"And you know: all you need to be as successful in Amway as me is just 4 friends who each know 4 friends who each know 4 friends ..."
Friday, April 23, 2010
Seen in Singapore.
"And you know: all you need to be as successful in Amway as me is just 4 friends who each know 4 friends who each know 4 friends ..."
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Human Rights? No, but they do hate homos.
Of all the world’s nations in which to hold a gathering of Conservative Prelates and their remoras it’s hard to imagine somewhere more appropriate than a country which is effectively a one-party state, where citizens can be indefinitely detained without charge or trial (the record is 32 years), and with the highest per capita execution rate in the world - more than three times as many as the next country on the list, the easy-going and fun-loving folk of Saudi Arabia.
Indeed, the patriots at Viagraville have been literally falling over themselves in a breathless rush to reproduce the latest Singaporean travelogue by a lady named Cheryl M. Weasel from somewhere called www.anglicansunited.com - a perfectly valid name for any religious organization if by “united” one means “people who agree they don’t like people different to themselves”. Which is hardly surprising: how can any red-blooded believer in Biblical inerrancy, schism, and the GOP not get excited by a regime that’s executed more people than all the Bush family combined? And just because Peter Ould claims he’s “post-gay” doesn’t mean he can’t feel a delicious tingle at the thought of a miscreant’s buttocks being thrashed until they resemble cat food. Not to mention that we all know the real reason little Matt Kennedy so heartily endorses James Dobson’s notions of parental "discipline"...
No, my Beloved Sinners, there’s no denying every Anglican Conservative should feel at home in a place that imprisons Jehovah’s Witnesses. No Christian need ever feel concerned about a petty thing like human rights when they can buy cheap electronic doo-dads. Besides, the Singaporean government hates GLBTs as much as anyone in ACNA, so they’ve got to be alright. Although their tax rate is quite high; perhaps that dubious Viagravillain doctor (what’s the funny name by which he calls himself? “Robroy”?) would like to try organizing a few tea-party protests there. Surely Lee Kwan Yew and his sycophants would be only too pleased to make a few Orthodite freedom-fighters welcome?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible. (Although unlike Johnny Chew I'm not very good at toadying up to dictators.)
PS. I know there’s a lot of clicky-links in today’s homily, but this account of a Singaporean Priest’s journey is a must-read. While not so different to the experiences of many readers, taking time to remember the struggles of our brothers and sisters in the Lion City is a good antidote to the poison currently ejaculatng forth from that place.
Indeed, the patriots at Viagraville have been literally falling over themselves in a breathless rush to reproduce the latest Singaporean travelogue by a lady named Cheryl M. Weasel from somewhere called www.anglicansunited.com - a perfectly valid name for any religious organization if by “united” one means “people who agree they don’t like people different to themselves”. Which is hardly surprising: how can any red-blooded believer in Biblical inerrancy, schism, and the GOP not get excited by a regime that’s executed more people than all the Bush family combined? And just because Peter Ould claims he’s “post-gay” doesn’t mean he can’t feel a delicious tingle at the thought of a miscreant’s buttocks being thrashed until they resemble cat food. Not to mention that we all know the real reason little Matt Kennedy so heartily endorses James Dobson’s notions of parental "discipline"...
No, my Beloved Sinners, there’s no denying every Anglican Conservative should feel at home in a place that imprisons Jehovah’s Witnesses. No Christian need ever feel concerned about a petty thing like human rights when they can buy cheap electronic doo-dads. Besides, the Singaporean government hates GLBTs as much as anyone in ACNA, so they’ve got to be alright. Although their tax rate is quite high; perhaps that dubious Viagravillain doctor (what’s the funny name by which he calls himself? “Robroy”?) would like to try organizing a few tea-party protests there. Surely Lee Kwan Yew and his sycophants would be only too pleased to make a few Orthodite freedom-fighters welcome?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible. (Although unlike Johnny Chew I'm not very good at toadying up to dictators.)
PS. I know there’s a lot of clicky-links in today’s homily, but this account of a Singaporean Priest’s journey is a must-read. While not so different to the experiences of many readers, taking time to remember the struggles of our brothers and sisters in the Lion City is a good antidote to the poison currently ejaculatng forth from that place.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Hmmmm...
