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November 11 2018

paket
10:04
5361 4bdd 520 5360 76dc 520

godslayingenthusiast:

Glorious Inefficiency: Pages from Holy Nonsense

Holy Nonsense is an ongoing, Creative Commons project. It is released CC: Non-Commercial, No Derivatives by Page or Page Block.

Same goes for the crazies: sublimate ‘em if you got ‘em.

(via Bwanaschleuder)

October 07 2018

paket
12:21

Hot and sour soup is a lot like chili; every family has their own recipe, and each family thinks that theirs is the best. When I was in the local Chinese market perusing the mushrooms I asked one of the other shoppers, a tiny and ancient woman half my height whose etched wrinkles framed a friendly smile, where the wood ear mushrooms were.

"What are you using them for?"

"Hot and sour soup," I replied.

"What? You don't want those. Here," she grabbed a bag of dried shiitake, "use these."

"No! You don't want those for hot and sour soup!" cried another, more stout lady behind me. She said something in Cantonese to the first lady before grabbing a fresh bunch of enoki mushrooms and throwing them in my basket. "This is better."

Soon, nine women were having an all out argument in the middle of the aisle. I was stuck in the middle, caught between volleys of angry insults and defenses of cherished family recipes for hot and sour soup, both in Cantonese and English. People insulted each other's families, critiqued the various provinces of China (all were in agreement that the people in the North, apparently, can't cook good soup), and altered the contents of my shopping basket at whim. Eventually, a decision was reached that you absolutely have to use black fungus - an apt, but unappetizing name for a delightful ingredient - and lily buds. The other mushroom is up to you. Whatever one you decide on be sure to be ready to defend your choice.

Chinese Hot and Sour Soup Recipe | Simply Recipes

A very Discworld moment. Never go shopping during the Witch trials!
Reposted frommynnia mynnia viasoupgroup soupgroup

September 30 2018

paket
12:14

My freshmen year roommate was a complete fucking disaster but he would throw parties and everyone would pass out in our living room and every morning I left for class at 7am I would just get little choruses of “have fun at class, good luck” from hungover stoners and let me tell you, as someone who thrives off attention and positive reinforcement, this setup really worked for me

ianstagram (via)

July 27 2018

paket
15:39

July 08 2018

paket
21:43
Tags: story
Reposted fromlokrund2015 lokrund2015 viamushu mushu

March 21 2018

paket
01:47

OH MAN ENTROPY-RIDDLED GAS STATIONS ARE MY FAVORITE. 

the-sarcastic-one asked: Something I thought you'd find interesting; Awhile back, I had to drive up to Bentonville, AR(birthplace of Walmart) and on the 3 hr drive back home I saw something strange. I had stopped to get gas just off the highway; it was a rest stop with 2 gas stations directly across from each other, and nothing else but farm fields and empty road for miles. It was about 2 am and the place was deserted. The gas station I chose, while very empty, gave off your typical middle-of-the-night gas station vibes

the one across the road however… Did Not. It was a Shell station, and the whole thing looked abandoned. The parking lot was badly cracked and had grass and weeds growing everywhere, some of the fuel nozzles appeared to have been ripped out, and the overhang was leaning dangerously. But. All the lights were on, and even though some of the windows were boarded, you still had a good view of the interior. It looked… well stocked? Like the cashier had just wandered into the back for a sec 2/3

and would be back at any time. But it was still off, somehow, in a way I can’t really explain. Just… wrong. Oh! And the lights on the Shell sign worked too! Except, the ’s’ was burnt out, so it just said: ‘HELL’. Definitely the creepiest thing I’ve seen while driving at night so far. Do you think there’s any chance I accidentally wandered too close to the entrance to another dimension? 3/3


OH MAN ENTROPY-RIDDLED GAS STATIONS ARE MY FAVORITE.  

DOUBLY SO ENTROPY-RIDDLED GAS STATIONS IN PLACES WHERE GREAT EVIL WAS SPAWNED AW YEAH.  I love the juxtaposition of decaying roof and weed-filled lot with the clean and well-stocked interior.  Differing levels of entropy is my fave aesthetic.   The “HELL” and missing cashier is a nice touch too.  In spite of appearances, it’s not that dangerous a place if you mind your manners, don’t go under the structurally compromised part of the overhang and bring along the tire iron if you want o go around back.

