| When I Was a Priest |
| By Jif Johnson |
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http://hammerdownturpentine.com/ |
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I was brushing the eyeless white ants out of some tabernacle and feeling guilty about the secret pride I had for my spectacular scapular when it dawned on me I was a priest. Turning around I saw an empty church and a smoking bell floating down the pews. I watched it zigzag its way back to the stained-glass window that pictured, I believe, several soldiers trying to march while holding didgeridoos. On the altar in front of me was a challis of wine I reached for only to have it become a pen. I sat down on the carpet and began to write a story on my handkerchief but the tip of the pen kept puncturing the cloth and I couldn't decide if I should write about: |
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A blind and imprisoned Captain Pierre Bouchard discovering a packet of macaroons amid the bits of broken bottles and crab shells and murmuring deliriously about two overambitious Army Sergeants in the salad days of the Raj and the hard time they had with OxyContin while he nibbles away like a Norwegian housewife ripe for a dramatic comeuppance. Or...
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Dr. Charles-Guillaume Naundorff, a fellow so nice he wouldn't throw tissues into the trash for fear someone might want to go rummaging through there. This earned him an unfair reputation of being one of the snottiest quacksalvers ever. He met a woman so mean she made the United Fruit Company look like UNICEF and never missed a vengeful chance to extract a pound of flesh--this in turn gave her the undeserved reputation of being a wonderful personal trainer. |
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Anyway. To my horror, the doors of the church opened and well dressed people started to file in so I hid under the altar table knowing my humiliation was imminent. Under the altar I found a fortune cookie. Inside the cookie was dried blood. |
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Now I live in the country and just try to keep the fireplace going.
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