Holy Crone

Son and I went out for breakfast at a fast food joint this morning.

As we were getting buckled  in the car, there came a rap-rap-rapping on the window. I looked at the bairn, he looked at me. Huh?

As I turned to look around, a 275 year old woman was pulling open my car door.

Amazing what can go through your mind in an instant. Did I hit her?!? I haven’t started the car yet! Is it Halloween? Does she want a treat? A ride? What the fuck?

Sorry to startle you, Dear. I just wanted to give you this magazine. Very good reading material! And with serious, frowny eyes, “How would you feel if you knew god was lying to you?”

Oh, uh, trying to keep a lump of egg and flour in my gorge where it belongs but wants to rise from the terror I feel from the old crones bony hand on my car door, Well…

Truthfully, I’d feel like pealing the fuck out of this parking lot because you just scared the piss out of me! I didn’t say that. Respect for elders, whatnot.

Uh…

Where are you from, Dear?

I stared at her earrings. Stained glass. Pretty. And I didn’t want to make eye contact for fear that this ancient woman’s god would see the image I held in my mind of prying her skeletal digits off my door and shrieking “Mugger! Mugger!”. Just for giggles, right?

“Um, Edson?” I just lied to one of gods messengers! Holy fuck,what am I doing? Holy fuck, did he hear that? Holy fuck!

“Really? I’m from Edson!”

Goddamnit. “Uh, well, we haven’t been there very long…”

Some quick small talk, and with a have a good day, off the old boot sprinted across the lot to her minivan. Damn, she was fast. Like a ninja.

Son said “Who was that, Mom?”

Well, honey, some people want you to know their god. Normally they come to the house and daddy talks to them, but apparently, they are under a budget crunch like the rest of us and are now using parking lots to up their quotas. It’s all a numbers game, son.

We drove toward home and stopped for a train. Curiosity got the better of this duck. Let’s just see here…

I opened the rag and on page four was a picture of the Messiah with three noses, three mouths, and one set of eyes. He looked like one of those weird side-show calf’s that dies shortly after birth but some wacko preserves it and displays it so we can all go ‘Yucky! How fucked up is that?’.

It scared me. I yelped “Jesus Christ!” To which my six-year-old replied, “Yes? What’s up?” Love that kid…

We got home and I phoned Christ, known to me as J.C. He’s gangsta now, did you know?

After being on hold for like 15 minutes, J.C. finally picked up. “Hey, Gurl!!!”

Hey. Listen those pictures of you? The one with the extra sniffers and cakeholes? That’s just so wrong!

Dude, I know right? When buddy was painting it, I said to keep it real! No use scaring the bejesus outta people! Get it? Hnyuh? Hynuh?

I hung up. When Christ thinks he’s being “funny” you may as well not even bother.

This eve, I pondered and came to a conclusion. If you want to save my soul, you need to send someone hot to do it. Someone with a french accent. Even hotter. And for god’s sake, try to make being holy look like fun. Life’s hard enough without being bossed around some scary looking guy that gives you nightmares.

Just saying.

7 thoughts on “Holy Crone

  1. I am pretty sure I would have screamed through the glass right in her face. I try to put on a “calm” face when stuff like that happens and the kids I nanny for are around but sometimes it is hard. I would have yelled in that crones face and told her to keep her strange too many armed, nosed, eyed, mouthed, god away from me.

    You are a better woman than I am!

  2. 🙂

    We have a lot of door-to-doorness going on in my neighborhood. I’ve taken to pretending that I can’t hear them knocking…

    Now if they came selling candybars as well, as so many of the little high-school knockers do, that would be another story…

    Pearl

    • He owes EVERYONE money. Seriously, do not go out for drinks with that guy. You will pay the bill because he conviently “forgot” his wallet at home. Like every time.

Go on. Talk to Mama Duck.

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