Wednesday, March 5, 2014

Popes, Dopes, Dreams & Hopes

Among the many things that are beyond my ability to comprehend is the way in which countless millions are drawn - much like moths to the flame - to organized religion.  I am the youngest of six.  The household in which I was raised was Irish Catholic.  To classify myself as a "lapsed" Catholic would be bending the dictionary definition of "lapsed" to a point where all the King's horses and all the King's men might find it impossible to restore it to its natural, pristine condition.  I am - I reckon - an agnostic.  Much to the chagrin of my wife - raised in an Italian Catholic household - I subscribe to the philosophy that the Lord and I have an understanding:  I spend little to no time in his house.  He extends me the same courtesy.

Perhaps it was knowing on the evening of May 30, 1981 that I needed to make a point of saying goodnight to my father as he went to bed - in spite of a relationship that could fairly be described as "tenuous" - because I knew in my gut he was not ever waking up the next morning and being awakened myself by the cries of my mother and my sisters Jill and Kara, which confirmed my hunch that started me on the Road to Disinterest in Salvation.  Maybe I found the thought of the Divine Mr. G killing the principal wage-earner in our household ninety days or so before Kara was going to begin her freshman year in college to be inconsistent with the whole "God is Great!" rap.  Or maybe it was the fact that the disaffected fourteen year-old douche nozzle that I was I had wished my old man dead more times than I could count and that was the one "prayer" that generated a response from the Celestial Seasonings Home Office that caused me to put down my prayer beads and Bible forever.  I know not. 

It matters not.   Once I started down that particular road I have never looked back.  In fact, the more that I have seen really shitty things happen to really outstanding people, such as my mother, my mother-in-law and scads of other friends and loved ones, the faster my little legs have carried me away from those who shop at the Blind Faith Dispensary.  Worry not.  When I die, Margaret shall have me cremated.  I want my soul to get adjusted to the temperature.  Forever is a mighty long time.

I know - because my calendar on the wall of my office tells me so - that today is Ash Wednesday.  If memory serves me correctly this is the first of forty days of Lent, which is the amp-up period that leads to Easter at which time we tack the Cadbury Bunny to a cross and if he gets down by sundown or shits his weight in chocolate-covered eggs we are rewarded with only three more days of Winter or some such thing.

Just this past week I finally saw from the Roman Catholic Church - a/k/a the same group of enablers permitting that self-impressed prick and fucking thief Archbishop John Myers of Newark spend $500,000 to put an addition on his retirement home while simultaneously closing schools in parishes throughout the Diocese of Newark due to "budgetary matters" - that made me think it might be doing something I could believe in.  Pope Frank n' Beans - he who replaced Pope Eggs Benedict (who retired because having gobs of wealth and power while living a tax-free existence in fucking Italy proved to be too stressful for him) - dropped the F-Bomb on the congregation gathered for his weekly blessing at the Vatican this past Sunday.

Truth be told - and he will back me on this - had the College of Cardinals not railroaded my brother Kelly during the Papal election process last year, this past Sunday would not have been the first one on which an expletive or two would have rained down upon the assemblage outside a certain window at the Vatican.  I assure you.  He is a Kenny.  He can "F Bomb" like it is his job.  A real Pope of the People he would have been.  Alas, it was not to be.  At least, thanks to the magic of YouTube, we shall always have Francis.... 

....and the Cadbury Bunny.


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