You def should have bought a candy bar. If you pay for it and toss a buck in the tip jar it’s not cursed.  Say hi to the cashier, ask what they do for fun around there the answer will be incredible- There’s a similar Shell with the burnt-out S and a shambling restaurant named “Boogie’s” next door in Del Norte that I ALWAYS stop at going to and from Durango.  They always remember me becuase I show up pretty much exactly at the same time on the same days every year and make a point of being friendly. Chelsea’s a really nice lady who keeps bees and her son gave me a drawing of a tiger for my fridge.

Also wander around the back to look for sets of eyes glowing back at you from under the dumpster.  Whatever eats there is full of chaotic energies and of immense power but probably also lonely.   Say hi to them.  Don’t feed the wildlife though that’s never a good idea.  One of the Sonocos in Ravenna has a large gray dog that sleeps behind the store under the AC unit.  She’s there every single time I’ve been to Ohio since 1997.  She’s had a white muzzle and arthritis but remains otherwise unchanged, always sitting up and wagging her tail when you come by.

It’s also a great place to pick up a rider if you need one. Most people who have to drive cross-country will tell you to put something in the front seat to keep anything from climbing in with you- a box or a plant but NOT a toy or doll, those can get inhabited.  And most of the time you’d be right- things like to sit in unoccupied chairs but most of them don’t actually want to leave, and are very upset if you ‘kidnap’ them.  The ones that climb into cars while you’re in motion are rude and wicked pranksters at best.  Sometimes, however, you’ll find one who needs to get out of town and on certain roads, you want to have something else in the car.

The stretch of I-80 between Green river Wyoming and Laramie is the worst goddamn part of interstate in the country and I have driven over most of it by now.  It’s dangerously boring, poorly maintained and exposed to the elements and there’s been a white-out blizzard or hurricane-force windstorm every single time I’ve been on it. As in, the only indication of where the road actualyl IS are those tiny little reflective poles they out up every 1/10th of a mile and you can’t drive over 15 mph becuase the wind is ready to flip your tiny Honda off the road becuase fuck you that’s why.

Most of the time I can find a Fedex truck to stick close behind and drive in the half-second of exposed road in their wake but in January 2014 I was coming back from a funeral in Salt Lake City and it was shaping up to be another nasty whiteout drive with nary a truck in sight.  I didn’t have the money to stay in a hotel and it was already getting late and i didn’t want to get stranded if they closed the highway.  I also sure as hell didn’t want to drive that Alone.

So I pulled into the Exxon in Green River, Wyoming.  It’s a silent and lonely place at the best of times but just after sunset in the middle of January when it’s 10 degrees out is just miserable. You step out and are immediately filled with the compulsion to be Anywhere Else.  I pulled up, started filling the tank, then walked around and opened the passenger side door, taking the bag of chips out of the seat.

“Alright here’s the deal-” I announced, leaning against the car and staring at the towers of granite half-buried by the surrounding dessert, dark shapes in a blue-gray sky. “You don’t want to be here, and I don’t want to drive this next bit alone.  I can take you as far as Laramie if you get me through this.  It’s nice.  They have trees and an inexplicably good sushi place.  I’ll drive you, but you have to get out there.  Deal?”  I waited, staring at the towers and Nothing Else, listening to the pump tick until the door shut against the wind.

It was still a white-knuckle drive, headlights on low becuase high-beams only caught the driving snow, wind barreling into the Honda in random gusts, occasionally shoving me into oncoming traffic for a second before I could correct, heart at a constant staccato and bile in my throat.  I didn’t look over at the passenger side more than I had to out of courtesy- things remain unseen for a reason. I got the impression of tall and long-faced and just as terrified as I was but DAMN if the car stuck to the road in spite of the ice, there were no oncoming cars when I got shoved and we even made good time in a few places.  We pulled into the Inexplicably Good Sushi place at the interchange of I-80 and 287 and I put my head on the wheel and cried for a good minute.

