatican’s very own love doctor!

 

Dear Pope,

My boyfriend said that sex would be the most beautiful thing I could do and if I really loved him then I would sleep with him.  I kind of thought he was lying to me because my friend Christina had sex with HER boyfriend and she said it wasn’t really beautiful and she felt like she was a Thanksgiving turkey getting stuffed (she had sex with her boyfriend on Thanksgiving, that’s why she was thinking like that, but then when I had sex with Damon I kind of thought that it made sense even though we weren’t having sex on Thanksgiving!).  Anyway Christina is still together with her boyfriend Randolph, and she said the sex gets way better once you do more of it, BUT once I had sex with him two times Damon left me because he said the sex wasn’t good enough!  How am I ever going to get good at sex if my boyfriend leaves me right after we start doing it and we don’t ever have any time for me to practice and get good????

Sincerely,

Monica in Minneapolis

Dear Monica,

Being “good at sex” is not a skill to cultivate with a boyfriend.  Being “good with God” is where your efforts should lie; once you are established in your relationship with God, He will guide you towards a husband with whom your sexuality will develop beautifully.  

Also, always remember, sex is not for pleasure, it is for baby-making and baby-making alone.  If Damon has left you, then you must embrace the opportunity to NOT have sex until you are married and procreating.  In this fashion, Damon has given you a gift; and although your future husband may resent this Damon, for getting there first, you must remind your future husband that if not for Damon leaving you, you might never have left behind your secular ways of the flesh.

Yours in the Eucharist,

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI, formerly Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Defender of the Roman Faith

 

Dear Pope,

I don’t really know why I’m writing you.  I’m Jewish, for one thing, and an aetheist.  But — okay, so, you also run a large institution, which is both popular and widely loathed at the same time.  How do you deal with it?  Psychologically, I mean?  When people make fun of you on “Saturday Night Live,” how do you not cry to your girlfriend?  Shit, dude, you don’t even have a girlfriend to cry to!  How do you live with all the pressure?  Every time I make a single change on Facebook, the world goes nuts and wants to kill me.  What’s a guy to do?

Sincerely,

Mark Zuckerberg

Dear Mark,

The Catholic Church does offer a solution to your problem, and it is simple: do not change anything. Ever.

Seriously.

Yours in the Eucharist,

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI, formerly Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Defender of the Roman Faith

 

Dear Pope,

Fuck you.

Signed,

American Female Religious & Also Anyone Who Cares About Social Justice

Dear American Female Religious,

This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about.  As per my forthcoming encyclical, please keep your mouths closed unless you are using them to call abortion murder.  Anything else a woman might say is extraneous.

Now, get back to your bishop.  He is probably wondering where you have run off to.

Yours in the Eucharist,

His Holiness Pope Benedict XVI, formerly Joseph Cardinal Ratzinger, Defender of the Roman Faith

,

No Comment

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 6:50 am

“Tis a Rift to be Simple”

by Kelly Anneken, managing editor

You people, again? Don’t you have anything better to do than reading an online absurdist humor journal and laughing and emailing and Tweetering your friends also to read, laugh and email? Isa keeps telling me you don’t, but you’re like the Occupy Movement — all sizzle and no one I want to sleep with!

Anyway, I write to you from St. Dymphna Home for the Sexually Insane –

 

***

 

What the fuck? Some dudes just totally snatched my laptop at St. Dymphna’s, and it turned out it had a PowerPoint presentation some dumb priest sent me on it, full of gay porn! Who watches gay porn anymore?! Why is the Catholic Church 30 years behind the rest of the religions? Everyone’s moved onto Chat Roulette and YouPorn to get their terrifying sexual fantasies fulfilled! Get with the times, or let the nuns take over. Nuns are awesome! They just act like Jesus and no one gets molested!

Wait, where was I?

Oh, right. I’ve been shipped off to the only still-functioning Shaker settlement in North America. You can read all about it on the Wikipedia article I just wrote, because when I got here, the three remaining Shakers told me to “hop on the Interwebs, English, and tell the world how much we Shakers love to shake!” Which is pretty pointless, since it’s pretty obvious these people don’t like to shake, considering they’ve given sex up and all.

Due to budget cuts that have outlawed the sexually insane from living in assisted care facilities where patients can take part in therapeutic menage a trios, those of us whose life choices the courts have refused to sign off on are trundled off to one sex-negative cult or another. They’ve recognized that the so-called “Manson Experiment” didn’t work out as they’d hoped, and moved on from there.

I am here to tell you that they broke the dildo mold when they came up with Shakers. These nutjobs decided that the Lord was speaking through a woman – woman, mind you — named Mother Ann Lee, who was supposed to be the bride of Christ or something? I don’t know, I wasn’t invited to the bridal shower. And God told Mother Ann Lee that Shakers should just not have sex and run around speaking in tongues, which just sounds like a euphemism for oral sex, to me, so really, God was just telling them to put on the brakes after oral sex, even though in the Old Testament he said “Go forth and multiply,” which, confusing, God! Tell those Duggars to slow down, or there won’t be enough 16 year-old albino virgins left to marry them when they arrive at sexual maturity. Free Jinger!

