Tuesday, 1 December 2009


God wants you to read Catcher in the Rye out loud.
He's thinking of a rehabilitation program; maybe Satan is just a Holden Caulfield-type who never got the attention he deserved during his career as the Morningstar.
You ask if He's read it before and He has in that Omniscent-omnipresent way, but frankly, at any given time he's moving on people to avoid genocides in Siberia, South Asia and Your Backyard.

God wants you to read Catcher in the Rye, out loud, in heaven, to an audience of saints and angels; let the sinless vaccuum breathe a little bit, maybe you're going to convince him of a couple things.

If it goes well he’ll start a book club and policy board; next up is The Satanic Verses.

This thought mats your hair down with sweat, beads up your eyes and gulps your throat and you suddenly wish you were Catholic and had some sort of tradition to deal with all of this. You're not sure why God asked or why he needs you to read it aloud, when he knows you have a fear of public speaking.

Jesus shoos away some orphans he's playing with-- he's always fucking playing with orphans-- and takes you aside. “Could you do this for him? I mean, I'm not sure exactly what he's thinking with this one; if not for him, for me.”
Your eyebrows and jawdrop do the talking. What would your pastor think? Like he could hear you, Jesus shakes his head, fingers his wrists with what almost looks like a sneer.
“You know how well I get on with Pastors. No, no, you're right, I mean, sure, after all, what did I ever do for you?”

good to know he still has the sharp tongue that got him strung up there in the first place.

1 comment:

Friday said...

I meant to tell you how much I loved this one, by and by.