“Thank you very much.” I eventually managed. “You were very helpful. I’m gonna get takeout, do you want a Marylin Mon-roll to celebrate?”

“That would be nice.”

“Cool. I’ll leave it on the stump there for you.”

I came back out with takeout, left him his sushi and we parted ways, and I drove the remaining hour back home.

March 20 2018

paket
20:14

3AM Walks In Rural Areas While Dissociating:

Pros:

  • Actual Silence
  • Nobody else out so you don’t have to pretend to be human, which is nice
  • You can look up and see the actual band of the Milky Way, and Know that whatever else happens, the galaxy will continue to dance and sparkle
  • Wear whatever u want
  • The combination of being alone in the dark with the summer wind on your skin re-sets whatever problem was happening and suddenly your fingers are yours again.

Cons:

  • You will see the large dark shape coming up the other end of the street and be fascinated by the way it moves almost like a crawling man, but it will not actually register it as a BEAR until it’s like 40 feet away and Doggo decides he’s gonna fight it, so you gotta Usain Bolt you and 50 lbs of Anger Dog four blocks back to the apartment, and cry becuase while you wanted to feel alive and the sensation of your heart  beating again, you didn’t want it THAT HARD.

  • Mosquitoes
Reposted byRekrut-KstrzepyseverakLogHiMawhovillemushuMrCoffeinteressiert-mich-net
paket
20:07

1999 was a bad fucking year for me, though ultimately, it’s a hopeful sotry.

TW: death, cancer, abuse, excessive religiosity, blood, mental illness, sexual assault and bugs.

1999 was a bad fucking year for me, though ultimately, it’s a hopeful sotry.  Mind the content warnings.

There is only one animal I’ve ever really earned the wrath of- The Praying Mantis- probably because in fourth grade I used about 50,000 of their children to fight evil.

Fourth grade started promisingly enough- had just had an excellent third grade with Mr. Jay, who was probably ADHD himself and therefore got me on a truly spiritual level.  I’d starred in the school play was reading at a freaking collegiate level and had a tremendous interest in marine science.  I’d been assigned to Mrs. Ruth’s class, the other teacher that regularly did theater with kids, and had any certification to deal with special ed kids like me.

When I arrived on the first day, she was smaller than I remembered, nearly bent double, skin like old rice paper. But she was still kind and sharp with a vivacity that I wouldn’t see again for years to come.  Her hands shook too much to write  I had her for three really great weeks before she gathered the class around her, and in a very gentle tone, told us we were going to be having a new teacher on Monday because she was sick, and couldn’t give us the classroom we deserved.

Two weeks later she was dead from the malignant breast cancer that had gotten into her spine and lungs.

I was still reeling from the sudden demise of my grandfather the year before, and mourning the disappearance of Hale-Bopp, who had come to me like a guardian angel in that dark time.  I went into what I’d later recognize as regular dissociative states, which was probably good because the rest of the class went insane as well.

The large boys, the ones who had hit puberty early, took out their anxiety by forming a gang that went around terrorizing anyone physically smaller than them.  By fall break, they’s started targeting the smaller girls, cornering them behind the school and tearing clothes off.  Since I was the second-smallest human in class and didn’t have a protective clique, I was a favored target. Mason who was aged 11 due to being held back, took to flashing his dick at anyone during class, up to and including our string of wholly unprepared substitute teachers.

Erica, the girl I was head over heels for, started a campaign of violence as well, though it was just as likely to be directed at herself as anyone in her immediate proximity.   Another girl, Sabrina, became convinced the world was ending on January 1st of 2000, and spent all of ‘99 telling us to repent.   Another girl cut her arm in the middle of a math lecture with a sharpened protractor.

All of this was accelerated by the fact that the administration had crammed 35 “problem” children into Mrs. Reith’s class because she was the only teacher who had even a basic handle on classroom management, then refused to shell out the money for a long-term substitute, so we literally had a new teacher every week for a few months there.  Parents complained that this was bullshit, and my principal, former Procter & Gamble rep, suggested that we were at fault for behaving so poorly and that all 35 of us needed to be on Ritalin.

Yes, really.

