Me? Oh, I’m just a normal guy. 47. Average height, average weight. I enjoy casseroles, I hate coconuts, but where I go to work each day just might surprise you. I have made a mint selling Mary Kay Cosmetics over the past 20 years. In fact after my first ten years, I earned the coveted Pink Cadillac for which Mary Kay is renowned. As a super duper mega wacko fundamentalist Roman Catholic, I was somehow under the impression that selling as many cosmetics to bored suburban housewives to merit me the blessing of having the Pink Cadillac bestowed upon me, put me somewhere really high up on the list of those who might inherit the throne of St. Peter. Turns out I was wrong. You see, I had been reading my daily Bible passages in the wrong order.  I guess in an effort to make them mean what I wanted them to mean, I mixed, matched and took them out of context at random in an effort to convince myself that the most reliable way to achieve Papacy was to sell hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of lipstick, eyeshadow and rouge. Turns out I was mistaken. I am not, however, a quitter. I just have to change my approach, but I don’t want to waste too many years studying or taking some vow of poverty like monks and priests do (supposedly). There is a much easier way, and the secret was divinely revealed to me by the apparition of an angel of The Lord who called “its” self Gene (since angels don’t have a gender.). In fact Gene looks a lot like the androgynous character named “Pat” from old Saturday Night Live episodes from the late 1980’s. Oh, and he/she/it (Gene) was not wearing white, did not have a pair of golden wings mor a halo, and Gene does not play the harp. Gene still pays me regular visit.  It (Gene) looks to me either like an overweight, butch lesbian or else a very effeminate guy with man boobs, however from the pungent fragrance of roses that fills the room whenever Gene appears, and by the blinding white light that shines all around him..her..Gene, there is no question in my mind or my soul that Gene is the real deal, and that he/she brings with him/her a genuine message from the big guy upstairs. Apparently the zillions of dollars I made off of Mary Kay and those semi-retarded, tract-housing development inhabitant women across America would come in handy. Possibly, my mixing and matching of Bible verses to simply confirm my personal beliefs had unlocked a divine truth: Cosmetics and a Pink Cadillac combined with copious amounts of cash can in fact be the secrets to salvation and the life everlasting. Amen.

So I know I have a tough road ahead of me, but I’m good enough, and I’m strong enough, and doggone it, I wanna be the Pope so badly, I can just feel in the very marrow of my bones that it will happen. Plus, Gene pretty much hinted to me that that is what the Big G Man in heaven told him/her.

So here I go. It’ll happen soon, and when it does I don’t really care so much about repentance or saving the souls of sinners or helping the poor or any of that stuff.  After years of Mary Kay glamor, I really can’t think of anything more grim and dreary. I just can’t wait to excommunicate everyone who ever crossed me. Ever.  My list has been growing over the past 40 years and includes some people like Mrs. Applegate who was my teacher in fourth grade, a woman died more than a decade, ago.  Gene says that as Pope I can even excommunicate dead people, just like non-Mormons who have been dead for centuries can be converted to Mormonism. Just try to imagine Mrs. Applegate all comfy womfy up in paradise about to sit down to her daily bowl of ambrosia, when I suddenly excommunicate her as she’s about to take her first bite. ZAP, she’ll vanish from the golden table nestled in the puffy pink clouds, and with no warning at all she’ll suddenly find herself running naked out of the forest of tree-souls on the edge of the Third Ring of the Seventh Circle of Hell and into the desert of red-hot sand, upon which flakes of fire rain down slowly but ceaselessly. In my opinion, Mrs. Applegate totally belongs in the Third Ring/Seventh Circle because it had been obvious to every student who ever matriculated through her fourth grade class that she was not only violent against God, but she was also a blasphemer of the worst kind. Ha! They didn’t know that one day I would sell enough lipstick to win a both a Pink Cadillac and also the Papacy. OMG, I can say that now since G is pretty much like my homeboy nowadays, all of those playground bullies, and the mean girls who laughed at me in school, and even those construction workers who called me ugly names once because they didn’t like the color of my car, even that guy who lives three doors down from me who daily runs through the Stop sign at the end of our block, they’re all doomed and they don’t even know it.  Right now as I sit here in my living room counting my cash awaiting another imminent re-apparition of Gene to give me the “thumbs-up”, I’m going to take out that list and start picking the rightful punishments for all of those people whom I personally hate.  Excuse me, meant whom I love as sinners but whose sins I hate.  I have the Cliff’s Notes version of Dante Alighieri’s Inferno so that I can start picking the perfect rings and circles for them each.  All of that AND I get to wear a white dress, a fabulous red velvet cape, bejeweled hats and the cutest little ruby slippers that would make Dorothy tremble with jealousy.  I might even come up with some gruesome punishment for Judy Garland for being a gay icon.  Gays!!!  Don’t get me started!  Hate the sin, love the sinner.  Can’t forget that little detail, but I am SO not gay, and I can’t believe you would even insinuate….. Oh nevermind. Man! I am really going to love being The Pope.

P.S. Have you seen the house I get to occupy?  Old world chic and glamor to the max.  Hot Dog!!!

Yeah, and Screw the Poultry and the Dairy Products while you’re at it!
July 26, 2014

Yeah, and Screw the Poultry and the Dairy Products while you’re at it!

