It's Friday. Kevin and I met at Sully's. The well-endowed bartender moved away from us. She smiled, but Mike came over and poured the Jameson. Sully came out to say hi and we began to talk more about our days at St, Michael the Marvelous. We really got a kick out of all the shit they tried to lay on us when we were young and impressionable.
I told them that once I got away from there I never looked back. Tammy, my current wife, thinks she is a Wicken. She loves the earth, she feels the spirits, and she thinks that sex brings us closer to the universal spirit, so I'm down with that. ( she says that blow-jobs are not cohesive however).
This is what I figured, religion is kind of like an initiation. If yo pass the test you get to be a part of the "in-group." Then they treat you as if you know something, when in fact what yhey got you to believe is not only shit, it's absurd.
That's the test. They tell you this crap about virgin birth and resurrection and heaven and hell and sin. They tell you that everything that any normal boy thinks about is a sin. Don't touch yourself, don't touch girls, don't get an erection, don't beat-off in the confessional. They tell you Jesus is watching you all the time, and that all these miracles happened and that everyting bad, like dead babies, and hurricanes comes from the devil, or from when God is angry at queers.
By the time you are in sixth grade they give you tests to see if you really believe that kind of shit. If you do then they know they can sell you anything and they have you for life. Then they send you off to war to fight the Muslims whose Mullahs have taught their soldiers their own brand of weird shit.
It makes more sense when Tammy takes Chelsea and me out into the woods to hug the trees. And that really mkes no sense at all.
1 comment:
After a visit to Ireland a couple of years ago, I find Irish whiskey to be a suitable religion. Jameson is a solid, if minor faith, not unlike Sikhism. However, while staying in the Castle Ballynahinch in rural Galway County, I was served by a lovely red-head barmaid (and poetry student at the NUI in Galway) the house whiskey called Connemara.
I'm not certain if it was that the whiskey was really that much better, or if it was the setting -- by the ancient castle's peat-fired hearth next to the river, or the lovely server, or a conspiracy of factors.
But I found it to rival the world's major religions.
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