By October, my parents were looking to get me the hell out of there, but School Choice had not come to that part of CA yet, and my parents were both working full-time and couldn’t afford to home-school me.  So they looked up truancy laws, and determined that I could “pass” as long as I didn’t miss more than 2 weeks of school.  

So they struck a deal with me.  As long as I went to school every day until April 15th, I didn’t have to attend the last fortnight of school, and could go anywhere I wanted for summer break.  I chose Humboldt State Park, and didn’t tell them about being beaten up at school so they wouldn’t take back the offer.  Armed with the promise of being able to flee to the woods come April, I was determined to survive the year, and took measure to do so.  

This started, as all good rebellions do, with an alliance.

Dashell was the only child in class smaller than I was, but he was approximately 39lbs of pure, unadulterated psychotic mania.  He could bend himself into a pretzel, small enough to fit in a backpack, ate nothing but slim jims and Hi-C brand punch and apparently didn’t feel pain.  He was not good with words- there were too many ideas trying to get out at once to finish individual words, let alone whole sentences, but I was unnaturally precocious with absolutely no fear of adults or respect for administrative consequences.  

Hence, every recess he’d follow me about as I hunted for the small lizards that lived on campus, and would beat the tar out of Bobby and Mason when they came for me, despite the fact they had a collective 150 lbs on him.  And during class, I’d engage any adult in verbal battle so that they wouldn’t call on him and he could hork down slim-jims in peace.

And for a time, things were good.

Eventually, the complaining had gotten bad enough that the administration shelled out for a long-term sub, though apparently not enough to get someone without major disciplinary issues.

And thus, we got stuck with Mrs. Linden.

Mrs. Linden was one of those “Old-Fashioned” teachers who started her introduction to the class by giving a rambling lecture lamenting that “Paddlin’ and Jesus” were now banned.  She then asked about all our families, including where we went to church.  I was attending a school that was roughly equal parts White, Black, Hispanic, Middle Eastern and Asian.  Literally only 40% of the class attended Christian Church, and most of them were Catholic and Orthodox. I was in the back row next to Saari and Parja, and by the time Mrs. Linden had finished lecturing them on The Dangers of False Prophets, they were in tears and I’d made up my mind about her.

“[FLAGRANTLY IRISH SURNAME REDACTED].”  She glared over her eternally filthy horn-rimmed glasses at me.  “Catholic as well, I assume.”

“I’m agnostic Ma’am.”  I corrected her.  

“Do you believe in The Lord?”  she asked, glaring at me like a particularly vindictive turkey.  Her face was comprised mostly of disappointment and wattles, as I recall.

“I believe in Hell.”  I offered.  

She looked like she was about to approve.  

“I mean, you had to come from somewhere.”  I explained.

At that point, the bell for recess rang, and Dashell kicked it off by letting out a truly demonic shriek and throwing his chair through the window.  Twenty minutes of broken glass and bedlam later, she’d forgotten she was going to beat me for that.  Saari and Parja decided to start hanging out with me at recess, which discouraged the budding rapists, for a while.

And so it went, Dashell and I playing a game of alternating Uproars, one directing rage away from the other based on ability to handle that particular bully.  I’d correct Linden on her teaching material in the most condescending manner a ten-year-old could pull off, which wasn’t difficult- it’s hard to teach geology curriculum when you think the world is 6000 years old and flat.  

Things died down for a bit during winter- the continuous California monsoons and Linden’s propensity for grounding the entire class for one person’s offense meant we spent most recesses indoors, where the Boys would have to leave the girls alone now that an Adult was watching, and Saari would let Dashell braid her hair while I re-explained multiplication to Parja.

In March though, things began to heat up.  We were let outside again and Bobby and Mason had quite a bit of pent-up ragelust to let out, and were now being commanded by Erica, who thought making me suffer for her affections was Great Fun.   I don’t quite remember what happened with the three of them and me behind the computer building, but I know I can’t stand the sound of and old apple computer starting up anymore.

Furthermore, Linden had figured out the disciplinary loophole, that while she wasn’t actually allowed to beat us, she could slam her ruler on our desks, and if your hands or faces happened to be caught in the blow, well, we should have moved faster. Not this is not actually legal, but she was banking on us not having the legal wherewithal to take her to court.