“We lack discipline. We lack the courage to call ‘a spade a spade’.”His Grace may be right; when it comes to applying the correct terminology to gardening implements I fear many of you, my Beloved Sinners, do indeed lack discipline. When, however, it comes to calling fraudulent and grubby power-hungry bigots “fraudulent and grubby power-hungry bigots” my experience is most of you get it right every time. Which is more than can be said of those foolish enough to have wasted their time (and congregations’ money) attending Big Pete’s nasty little gathering of Pharisees.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
When Kings (or Primates) become fools ...
Dearly Beloved Sinners: contrary to your fears Bishop Quinine and I haven’t vanished into the Bermuda Triangle. Instead we have actually spent the past week-and-a-bit experiencing the highs and lows that Biblical ministry can offer: for the first few days we checked into the Tucker’s Point Club where, albeit belatedly, we enjoyed a taste of the luxury our fellow Conservative leaders sacrificially endured the preceding week. I must stress, however, that it was only a taste: not only had the Schism’s biggest names emptied most of the club’s larder, but even the cellar was looking decidedly bereft of it’s finer labels: those heterosexual boys in purple mightn’t be able to dance, but they certainly know how to eat and drink. Not to mention how to do something else: the stories those poor souls in the laundry told about their difficulties in getting the linen clean brought tears to my old pastoral eyes.
Not that any of this spoiled our stay: as every self-righteous Primate knows, Tucker’s Point is the place when it comes to golf, and while of course as a Christian I didn’t play, I did obtain a very lovely pair of golf shoes made from the finest baby-seal skin, and hand stitched by children in a Chinese sweat-shop so strict it would make the Christian Reconstructionists currently putting their money where they don't have the courage to put their mouths start reminiscing about dear old Rushdoony. Unfortunately, however, this purchase pushed little David Virtue’s credit card over the edge, leaving us temporarily insolvent and forced to make an unscheduled check out prior to a visit from the local constabulary.
It was while down and out in Bermuda (and without resources to contact Ichabod Springs to arrange for the parish to forward sufficient funds for us to purchase tickets home) that who should we bump into, but a shirtless Peter Jensen! Old habits die hard, it appears, and the precious Puritan had been “investing” again: doubtless they play blackjack a little differently on his side of the world, since he still couldn’t understand why 22 wasn’t one better than 21. And not even Bishop Quinine was convinced by the claim that his losses were simply a result of the global financial crisis, but we all agreed if that one had worked on Dobby and other house-elves once before there was no reason they wouldn’t work again.
Interestingly enough this wasn’t the first time little Pete has been lost in Bermuda: you can read about the first occasion here. Which suggests to me that that the Man from Mordor little Matt Kennedy doesn’t know but loves anyway (try taking your chasuble and preaching wife to that diocese and see how long Dobby wants to be your friend then, my boy) mightn’t actually be human at all, but actually just an alien who's stolen his identity.
Which, my Sinners, might sound strange, but nowhere as strange as this: the outcome of the Tucker’s Point tête-à-tête was that not only does one of the two most senior office-bearers in the Gafcon Primates Council continue to be someone who is not a Primate (nor even an Anglican in anything but name), but the pair of them are as about as much a product of the developing world as Her Majesty the Queen of England (or Baby Blue if you’d prefer someone a little more pompous, but less interested in gin and horse-racing). I mean to say: if I'd dared suggest the kind of people who believe Jesus would have been permitted to post at Viagraville were so gullible as to believe Greggy Venalballs and little Peter Jensen reflect a dynamic movement of God among third-world churches my comment fields would be filled with angry missives akin to that recently left by a virtuous young man calling himself "AJ" (look at the bottom of the comments field) who arrived at my blog as a result of a Google search for "young masturbaters" - nothing is secret on the internet, my hypocritical and orthodox-but-potty-mouthed young friend.
Yet instead the astonishing fact of a movement claiming to represent the fastest growing areas of global Anglicanism now being controlled by two men responsible for some of the least effective dioceses on the planet appears to have passed by without remark. Even more astonishing is the silence concerning what purported to be the voice of post-colonial Episcopalianism now being that of two white men who are themselves the epitome of colonialism, and whose values, interests, and concerns are far closer to those of a mid 19th century London gentlemen’s club than they are to anything found in the parishes of Lagos or Kampala. As Bishop Quinine asked when he learned of the Council’s appointments: “Why does something about all this make me feel like we're the jester in King Lear?”
I’m Father Christian, and I’m awfully afraid Alsion Barfoot is Goneril.
