Two churches located across the street from each other. At least the Catholics have a sense of humor. lol
…Do the Presbyterians think Rocks are animals?
ALL ROCKS GO TO HEAVEN
CONVERTING TO CATHOLICISM DOES NOT MAGICALLY GRANT YOUR DOG A SOUL.
WOW. EPIC CATHOLIC WIN.
I LOVE THIS.
Sex is what happens somewhere between the wink and the wet patch.
The Church of Death
The Church of Death
“Good Morning!”
“Good Morning! Ready to die?”
“Yes, sir!”
“Good man. They’re not ready for you yet, why don’t you have a bite to eat and we’ll call you.”
He caught his breath, felt the first twinges of relief and then caught himself, steadied his breathing and remembered the adage, “Death is my privilege, my life’s prize; all that is not death is sacred experience” and he was suddenly filled with a euphoric happiness at the thought of hot toast soaking up ever so-slightly salted butter; the juxtaposition of sweet fruit jam and salty butter, like eating an ice cream upon leaving the sea.
He hurried down to breakfast, noting the knotted wood pattern of the handrail, he could almost see the branches and leaves that might, under other circumstances, have been swaying in the breeze. The carpet had a soft, scrunchy feel, not cooling like grass, but none the less delicious underfoot.
He left the sight of the banister and caught the smells. There was a musty dustiness to the carpet, the slight bouquet of wet dog seemed to permeate everything, broken only by the sweetness of air, air that smelled as sweet as water tastes after a long walk on a hot day; wonderfully sweet air, flowers and wet soil; there must be a window open somewhere below.
He entered the kitchen.
Upon seeing so many packets of delicious seeming things, there was a pinch inside, grey clouds creeping over his consciousness, “you’ll never try these things again, imagine, never…”
“Stop!” he fought back “Death is my privilege, my life’s prize; all that is not death is sacred experience. Don’t think of what you can’t have, enjoy what you are having. Come on!”
The foul egg of doubt and self-torture seemed to dissipate, he felt/saw the sun, which he hadn’t really noticed yet this morning, shine more brightly; warmed he settled down to some Frosties.
He wasn’t to die of course. The church of death, so named with just a hint of Orwell’s double-talk irony, was freeing its “believers” to take back their lives. One day, he wouldn’t need the 6 monthly trial and subsequent granting of temporary clemency, to grasp simple beauty and banish wasteful thinking; he would master the technique for himself.