Dashell was growing tired of the constant stress of school and had taken to leaving early when he felt like it, leaving me to fend for myself in the afternoon.  My sole consolation for those long afternoons was that we were having a bumper crop of praying mantises that year, and I had found no less than four nests in the backyard, and was keeping them in a large jar in my room.

If you’ve never seen praying mantis nests, they look like someone fucked up and globbed insulation foam on a stick.  They sorta sit there, looking stupid, until it gets hot enough, then the day they’re going to hatch, they develop a large, ominous crack, and over the course of a couple hours, a Couple Hundred itty-bitty, very sharp flying rage insects will drip out, covered in ooze like some kind of alien, and once they are all dried out/carapaced up they fly off in a fit of barbarian rage, ready to slice up anything remotely edible or potentially predatory.  Like children’s eyeballs.

So imagine my joy that on April fifteenth, the last day I had to attend class, all four nests had developed their large cracks, and tiny little baby ragebugs were slowly dripping out of them.

My initial thoughts were not of malice, but of showing Saari and Parja my cool insect friends, the latter having gotten into entomology of late.  But after I arrived at school with the jar, I realized that Thursday’s usual show-and-tell had been replaced with Mrs. Linden’s Semi-weekly Rant About How We’re All Going To Hell.  So I kept them in my backpack, with the intent of showing Dashell and Parja at recess.

But, after dealing with Mason trying to flash me his dick all through math, I had grown a mickle furious, and was contemplating flouncing from my Final required Day Of Class In Grand Style.  But what?

Then Mrs. Linden started ranting about the Plagues Of Egypt.

She’d construed that the plagues were about Pharaoh Not Respecting God as We Students Weren’t Respecting Her, and hence he Needed To be Punished.

But from my perspective, I was rather heavily identifying with the slaves and would really like to call down the wrath of some higher being on Mrs. Linden and Mason.  Then I realized that the mantises had been sitting on my bag on top of the radiator for the past three hours, and were probably all hatched and furious by now.

And for the first time, I truly understood “The Lord Works In Mysterious Ways.”

I signaled to Dashell that I was about to start shit, then quietly went back to the coat room to retrieve the jar.  Sure enough, they had all hatched and dried, and were now clawing furiously at the glass, little scratches audible through the holes in the lid. I waited back there for a good minute, lightly shaking the jar to enrage the mantises, while I waited for Linden to get to the Locusts.

She really went overboard, claiming that entirely vegetarian grasshoppers could eat a cow to the bone in minutes, like aerial piranhas, and that they’d crawl under your skin and eat your eyeballs, because You Disrespected God So You Deserve It.

Unbeknownst to me, Dashell had gotten up during her rant and had pulled the loose plate off the lightswitch and had been tampering with the wiring, and just as she got to Darkness, he shorted out the lights.

I took this as my signal, and stepped out of the coatroom, and chucked the jar straight at the back of Mason’s head, shattering it, sending blood and glass everywhere, along with releasing approximately six fucktillion rage-filled insects into the room.

I cannot explain how deeply, soul-satisfying the chaos was.

Screaming children, screaming Linden, screaming insects, Mason screaming about the pain, Sabrina screaming that it was the End Of The World, and Dashell laughing demonically, wriggling the wire to make the lights flash like a literal Panic at the disco.  There was glass everywhere, Insects landing on and attacking children as they tried to escape, people running into each other, someone pulling the fire alarm, creating MORE noise and setting the sprinklers off.

After a few minutes standing and watching, feeling the satisfaction of releasing hell settling in my soul, I quietly packed up my backpack and left, walked home and ate six ice cream sandwiches before mom got home from work.

“I’m done with school!” I told mom happily, sitting on the couch and watching animal planet with the dog.

“Did you show your class the mantises?’  She asked.

“Yes.  I don’t think they liked them.”  I said, watching Steve Irwin juggle snakes.

“Aw, that’s too bad.  Are you ready to go camping?”

“Yes.  Yes I am.”

And so the next morning, we left for the wilds of the redwood forest, so my mom didn’t hear anything about the incident until we came back a fortnight later.  It never got pinned on me or Dashell, probably because Mrs. Linden left the classroom shortly after I did and was last seen in Arizona two days later.  The district never actually managed to Fire her, because they never found her.

