Hey! Like I was finally getting to where I could visit a synagogue in the first place and remembering not to where a crucifix in the second place. I mean, like, this was a big step forward for me. Some Jewish folks could even visit Mass; that was really something. Then, all of a sudden, in between genuflects and communion, Mel Gibson gets a message from the Holy Ghost and before you know it, it’s 1930. I found myself without the secret birth control stash and ten kids. All of a sudden the laity consisted of men and boys and women scrubbing the steps leading to the cathedral doors. Don’t get me wrong, I love Jesus, but I can’t help but wonder if this time warp is going to last me all eternity with the Big Guy saying, “Excuse, but I don’t care that you’re crying ‘Lord, Lord.’ I wanted you to be a bit of a nicer person.” I got so agitated that I went to a shrink and got some prescriptions. There’s nothing like a little Thorazine to calm religious fervor. In my delirium I had a vision and the Holy Ghost was riding me high. If Andrew on 60 Minutes got a message from the Almighty, you should have heard what He said to me.
“Check the history of your name . . . and give up pork.”