Written by armfeetandtoe
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Tags: church, vicar

Friday, 28 September 2012

image for Goodbye to Pew The rev. Dicker suns himself on Capri

Reverend Dicker stood in the pulpit and looked out onto his congregation. He had done this every Sunday for thirty years. Today would be his last sermon before retiring to the sunny isle of Capri.

The church was full, as usual, with the usual people. Gods flock all bleating to the same tune.
While waiting for the hymn to finish, Dicker took another swig from his hip flask.

"Good morning brothers and sisters, and welcome to another glorious Sunday morning service.
Yet again, we have had to deal with the loss of some of our fold, and it has been a blessing to realise that I will no longer have to have Mrs Wheedle nagging my sensitive ears off with her inane chatter.

Likewise, that drunken old bastard, Ernie Stoppard, will not be pissing up my rose bushes on his way home from the alcoholics meeting house, known as the British Legion. I can see, that some of you are quite shocked, stick around, you have heard nothing yet. Can someone give Mrs Tong some smelling salts? Thank you Malcolm, as ever, you are willing to help, shame you do not have the mental capacity to realise the people of this village use you like a slave, and take advantage of your dim witted countenance, shame on all of you. Are yes, Mr Fennel, I thought you might want to leave, worried I might tell your wife about the secret shagging that has been going on in the vestry?

When I took my vows all those years ago, I honestly thought that with Gods spiritual guidance, I might make a difference to humanity, and God knows I have tried. He put me here, among you
Bunch of sour faced conservative misfits in the hope I could enlighten you to the glories of the
Coming of the Lord, no chance, you are so far up your own arseholes, if Jesus himself came among you, I doubt he would be accepted because he would not be wearing the right attire!

Mr and Mrs Poundry, the pillars of the community, of course they are, their house is the only one in the village big enough to hold an orgy! Yes, I know all about it, your son has been selling photos of you to his friends at his boarding school; you are quite famous in Winchester.

Malcolm, help Mr Poundry back into his seat, thank you. Will some of you please close your mouths; you look like fly catchers at Kew Gardens. Put your hand down Roger, I don't give a shit about your opinion or position on the Magistrates bench, we all know you are as corrupt as Nixon and taking back handers from your brother Masons to keep them out of the local rag.

Where was I? Oh yes, you come here on a Sunday to recharge your respectability batteries in the hope that the heinous depraved lifestyles you lead, will be masked by a visit to the house of God. Wrong, I have met football hooligans with more understanding of the Trinity than you bunch of inbred money worshipping wankers. The Devil would not have you in his house, let alone our dear sweet Lord.

Oh how joyful I felt this morning, knowing this would be the last time I would have to listen to that twat Ms Pratt playing the church organ, sorry, attempting to play the organ, a tone deaf monkey could make more use of the keyboard. Why are you sobbing Mary? Have I hit a bum note? According to the rumours in this village, you play the pink Oboe quite well. By the way Mrs Leech, your daughter has been using your summer house as a brothel, last week there were six men queuing down the drive.

Well, that brings this Sunday sermon to an end, and in closing I would like to say this; may the fleas of a thousand camel's arseholes infest you for the rest of your lives. And as Jesus said to Pontius Pilot when he was being nailed to the cross; "Avis in caput magnum futuens tuum cacet" goodbye.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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