Imaginary Men in the Sky Make People do Strange Things

Well, my mother is going to church tonight, and she’s dragging my father with her. This happens about every four years when she has some kind of crisis and decides to switch religions or denominations. The flavor of the week happens to be Catholicism. First it was Judaism, then it was Messianic Judaism, then it was Christian Protestant denomination one, then Christian Protestant denomination two, and finally she managed to become a Catholic because my brother converted for his wife. I keep bugging her about it. I ask

her if she feels closer to god when she receives “transubstantiated” alcoholic beverages and some crackers. I thought cannibalism was frowned upon? But she says yes and I ask her why and something usually comes up so she can’t answer. Oh, well. What can you do? It’s too bad people can’t think for themselves anymore.

She says she’s going to church and usually doesn’t, but this time I think she’s actually going to do it. She’s managed to change her clothes into something she can flaunt around in and say, “look at me,” but, as George Carlin said, “[church is a] special building where we all gather once a week to compare clothing,” that and the wine. It’s always about the wine. My mother’s a lush, by the way. I don’t really see why she goes. It’s not like she prays at meals or anything. Someone has to do that for her, but after she had her breakdown, she’s managed to weasel her way out of doing most things. I wonder what would happen to my father if she kicked the bucket? He’d probably live off of peanut butter and lettuce sandwiches, which I must say are disgusting, or Campbell’s cream of mushroom soup, and not the fancy one that you don’t have to add milk to. I mean the one for casseroles and pouring over things. Poor guy. At least he has his television and his snacks. I can see it now: my father going grocery shopping by himself. The cart would be full of junk food, mostly nut based and not too far down the road he’d die of a massive heart attack.

That’s the way the cookie crumbles, and someone will be there to lick up the crumbs.