Aside from a Vatican plan to take a giant step backwards and ban altar girls (my sister is gonna flip when she reads this one!), a draft directive also includes banning clapping and dance within a place of worship. Yeah, because they call the priest the celebrant and there’s nothing more celebratory in my mind than listening to old people chew their tongues and wheeze lyrics to 70s reject folk music played slower than a quadruple-bypass heartbeat.
What is so disgusting about women that the church can’t accept?
I thought my sister and I were bad ass mofo altar kids – even with the ex-military freak that trained us. Oh – we were good: we’d get up and sit down at exactly the same time – we’d talk everything out before hand to make sure there were no missteps or confusions… reviewing the three places to ring the bells during the consecration. And being careful to not set the candles too close to the altar lest the altar cloths catch on fire. Mom would do the readings and dad would be a lay minister. Did I ever tell you that we also used to drive the church van?! That was a ball! It was like Meals on Wheels: Christ on call!
We’d start up super-early in the morning – hungry as hell (you can’t eat before the host) – visit three retirement homes and pick up a busful of bubbly elders and speed our way to the princess parking at the front door – holding out a hand or handing a cane as they stepped off the van and into the street and on up the stone stairs to the cathedral. Then mass. Then we’d drop them all off – sometimes treating them to a rip-roaring 8 mile/hr mph joyride by the river.
And then the best part of Sundays: DONUTS and STAR TREK! And not those shitty-ass go jump off a cliff cuz you ain’t the real thang Dunkin bullshit – no: family bakery made donuts and pastries with ample 2% milk. And not those shitty-ass go jump off a cliff cuz Gene Roddenberry’s dead Star Trek episodes. I’m talking Kirk and Company and go-go boots and no-seat-belted tumbling chaos!
And Tribbles baby. Yeah, Tribbles!
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