Not that any of this spoiled our stay: as every self-righteous Primate knows, Tucker’s Point is the place when it comes to golf, and while of course as a Christian I didn’t play, I did obtain a very lovely pair of golf shoes made from the finest baby-seal skin, and hand stitched by children in a Chinese sweat-shop so strict it would make the Christian Reconstructionists currently putting their money where they don't have the courage to put their mouths start reminiscing about dear old Rushdoony. Unfortunately, however, this purchase pushed little David Virtue’s credit card over the edge, leaving us temporarily insolvent and forced to make an unscheduled check out prior to a visit from the local constabulary.
It was while down and out in Bermuda (and without resources to contact Ichabod Springs to arrange for the parish to forward sufficient funds for us to purchase tickets home) that who should we bump into, but a shirtless Peter Jensen! Old habits die hard, it appears, and the precious Puritan had been “investing” again: doubtless they play blackjack a little differently on his side of the world, since he still couldn’t understand why 22 wasn’t one better than 21. And not even Bishop Quinine was convinced by the claim that his losses were simply a result of the global financial crisis, but we all agreed if that one had worked on Dobby and other house-elves once before there was no reason they wouldn’t work again.
Interestingly enough this wasn’t the first time little Pete has been lost in Bermuda: you can read about the first occasion here. Which suggests to me that that the Man from Mordor little Matt Kennedy doesn’t know but loves anyway (try taking your chasuble and preaching wife to that diocese and see how long Dobby wants to be your friend then, my boy) mightn’t actually be human at all, but actually just an alien who's stolen his identity.
Which, my Sinners, might sound strange, but nowhere as strange as this: the outcome of the Tucker’s Point tête-à-tête was that not only does one of the two most senior office-bearers in the Gafcon Primates Council continue to be someone who is not a Primate (nor even an Anglican in anything but name), but the pair of them are as about as much a product of the developing world as Her Majesty the Queen of England (or Baby Blue if you’d prefer someone a little more pompous, but less interested in gin and horse-racing). I mean to say: if I'd dared suggest the kind of people who believe Jesus would have been permitted to post at Viagraville were so gullible as to believe Greggy Venalballs and little Peter Jensen reflect a dynamic movement of God among third-world churches my comment fields would be filled with angry missives akin to that recently left by a virtuous young man calling himself "AJ" (look at the bottom of the comments field) who arrived at my blog as a result of a Google search for "young masturbaters" - nothing is secret on the internet, my hypocritical and orthodox-but-potty-mouthed young friend.
Yet instead the astonishing fact of a movement claiming to represent the fastest growing areas of global Anglicanism now being controlled by two men responsible for some of the least effective dioceses on the planet appears to have passed by without remark. Even more astonishing is the silence concerning what purported to be the voice of post-colonial Episcopalianism now being that of two white men who are themselves the epitome of colonialism, and whose values, interests, and concerns are far closer to those of a mid 19th century London gentlemen’s club than they are to anything found in the parishes of Lagos or Kampala. As Bishop Quinine asked when he learned of the Council’s appointments: “Why does something about all this make me feel like we're the jester in King Lear?”
I’m Father Christian, and I’m awfully afraid Alsion Barfoot is Goneril.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Bermuda at Last! (sort of...)
Bless me, My Beloved Sinners, but Bishop Quinine and I have finally arrived in Bermuda and I know you’ve all been desperately worried about what’s happened to us since my last homily, posted just prior to our aircraft's departure. We’ve been through a fascinating experience, and even though the FBI and CIA (along with another agency so secret they don’t even have an acronym) have combined their resources to ensure no details of this adventure are ever made public, let me assure you nothing could prevent me from sharing my testimony with those who, like yourselves, need to hear it most.
Everything about the flight was progressing normally; we were relaxing in first class (there was more room on little David Virtue’s credit card than might have been imagined), and Bishop Quinine was enjoying his eighth refreshing breakfast martini while I was studying the scriptures and checking to ensure the flight attendants’ lingerie was suitably modest (let me tell you this: Brother Andrew’s famous miracle about border guards not seeing his smuggled Bibles isn’t a patch on the answer to prayer that got my trusty mirror-on-a-stick through the pre-flight security inspection) when suddenly, as we approached Bermuda, our aircraft started experiencing strange electrical anomalies.
