Zombie Jeebus Day! (thanks Fidgety)

It's Easter again.

It was Easter when I gave up the tenets of the church and became an agnostic. Confession at Easter time, and the mundane sins of a young boy, were what drove me away from Catholicism.

When I was wee my family tended to go to confession twice a year, before midnight mass at Christmas, and before the Easter service.

One fine Easter Sunday I was in the confessional relating my paltry collection of evil. Fibs and profanity on a scale that wouldn't make even a kitten titter. I was really struggling to come up with something. As was my way, I had not studied or prepared.

meyerlemon was mentioning, in her LJ, her wish that she had something with more *oomph*, something really good to confess, and I'm totally down with that, cap'n! Perversely, confession is that one time you sort of wish you were Attila the Hun or Charles Manson or George W Bush or Hunter S Thompson or Kevin Federline!

"Yeah, father, uh, forgive me for I have sinned. Today I robbed a bank. I beat up an old woman trying to cross the street (and also the boy scout that was trying to help her). I totally peed in my dog's water bowl just to piss him off. Oh, and I told some woman on the Internet that I was 23 years old with blond hair and muscles!"

No, no, my young mollusc sins were quite pedestrian:

a) "I lied to my mother." My mother. Who didn't lie to my mother to avoid her wrath! My mother had this big thick solid wood yardstick with metal tips that she used to whack us with. In later years it was broken in half but was still an effective weapon. And my mother didn't just charge right on up and beat on us! Oh no, she did it from ambush! Maybe the school called, ratting us out for acting up or other poor performance. My mother would be waiting behind the front door! *Click... creeeak* "Mom, I'm hooOAAAIIHHAAHH!!!" "Are you going to act up in school again!?" "No!" "Are you going to keep getting bad grades!?" "No!" "Are you going to be a good boy!?" "No, I mean YES!! AAAAAH!"

My mother didn't always ambush us. No, sometimes she used torture. When it was time for a beat down she would say to my sister or me, "Go and get the stick."

OMG!1! the wailing and the gnashing of teeth! The denials! "I didn't do anything! It was her! She did it! No, it was him!"

"Go-And-Get-The-Stick!"     ...

And so one of us would make the death march. Into the kitchen, in the cupboard under the stove, mixed in with the paper bags from Publix grocery. It's a wonder one of us didn't just throw it in the stove and burn it. But we didn't.

b) "I was mean to my sister." My sister and I never did get on. We were so totally different. She was another one with a temper. I remember after one bout she carved FUCK YOU! into the closet door frame. At 13 she was constantly running away and staying at friends houses for a week at a time, drinking and smoking grass. Not particularly wild by most standards but a horror story with my depression raised, everyone carries their weight, grandparents from the old country, mom and pop.

When I was 17 and she was 14 I was working up in Orlando and spending a lot of my free time away from home as well. When my sister found out I was smoking a little dope of my own, about then, she was surprised and excited! "Hey, you want to go roll one?" she asked, hoping to create a bridge between us. I declined, choosing not to start a reconciliation. And I never did.

Where was I? Oh yeah, my boring little sins. So, there I am, stuttering away when the priest says, "That's enough. I need to get ready for the mass. You can say five Our Fathers and five Hail Marys, but I gots to be gettin'." This was Florida so our priests had southern Irish accents. And he walked out, leaving me alone in the confessional!

What?? My sins aren't good enough for you to transmit up to God with your Jesus telegraph or however the hell you do it?! Huh!? Come back here! You didn't even get round to molesting me yet, faaaather!! Can't even get it on with the men in black. Bastards, the lot!

It occurs to me that, although the priest did give me Penance, I'm about convinced that he didn't give me Absolution that day. I have not been to confession since and I stopped going to church long, long ago. I think this means that, if the Catholics are actually right, I'm going to spend eternity burning in hell!

Chocolate rabbits are on sale by now! Happy Easter, everybody!
  • Current Mood: I have problems with authority
My dad had "the Launch Pad". It was a Welcome mat on which one would stand slightly bent over and wait the inevitable kick in the ass that would launch you across the room. This was the preferred method of discipline for us kids as the hair pulling was extremely painful and my dad's personal favorite.

As to confession, I went to Catholic School until I was 15, so I was forced to go around major religious holidays and the priests were always appalled by the length of time since my last confession and the vague references to my sins "um, I think I lied a handful of times, I gave my brother a whole bunch of bloody noses, I swear like a sailor... I called that one girl who rolls her skirt up a "slut"... Can I just go pray now?"
"Hello, God? It's me again, espions. Sorry about the 'God damn it!' thing and the 'Jesus fucking Christ!' thing. Hey, can you tell the priests to just chill the fuck out? I mean, uh... oh, nevermind."