“Wake up you dirty fuck!”
And that’s what I did. I woke up with a scent of dirt covering me. But it was just the stinky feel of starting another day with a sense of productivity flowing through the vanes. Will we end this day with a big smile on our face, or the only smile we will get, will be the one on TV for some toothbrush commercial.
Fear and loathing all over the place. The master of the house decided that my miserable self should pay a visit to the Sunday school. God doesn’t make reservations. He doesn’t give deadlines for you to pray and etc. But He sure as hell takes payment, from the humble and mediocre religious type of people living in suburban landscapes. Millions of souls praying every day.
It’s my definite conclusion. The other master of the house, the female, hands me money for sin payment. I take them and put them in my pocket from the leather jacket. “Forgive Lord ‘cause I’m a sinful fuck”. But compared to other sinful individuals, I’m as worthy as sand in the Sahara. I’m on the early stages of coping with myself. So, I take the money, later to be used as sin payment. After I walk into the church, take them candles still burning and give them to the Priest, while saying my prayers, I offer sin payment. Now what the hell is that?
Is that what these worthless souls offer in exchange of the key to their mind release? Well one thing is for sure, regardless the field: good things cost. Including redemption. I look in the eyes of the Priest, a good fellow with the female master of the house. An educated man, with great taste. He’s a man that is not afraid admitting that some priests are sicker souls than the sinners themselves: selling seats in Heaven for money. It’s just a too much of an insult.
But I realized that reserving 5 minutes for a prayer or a visit, doesn’t hurt. But that’s just the coolest point of view: mine. As humans with twisted souls fight like blind zombies to prove themselves, we have on one side the youths with revolutionary ideas towards power, sexuality or religion. But like the Love children from the late 60s, the “funny stuff” takes control of their judgment: let us fight the power. Stoned to the Bone, of course.
On the other side there is the monk type. Some of them are more than happy to bless you than to flip you off. But some are like snakes, watching and cursing the changing youth. It’s the unfilled gap between the New movement and the Old one.
No one will win. It’s no more fun if someone wins. We are all swine. We are devils, but with no self respect for our principles. I’ll give it a shot with another prayer.