The compass began gyrating like a Pentecostal with a hula-hoop, and the satellite-navigation systems were placing us in a KFC drive-through just outside Milwaukee. The First Officer, clearly disorientated , began complaining the girl had only given him wings and that strange triangular part of the chicken which looks like it's distorted from the poor bird having spent too long in a cage. Fortunately his co-pilot could restore him to his senses, whereupon he began his final radio transmission: “Whitewater! Whitewater!” (Actually he said nothing of the sort, but I once heard this in a Charles Berlitz movie, and thought it would sound impressive here).
Moments later our entire airplane was drawn into a huge spaceship bearing an uncanny resemblance to something a “continuing” Anglican might wear, and small beings with large heads and big lidless eyes ordered us from our seats. Indeed, at first things weren’t going well: the little aliens seemed quite hostile, and Bishop Quinine created a panic among our fellow passengers when he explained the objects with which they were directing us were probes, and not just cattle-prods.
The situation soon improved, since when the alien in charge of the ship appeared he and Bishop Quinine immediately recognized each other as old friends, and by means of animated hand gestures began cheerfully reminiscing about a number of previously shared adventures - although as these obviously appeared to include the aforementioned probes only those passengers who’d been travelling in business class found anything reassuring in the joyful reunion.
As the other aliens grumbled among themselves about the delay, however, I made an amazing discovery: their native tongue was in fact JavaScript - the same language in which Brother Richthofen’s young Friend from Seminary wrote the clever little program that tells how often the Ould twins visit my site (at least once a day, if anyone’s interested). Naturally any language involving so many + and ++ symbols comes easily to one as well-versed in Anglicanism as myself, and in no time at all I was able to communicate with perfect fluency, barring the occasional error in syntax and punctuation, whereupon the polite response is for everyone to collapse in a heap and do absolutely nothing until the speaker corrects their mistake.
As you can well imagine, any beings prepared to fly 3,000 light years to burn crop circles and terrorize people who live in trailer parks are absolutely fascinating conversationalists, and sat entranced as I explained my own importance to the Global Schism and the future of Orthodoxy as Christians have understood it since at least the early-mid nineteenth century ( “Function GafCon()
var Anglican, Troll, DoctrinalWarrior;
if
{
(typeof Anglican != Troll)
document.body && document.body.style myForm
}else{
DoctrinalWarrior[0]++
document.write(txt.constructor).smiteAll}” – or something like that: they have a few more global functions than we do, but on the other hand Vista was considered too complicated for release in their galaxy).
Nor will you believe the story they told about little Peter Jensen – but that’s going to have to wait until my next homily: right now the Man-In-Black responsible for our debriefing wants me meet someone from the FBI called Agent Scully: apparently she’s been a long-term admirer and is most eager to review my case in person.
I’m Father Christian and I’m the First Interstellar Evangelist.
Everything about the flight was progressing normally; we were relaxing in first class (there was more room on little David Virtue’s credit card than might have been imagined), and Bishop Quinine was enjoying his eighth refreshing breakfast martini while I was studying the scriptures and checking to ensure the flight attendants’ lingerie was suitably modest (let me tell you this: Brother Andrew’s famous miracle about border guards not seeing his smuggled Bibles isn’t a patch on the answer to prayer that got my trusty mirror-on-a-stick through the pre-flight security inspection) when suddenly, as we approached Bermuda, our aircraft started experiencing strange electrical anomalies.
The compass began gyrating like a Pentecostal with a hula-hoop, and the satellite-navigation systems were placing us in a KFC drive-through just outside Milwaukee. The First Officer, clearly disorientated , began complaining the girl had only given him wings and that strange triangular part of the chicken which looks like it's distorted from the poor bird having spent too long in a cage. Fortunately his co-pilot could restore him to his senses, whereupon he began his final radio transmission: “Whitewater! Whitewater!” (Actually he said nothing of the sort, but I once heard this in a Charles Berlitz movie, and thought it would sound impressive here).
Moments later our entire airplane was drawn into a huge spaceship bearing an uncanny resemblance to something a “continuing” Anglican might wear, and small beings with large heads and big lidless eyes ordered us from our seats. Indeed, at first things weren’t going well: the little aliens seemed quite hostile, and Bishop Quinine created a panic among our fellow passengers when he explained the objects with which they were directing us were probes, and not just cattle-prods.