I’m young, white, college educated, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not planning on doing anything wrong, neither now nor at any time in the future.  I would, however, very much like to get this out in the open: Monsanto does not condone cannibalism, neither endorses the systematic harvesting of mortal flesh for mass consumption nor drools at the thought of rendering a bountiful population of citizens into edible chunks of protein. None of the fine folks employed by Monsanto fantasize about a future in which farming of their fellow man is a viable practice.  You might be wondering how I can be so sure, and to that I can only reveal that I have extremely credible evidence as well as trustworthy informants on the inside.  

Usually when I take long bus journeys, I like to pass the time counting dead dogs on the side of the road.  Once when I was busy calculating the quantity of deceased canines I had seen whiz past the window, from behind my head I hear a soft voice say, “Maybe they’re just sleeping.” I turned my head to discover that it was the voice of a very old man slowly licking the paper of his rolled cigarette. The bus continued to hurtle south, as the withered palm trees and collapsing shacks all blended together into an infinite gray and green blur.

“No, no, no.” I shake my head becoming increasingly agitated. “They aren’t asleep.” I scream at the tops of my lungs, “I know roadkill when I see it. I’ve counted thirty-eight in the last two hours.”  

The unlit cigarette pressed between his lips, the last match from his ratty old matchbox poised to scratch the rough sandpaper surface, the gentleman pauses and slowly turns his head to stare straight into my darting, manic eyeballs.  It was exactly in that very moment that I remembered how right after my ninth birthday, Daddy threw a tantrum that made him punch a hole in the wall,  break his right hand, and cause his secretary to walk out. That made him punch the wall with his left hand breaking that one too. That is how I ended up being Daddy’s secretary during the summer before fourth grade. We worked from home in an office that Little Steve the Child Molester built in 1964.

Every Christmas Daddy throws a “Taking the Christ Out of Christmas” party and invites everybody. Everybody loves my Daddy except for a small percentage.  We leave out Jesus because he makes Daddy angry, and both of his hands are already broken. We don’t believe in singing Christmas carols.  The only music we are allowed to hear is “The Very Best of Peter Paul and Mary”. 

Today, we’re making our annual “Taking the Christ Out of Christmas” dinner. Mamma soaks a ham in Dr. Pepper while Daddy kicks out the cats and organizes all of his stray bullets into one singular kitchen drawer. My little brother who everyone calls “The Son Of Jasper” is wandering around with his guinea pig appropriately named Yo-Yo Ma.

Mamma says, “Just be sure you put Yo-Yo Ma back in that cage when the company comes. I don’t want us to look like trash.”
July 22, 2014

I’m young, white, college educated, and I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m not planning on doing anything wrong, neither now nor at any time in the future. I would, however, very much like to get this out in the open: Monsanto does not condone cannibalism, neither endorses the systematic harvesting of mortal flesh for mass consumption nor drools at the thought of rendering a bountiful population of citizens into edible chunks of protein. None of the fine folks employed by Monsanto fantasize about a future in which farming of their fellow man is a viable practice. You might be wondering how I can be so sure, and to that I can only reveal that I have extremely credible evidence as well as trustworthy informants on the inside.

Usually when I take long bus journeys, I like to pass the time counting dead dogs on the side of the road. Once when I was busy calculating the quantity of deceased canines I had seen whiz past the window, from behind my head I hear a soft voice say, “Maybe they’re just sleeping.” I turned my head to discover that it was the voice of a very old man slowly licking the paper of his rolled cigarette. The bus continued to hurtle south, as the withered palm trees and collapsing shacks all blended together into an infinite gray and green blur.

“No, no, no.” I shake my head becoming increasingly agitated. “They aren’t asleep.” I scream at the tops of my lungs, “I know roadkill when I see it. I’ve counted thirty-eight in the last two hours.”

The unlit cigarette pressed between his lips, the last match from his ratty old matchbox poised to scratch the rough sandpaper surface, the gentleman pauses and slowly turns his head to stare straight into my darting, manic eyeballs. It was exactly in that very moment that I remembered how right after my ninth birthday, Daddy threw a tantrum that made him punch a hole in the wall, break his right hand, and cause his secretary to walk out. That made him punch the wall with his left hand breaking that one too. That is how I ended up being Daddy’s secretary during the summer before fourth grade. We worked from home in an office that Little Steve the Child Molester built in 1964.

Every Christmas Daddy throws a “Taking the Christ Out of Christmas” party and invites everybody. Everybody loves my Daddy except for a small percentage. We leave out Jesus because he makes Daddy angry, and both of his hands are already broken. We don’t believe in singing Christmas carols. The only music we are allowed to hear is “The Very Best of Peter Paul and Mary”.

Today, we’re making our annual “Taking the Christ Out of Christmas” dinner. Mamma soaks a ham in Dr. Pepper while Daddy kicks out the cats and organizes all of his stray bullets into one singular kitchen drawer. My little brother who everyone calls “The Son Of Jasper” is wandering around with his guinea pig appropriately named Yo-Yo Ma.

Mamma says, “Just be sure you put Yo-Yo Ma back in that cage when the company comes. I don’t want us to look like trash.”

Never faint on the road nor wear clothes that don’t fit.  Further, don’t chew gum. Exercise your jaws in private.
July 22, 2014

Never faint on the road nor wear clothes that don’t fit. Further, don’t chew gum. Exercise your jaws in private.

July 16, 2014

Homage to Jonathan Daniel Pryce. He’s genius!