What is it about a clapboard church in the country, where they keep the windows closed during a sweltering summer Sunday lest the fucking Devil sneak in, that the pasteboard and popsicle stick fans are always supplied by the local funeral parlor? Was the hardware store too damned heathen to pony up some fans?
Sweltering, I say. Listening to an obviously deranged individual hurl the fire, the brimstone at your ass, and all you can think is I have to pee, dammit, and communion is a pellet of rabbit food and grape juice, because Jesus could drink wine, but you fuckers would turn into fornicators, rapers, and dope fiends should fermented beverage pass your lips.
Potato salad sitting in the trunk, toxic. Ice tea at the boiling point. Body odor. Sweat. Guilt. Getting your ear yanked for pulling out a pocket knife during service to clean Saturday's filth from your fingernails.
Being told "We don't sing Jesus Loves the Little Children because it mentions black children".
No, Sundays are Cuba Libre days for me now. My icon a swizzle stick. Although I must confess even I won't watch porn of a Sunday. Old habits die hard. I will perform porn. I just won't watch it.