The situation soon improved, since when the alien in charge of the ship appeared he and Bishop Quinine immediately recognized each other as old friends, and by means of animated hand gestures began cheerfully reminiscing about a number of previously shared adventures - although as these obviously appeared to include the aforementioned probes only those passengers who’d been travelling in business class found anything reassuring in the joyful reunion.
As the other aliens grumbled among themselves about the delay, however, I made an amazing discovery: their native tongue was in fact JavaScript - the same language in which Brother Richthofen’s young Friend from Seminary wrote the clever little program that tells how often the Ould twins visit my site (at least once a day, if anyone’s interested). Naturally any language involving so many + and ++ symbols comes easily to one as well-versed in Anglicanism as myself, and in no time at all I was able to communicate with perfect fluency, barring the occasional error in syntax and punctuation, whereupon the polite response is for everyone to collapse in a heap and do absolutely nothing until the speaker corrects their mistake.
As you can well imagine, any beings prepared to fly 3,000 light years to burn crop circles and terrorize people who live in trailer parks are absolutely fascinating conversationalists, and sat entranced as I explained my own importance to the Global Schism and the future of Orthodoxy as Christians have understood it since at least the early-mid nineteenth century ( “Function GafCon()
var Anglican, Troll, DoctrinalWarrior;
if
{
(typeof Anglican != Troll)
document.body && document.body.style myForm
}else{
DoctrinalWarrior[0]++
document.write(txt.constructor).smiteAll}” – or something like that: they have a few more global functions than we do, but on the other hand Vista was considered too complicated for release in their galaxy).
Nor will you believe the story they told about little Peter Jensen – but that’s going to have to wait until my next homily: right now the Man-In-Black responsible for our debriefing wants me meet someone from the FBI called Agent Scully: apparently she’s been a long-term admirer and is most eager to review my case in person.
I’m Father Christian and I’m the First Interstellar Evangelist.
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Live-Blogging Bermuda: Answering the Call
In the wake of a trivial misunderstanding, which has caused a spot of bother at home, Bishop Quinine and I have felt strongly called to join the other GAFCON “Global South” leaders in Bermuda, where I have no doubt the partying Primates will be only too grateful to wallow in the spiritual Jacuzzi of my wisdom.
Naturally this decision was, like the Diocese of Mordor’s “investment” strategy, only made after much prayer, and the fact that our apostate liberal Bishop has demanded I appear and explain why so many people were upset by part of St. Onuphrius’ contribution to Ichabod Springs’ ecumenical “Easter Sunday Family Parade” has nothing to do with the haste of our departure. Indeed, when God demands one attend an important conference and preach His Word a man of my standing has no option but to obey. Besides, if the fact that we were able to purchase two first class return tickets with the credit card Bishop Richthofen’s friend from Seminary stole from little David Virtue isn’t confirmation of the Spirit’s call then I don’t know what is.
As an added blessing, My Beloved Sinners, I intend live-blogging proceedings, giving an inspiring insight into what life is like for those who, like myself, have been called to a life of service and surrender for the Gospel. Yes; one can be sure it’s not all beer and skittles in our spiritual war against Homosexualists and Vicars-with-Vaginas: there’s also golf and tennis, and the sacrifice involved in partaking of some of the world’s finest wines. The task the Lord has put before me is to ensure everyone of you gains a deeper understanding of what the greatest names in the Glorious Global Schism endure on your behalf, and an appreciation of how much hard work is involved in ensuring the kinds of people Jesus called friends are driven away from His Church today.
Meanwhile I have thoughtfully entrusted my Curate, Evangelical Eric, with responsibility for sorting out the confusion which arose through the performance given by “Pirate Pete and Missy Mermaid” last Sunday afternoon. It’ll be a good chance for him to exercise the leadership skills which I have been caringly encouraging him to develop during his past year with us, and as he will undoubtedly explain, we can hardly be held responsible if our personal purity causes us to fail to appreciate the wicked subtleties of this perverse and sinful age’s language. As any reasonable person will agree, the St. Onuphrius’ Ministry Team (and more importantly, their leader) can’t honestly be expected to have realized that the expression “adult entertainers” means something more than just that the performers are over 21. What’s more, we found them on the internet, so how could anyone have imagined there’d be something unwholesome about their act?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Naturally this decision was, like the Diocese of Mordor’s “investment” strategy, only made after much prayer, and the fact that our apostate liberal Bishop has demanded I appear and explain why so many people were upset by part of St. Onuphrius’ contribution to Ichabod Springs’ ecumenical “Easter Sunday Family Parade” has nothing to do with the haste of our departure. Indeed, when God demands one attend an important conference and preach His Word a man of my standing has no option but to obey. Besides, if the fact that we were able to purchase two first class return tickets with the credit card Bishop Richthofen’s friend from Seminary stole from little David Virtue isn’t confirmation of the Spirit’s call then I don’t know what is.
