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October 1, 2003 schism Religion made sense when I was a young R.C.  The priest said Mass with his back to the faithful and he did so in a dead, foreign tongue.  He wore regal, loose-fitting robes which, on special occasions, were accessorized with large, folded, dinner napkin-hats and swinging purses from which scented smoke billowed.  I felt comfortable among the graven images, bathed in stained light.  It was impersonal and unintelligible and spooky.  The Holy Ghost really stood for something then.  Or, I should say, He really hovered for something. Then came the Transformation.  Vatican Duo. The priests turned and faced us during Mass and, en masse, we realized they were child-molesting sodomites.  Until then, I thought Latin necessarily involved lisping.  So here they were--the soft, the pink, the depraved--and they were looking at me speaking a language I could understand.  Unfortunately, I understood they attributed to God human characteristics, same as the puffy-haired Protestants.  I could think of nothing more absurd.  Still, all could have been forgiven had they not fucked with the music.  Somewhere between the Classical Period and 1956, the Roman Catholic Church selected hymns that were unmelodic and vile.  But at least they were dirge-like. Post-Transformation, the hymns were not only putrid, they were peppy.  Peppy and putrid music played on guitar by "Father Bruce" sporting the ecclesiastical equivalent of a leisure suit.  A Leisure Vestment, I suppose. So I split. Which brings me to this trend--a requirement, almost--that prayers with others cannot be accomplished without hand-holding.  I was about to eat dinner with some acquaintances the other day and someone asked me to say grace.  I'm as thankful for food as the next guy and I was happy to oblige.  But before I could open my mouth, those on either side of me grabbed a hand.  I raised my bowed head and opened my eyes and there, in a circle, stood the guests holding hands like we were in Whoville. So I split.

©  2003 by the beastmaster