And that’s the most Chaotic Evil thing I’ve ever done.

paket
15:51

The 1969 Easter Mass Incident

Content Warnings: Religion, food, symbolic cannibalism, symbolic gore, penis mention, Blasphemy, SO MUCH BLASPHEMY, weapons, war mention.  Mind the warnings and your health always comes first. Its a HILARIOUS story, I promise.

As always, all the names have been changed to protect people’s identities.  This is a long one, so Press J now if you want to skip it.


When my dad was a young man and still a practicing catholic, he participated in a small church communion that nearly got him and six other people excommunicated.

Father Patrick ran a small church outside of California Polytechnical and tended to be… rather more liberal in his interpretations of scripture than most of the church was, which made him something of a hit with the local students and liberally-inclined populace.  Pat went to all manner of civil demonstrations, condemned the shit out of the vietnam war and the politics that lead to it and so on.  In January of 1969 a series of incidents lead him to start exploring “nontraditional” means of holding Mass as a means of reaching out to his community and exploring his own faith, which ultimately culminated in the 1969 Easter Mass Incident.

For those of you who weren’t raised catholic, Communion is this ritual where you become one with Jesus by eating a really horrible bland wafer cookie and taking a shot of wine (called hosts), which then *literally* become the flesh and blood of jesus in your mouth, allowing him to become one with you.  It’s big McFucking deal, and you have the opportunity to take communion at every mass.  All this had to be explained to me second-hand because after this and Dad’s 51 days in the army, Dad decided he wouldn’t inflict religion on any children he might have in the future.

*

“Hey dad,” Six-year old me asked the first time he told me this story after my practicing friends were talking about getting wine at church. “Isn’t that cannibalism?”

“We’re getting to that.”  He waved.

*

The First Incident in January when, due to a serious cock-up by the church, all the hosts Father Pat received were moldering and spoiled and probably would have killed someone if he’d actually fed anyone them.  But it was the first mass of the year, when a peak number of people came in after vowing to got to church more for new year’s.  He couldn’t NOT have communion.

“I’ll bake.” offered Maria, the parish secretary and probably the best baker in the county. “So we have hosts.  Jesus will understand.”

Father Patrick, not one to pass up the chance at Maria’s cooking, immediately agreed.

A Host is supposed to be composed solely of unleavened wheat flour and water, which is why they taste terrible.  It’s a theological point of some importance relating to Exodus or something but Maria had an important theological counterpoint: Jesus both divine and loves all his children, ergo, Jesus would neither be a nasty bland cracker nor want his children to suffer as such and so instead, she made Mexican wedding cookies.

They were a SPECTACULAR hit.  Many praises were heaped upon father patrick for the Much Better Wafers and that they’d be sure to show up next week as long as Maria kept making them.  Father Patrick figuring that hey, anything that gets people in the doors is good and really, if it was turning into Jesus once inside the parishioner, did it really matter what the wafers were made of?  So he continued to let Maria bake the Hosts, and encouraged her to try out new flavors, like nutmeg and cinnamon.

This went on swimmingly for a few weeks until The Bishop showed up for a surprise visit the same week Maria decided to experiment with rainbow sprinkles.

Dad remembers hearing the bishop through the windows roaring “THE HOLY BODY OF CHRIST DOES! NOT! CONTAIN! RAINBOW! SPRINKLES!”

The matter went clean up to The Archbishop, who decided that while Pat was probably right to not feed spoiled hosts to his parish, he should attend some remedial classes to remember what Communion was all about, so that if it happened again, he’s come up with a more suitable substitute.

Father Patrick returned in late March, full of spite and some fascinating new ideas.

*

“Is this where the Cannibalism happens?” Six-year-old me asked, eager to get to the good parts.

*

At his remedial classes, the teacher had stressed the importance of transubstantiation, aka “That bit where the wafer and wine, Actually, Literally, become the flesh of Jesus Christ and we expect you to swallow.”  Also on the syllabus was understanding the importance of Christ’s suffering and sacrifice.