Anyway, that’s what I’ve been telling Sister June, Brother Arnold, and Sister Frances, so I can go hook up with this guy in New Glouscester and still serve my time for my criminal sexuality. My lawyer has instructed me not to reveal any details of my defense, but let’s just say we’re calling Fiona Apple as a character witness. But they’re not willing to budge, which is really bumming my stone. Oh, surprised? The Shakers totally believe in toking up, they’ve kept abreast with modern technology like computers and Air Jordans. Hence my “community service” is telling the world about this defunct religion, that refuses to die, JUST LIKE [name redacted for legal reasons]!!!!!!!!

But religion is powerful. These goobers think they’re going to a special heaven because of their whacked-out opposition to a quick BJ in the Dead River Convenience Store parking lot. Whatever. I once smoked peyote with Owen Wilson, or maybe I just watched Zoolander with my mom, which is pretty much the same thing, even though thank God my mom fell asleep during the orgy scene, because I think everything within a 17 mile radius would have exploded from awkwardness, which, see, I do believe in God, Shakers!

Seriously! If I couldn’t thank God, then there wouldn’t be anyone to thank, and I just can’t live in a world where there’s nothing to thank, because that’s impolite! So fuck you, Shakers, and let me go to stupid New Gloucester, because the only thing I want more than sex right now is to rob a store and [content redacted for legal reasons].


Letters to the Editor

In Religion (Issue 10) on May 1, 2012 at 6:48 am

Howdy there,

I hope you’re keeping well. I’m just getting in touch to ask if you’re in need of any freelance writing at Hobo Pancakes – if so, it’d be an honor to help out and I would love to get involved if you have any need for me.

I’m 29 have been working full-time as a professional writer and researcher for five years; in that time there isn’t a lot I haven’t already covered (there are a few samples below for you to check out). Anything I send over would be written with the site’s readership in mind – as long as you’re happy with the resulting material, you’d be welcome to publish it as you see fit and the content will be owned by you entirely (in that I won’t send it to anyone else, either before or after publication.)

The good news is that I’d be able to offer my services at no charge; the only thing I would ask in return is that I’m able to include a link to a company within the article – nothing adult or in bad taste, just one of the professional businesses for which I freelance. Otherwise I’d be happy to chat about alternative arrangements if you’d rather not link to a corporate site.

Do let me know if you’re interested, and if so I can get something written for you over the course of the next few days. Needless to say, the offer is open to any other sites you might own as well as hobopancakes.com. I appreciate that this kind of offer is not for everyone however, so if I don’t hear from you I won’t trouble you again.

Very best,
Imogen

Some samples for your delectation:

[Redacted]

Dear Imogen,

Are you a real person? Because what sort of professional writer and researcher wants to be a copywriter for an online absurdist humor journal that generates no revenue? What sort of person is named Imogen? Who uses the word delectation? Is that like lactation? If so, we are both uninterested and repulsed. 

Also, you want us to include a link to a company you work for that doesn’t lead anywhere “adult or in bad taste?” Here’s a tip, Imogen: next time you try to scam an online absurdist humor journal, try reading some of their content first. You clearly don’t know us at all.

Angrily yours,

The Hobo Pancakes Team

 

Sex without commitments. Hookup with promiscuous wives. Join swingers parties for sex.

http://justmorecats.com/p4nts

Allen McDowell

Dear Allen,

Initially, we were excited by this note. It’s short, to the point, and brimming with adult content. We were about to email you about possibly linking directly to this corporate site from every article in our upcoming issue, but we stopped when we realized that the URL suggests the presence of cats.

What are we to infer from this? Are we being led to a website featuring felines having NSA relations? Are these promiscuous cat wives we can hope to hook up with? Can we look forward to bowls of Fancy Feast at these swingers’ parties?

There’s just too many questions for us at this juncture. Our standards are notoriously low, but bestiality, with or without p4nts, is just going too far. Good day to you, sir.

Judgmentally yours,

The Hobo Pancakes Team 

 

Dear Kelly and Isa,

I’m writing to say that I love the new issue of Hobo Pancakes.  ”Smut N’ Eggs” and “Dear Monica” look great up on the site. I got a particular kick out of “The Life of Kurt,” and “Institute of Follicular Studies Releases Hair-Raising Report.”

I’ve directed my friends, family and twitter folks to the site, and look forward to reading future issues.

Best,

Kashana

Dear Kashana,

Thank you for not being a scam or a catnip-pushing fraud. And thank you for submitting your work! We love getting attention, too, so thanks for letting everyone you know about our awesome Twitter feed @hobopancakes. Feel free to encourage everyone you know to write us some “Letters to the Editor,” because though we like getting all frothy at the mouth about spam, it’s much better to connect with our fans. Keep writing and submitting, and don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone about that murder you confessed to in your post script.

Gratefully yours,

The Hobo Pancakes Team