As an added blessing, My Beloved Sinners, I intend live-blogging proceedings, giving an inspiring insight into what life is like for those who, like myself, have been called to a life of service and surrender for the Gospel. Yes; one can be sure it’s not all beer and skittles in our spiritual war against Homosexualists and Vicars-with-Vaginas: there’s also golf and tennis, and the sacrifice involved in partaking of some of the world’s finest wines. The task the Lord has put before me is to ensure everyone of you gains a deeper understanding of what the greatest names in the Glorious Global Schism endure on your behalf, and an appreciation of how much hard work is involved in ensuring the kinds of people Jesus called friends are driven away from His Church today.
Meanwhile I have thoughtfully entrusted my Curate, Evangelical Eric, with responsibility for sorting out the confusion which arose through the performance given by “Pirate Pete and Missy Mermaid” last Sunday afternoon. It’ll be a good chance for him to exercise the leadership skills which I have been caringly encouraging him to develop during his past year with us, and as he will undoubtedly explain, we can hardly be held responsible if our personal purity causes us to fail to appreciate the wicked subtleties of this perverse and sinful age’s language. As any reasonable person will agree, the St. Onuphrius’ Ministry Team (and more importantly, their leader) can’t honestly be expected to have realized that the expression “adult entertainers” means something more than just that the performers are over 21. What’s more, we found them on the internet, so how could anyone have imagined there’d be something unwholesome about their act?
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
Holy Saturday
Personally I’ve always considered Holy Saturday to be a bit of a let down. After all the gloom of Good Friday it’s a bit much to expect Biblical Christian Leaders like myself to wait more than a whole day before enjoying the bumper offertories to be gleaned on Easter Sunday. Besides, if the whole atonement business is simple enough for Deacon Dobby Ould to explain in a few short lines there’s no reason for Our Lord to have been so tardy about things. If David Ould can be believed (don't worry, we're only speaking hypothetically here) he could have wrapped the whole business up in under an hour, which I'll admit with advertising could have made a fantastic 90 minute TV presentation.
Still, the break does give everyone a much needed chance to go shopping: three days without an opportunity to purchase whitegoods is probably more than any civil society should endure. Here at St. Onuphrius’ we spent much of the day nailing little Brad Evans’ crate shut and shipping him back to the Institute. Not only did he prove incapable of handling the part we’d prepared for him in our Easter pageant (he was to have played the stone outside Jesus’ tomb, but lacked sufficient personality), but the endless droning on and on about vestments became more than anyone could bear. Don’t get me wrong; I love a good bit of man-lace as much as the next homophobic clergyman, but the boy’s obsessional. Back when Dicky Dawkins could still be bothered indulging in community with carbon molecules arranged in such a way as to display an illusion of sentience there was somewhere Brad could relieve himself of his tensions, but now? Dear me, I don’t know how Matron manages: the woman must have the patience of a saint. Either that she was weaned on the same lemons as Alison Barfoot. Although Matron doesn’t forget to pay her web hosting bill.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
Still, the break does give everyone a much needed chance to go shopping: three days without an opportunity to purchase whitegoods is probably more than any civil society should endure. Here at St. Onuphrius’ we spent much of the day nailing little Brad Evans’ crate shut and shipping him back to the Institute. Not only did he prove incapable of handling the part we’d prepared for him in our Easter pageant (he was to have played the stone outside Jesus’ tomb, but lacked sufficient personality), but the endless droning on and on about vestments became more than anyone could bear. Don’t get me wrong; I love a good bit of man-lace as much as the next homophobic clergyman, but the boy’s obsessional. Back when Dicky Dawkins could still be bothered indulging in community with carbon molecules arranged in such a way as to display an illusion of sentience there was somewhere Brad could relieve himself of his tensions, but now? Dear me, I don’t know how Matron manages: the woman must have the patience of a saint. Either that she was weaned on the same lemons as Alison Barfoot. Although Matron doesn’t forget to pay her web hosting bill.
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.
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