“So, I was thinking about Easter Service.”  Said father Patrick one afternoon while dad was doing his computer science homework at the church because his dorm was a barely-standing fire hazard and the library was where you went to have sex.

“Well, we do re-enactments for christmas.  Why not on easter?  Why not re-enact the crucifixion of Christ right here? Make it real for everyone.  Trauma’s great for bonding a community together.”

“Who’s playing Jesus?” asked Maria, always one for a good laugh.

“That’s the thing- A Host, it doesn’t look much like flesh, right?  Doesn’t look like much of anything, really.  Not great for reinforcing one’s belief.

What if, instead, we- and I mean you, Maria, I can’t cook to save my life- make a man-sized loaf of bread, maybe in the shape of a T, and we have some of the boys dress up as romans and whip the bread and we pour the wine on so it’s bleeding and them- then we make a big wooden cross and actually nail the bread to it with, I don’t know, railroad spikes, more wine all over. And we raise the cross, all while telling the story of the crucifixion.”

He paused to take a drink, Maria slowly crumpling onto the floor in horrified laughter and Dad now thoroughly distracted from his homework.

“Then we lower the cross, and invite everyone who wants to take communion up to tear a hunk of Jesus off.  Just descend into his corpse like vultures.  I think that’d really be a good bonding experience for the church.”  he nodded thoughtfully.  “The hard, part, I suppose, will be finding enough romans.”

“I WANNA BE LONGINUS.” bellowed my father, barreling into the room.

And so, the plan was hatched.  Dad hit up every other guy in the Church and eventually rounded up four more romans, three of them from the Education Department of Cal Poly, and one guy from Chemistry, who just liked to watch things burn.

This, being a play, naturally meant that there was a rehearsal, and test Bread jesus.  Maria had decided that if they were going to start being extra-literal, she needed to make the most lifelike Bread jesus possible, and made a distressingly buff and human-proportioned Jesus by Advanced bread-braiding, complete with plaited hair, quail’s-egg-and-raisin eyes, bready muscle groups, and an eight-pack because why not make the lord completely shredded?*  She also made the important theological decision that since Jesus loves everyone and was happy to die in spite of all his suffering, he should be smiling, and had a toothy corn-kernel smile.  He was Wonderful and Terrifying all at once.

“Maria,” asked Father Patrick after a few minutes of delighted and horrified cooing over Jesus’ toothy grin and abdominals. “Why is he wearing a tea-towel?

“Well, he’s the Son of God. A Man.  With all that entails.”  She said, pointedly staring at Father Patrick while everyone stared at the suspiciously lumpy tea-towel.  “And he might have… burnt, slightly.”

Everyone nodded and agreed that the tea-towel was the best course of action.  The rehearsal goes splendidly and everyone agrees that this is the most delicious Jesus they’ve ever had.

*

Easter Sunday arrives and the Church is PACKED, from the more lapsed Catholics showing up for a high holiday, parents visiting for spring break and a whole horde of newcomers who had gotten wind that something was up and they ought to come.

Dad is a lanky as hell 21-year old composed mostly of technical jargon and acne but he is STOKED to be playing Longinus, the roman that speared Jesus on the cross, because he gets to do the BEST technical effect in the whole parade.  Since he came in at the end me missed a good portion of the sermon, but did hear the “oooh” from the crowd as the massive cross was dragged in by the other Romans, followed by horrified gasps and high screams and a discernible “What the FUCK” as they brought in Bread Jesus 2.0, whipping him enthusiastically, and hammering him into the cross, the sound of wine splashing onto the floor loud in the terrified silence of that Parishioners.

Finally Father Patrick gets to the part about Longinus, and Dad comes sprinting down the aisle as hard as he can, because in order for Bread Jesus to be seen by everyone, his middle had to be about 10 feet off the ground, so Dad had to run, shrieking latin curses,  down the length of the church, with a big honking spear and take a flying leap at Jesus in order to spear him in the gut.

