Took it easy Saturday night. Big fire, small glasses of wine. Needed to get up early and take the long walk with the Hammer to Jimi's place. Sunday football. Good morning America. How the fuck are you?
I live in a quiet place and, like most such places, it is quiet as a fog shrouded necropolis early Sunday mornings before the shopping malls open their avaricious glass doors. Just me, my dog and the polar bear dotted outdoor hockey rink on Christmas morning that is Canada.
Except it was not quite just us and the polar bears. Every minute or two a carload of motherfucking Christian zombies would roll by in their Volkswagen. We have every Christian sect except Ranters here in Steepleton and they all have the same expression on their faces as they roll towards their Houses of Superstition. An expression that makes me wonder why the fuck anybody would become and remain a Christian at all. An expression that warns me every time I see it I will one day see those same grim faces in Hell.
Jimi greeted me at his oversized Douglas Fir front door with an unopened bottle of absinthe in his shaky hand.
"It's French shit!"
You know the rest of the story by now.
2 comments:
Wait just a minute...you're telling me that I'm going to be stuck with these über-pious twits in Hell?
And I was looking forward to an eternity without such nonsense as well as always having a light for my smokes.
Any careful consideration of religious texts can only bring one to the same I came to: it is going to be more crowded with pious scum than the Canuck bandwagon after a six game winning streak.
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