Please take moment to imagine you are some normal god-fearing catholic who has decided to visit little bobby or maybe patricia at college and you’re all going to church together like a nice family and this Fucking madman has decided to go all Silence of the Lambs on mass and now there’s some sort of underfed translucently pale man in ill-fitting Roman armor and cape flying at a horrifying glutinous effigy of your lord and savior, with an actual fucking spear, screaming like a madman.  Don’t you feel yourself drawing closer to God already? Defensively, perhaps, like an octopus trying to ooze itself into a crevice against the horrors of the ocean.

However, two things happen that were not planned on

1. Dad misses.  In his defense, Bread Jesus is close to but not quite the size of a man- more like the size of a doughy teenager, and his middle is a small target 10 feet up in the air and dad is has a computer science minor, not an athletics scholarship.  He misses by about 8 inches and instead very solidly stabs Bread Jesus right through the groin, leaving a big hole in Maria’s tea-towel and the spear jutting out at a decidedly… attentive angle, as Bread Jesus’s Bread Dick drops to the floor with a splat.  Nobody notices this, however because

2. In rehearsal, Dad had managed to get the spear right in jesus’s navel but neither Father Patrick nor the other romans could get the wine up there to make his middle appropriately bloodied.  

Maria come up with the Genius solution that since wine is made of grapes and Jam is made of grapes, she could make a jelly-filled Jesus for Dad to stab.  There was a normal-sized test loaf and when dad stabbed it on the table, it had a nicely gooey dribbling effect.

However, this time the loaf was torso-sized, still hot from the oven and upright, so when dad speared the very end of the loaf, all the steam-pressured jam had collected at the bottom and a spray of lukewarm smuckers exploded out from bread jesus, turning the first three pews into a splash zone of symbolic entrails.

There was  a hot, sticky minute of complete silence in the church after that. 

Then, Father Patrick indicated it was time for the cross to be lowered, and continued on with the normal preparations of the Host, he himself covered in hot smuckers, as though nothing particularly ordinary was occuring, quietly kicking the bread-dick under the altar. At the end of it all, Father Patrick and invited everyone up with the Last Oration:

“Thou, O God, has kindly allowed us to have a part in this Holy Sacrifice; for this we give Thee thanks. Accept it now to Thy glory and be ever mindful of our weakness. Amen.”

…And everybody came up, shuffling like terrified zombies, pinching off tiny bits at first but then the madness took them and they began tearing apart bread jesus by the handful, weeping as they partook, scattered prayers and begging for forgiveness.  The whole congregation was kneeling about the altar, tearful and united in their guilt and their need for God.

*

“IS CHURCH ALWAYS LIKE THAT?” six-year-old me asked, absolutely stoked.  I’d convert on the spot if I got a show like that.

“No, it’s normally bland wafers and lots of chanting in latin.”

“Well that’s boring as hell.” I remember muttering and Dad snorting the coffee he was drinking out of his nose.

*

As people filed silently out of the Church to a gloriously sunny California afternoon, faces wan and smeared with wine and jam, Father patrick turned to Maria and asked “You don’t think that was too much, do you?”

“No.”  Said Maria with a sarcastic deadpan so intense it was hard to tell from sincerity.

It was the exact same tone she used when the Archbishop and Six other high clergy showed up, clutching a letter someone had written, Livid and almost foaming at the mouth, demanding to know if such blasphemy had transpired.

“No.  That’s crazy.”  She said, staring down the archbishop like he was an idiot.

“Such imaginations some people have!” Said Father Patrick, much less convincingly.

“And you-  you didn’t…  Spear an effigy of our lord and savior?”  the archbishop demanded of my father.

“Do I look like I can jump that high?”  Dad asked, having in the interim been drafted for 51 days then nearly died of pneumonia from it, and therefore no longer afraid of the Church, the Law or God.

Somewhat relieved that he’d only received the extremely detailed ramblings of a doddering parishioner, the Archbishop sat down and complemented Maria on her most excellent Mexican Wedding Cookies, may he please have another plate for his nerves? Perhaps the ones with sprinkles?

Dad went on to help build the internet, Father Patrick converted to Buddhism and Maria became a Nun.

*For those of you wondering, Jesus was made of Challah.


If you got a laugh out of this, please consider donating to my Ko-Fi or Paypal , as telling stories on the internet is my only source of income right now.  Thank you very much and I hope you enjoyed it!

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