Being a Dahlin meant being a Catholic, and being a Catholic meant being an Altar Boy. In my case I don't know exactly why I was called up to the big leagues... my Latin sucked and I covered up my ignorance by speaking in Pig Latin (ichway Iay asway eryvay oodgay atay).Besides electrifying a NUN (post 4/26/13), and the incidence where my older brothers broke into the vestibule and drank all the communion wine and knocked down the schoolyard fence on their escape (post), I just figured that I had about as much chance as qualifying in serving at Mass as a snowballs chance of survival in H E double toothpicks .
But, they did and I don't know why! So, I got the call! It might have been because my mom was like the Vice-Pope and they figured that they would make her happy, because of her unhappiness over Vatican II (that is the Second Vatican Council - where they allowed English into the Mass and turned the altar around so the priest faced the congregation- eegads). Every time the priest said something and the people would respond in English she would stand up and shout out the correct answer loudly to cover over everyone else - In God's Language - Latin. She told me that God and Jesus and the angels and everyone in heaven speak in Latin, so I had better learn it. I was wondering if I could fool God with some well placed pig-latin which I also figured was better than the catch phrase my big sister taught me "Sub ubi semper ubi" (loosely translated, "always wear underwear" kinda.
Anyway my Pig-Latin was good enough to fool the priest, so I got to put on the robes and tried to learn all the ups and downs and ins and out and ringing bells and pouring water and wine and carrying Crucifixes and trusted with open flames and holding blunt objects against the throats of other 7th graders.
Besides the fact that one of the kids in my class, Joseph, fell asleep during a very long funeral and fell over frontwards and his caught his hair on fire which caused Richard to drop the thurible (that's the container of burning incense), which hit the ground and scattered hot coals everywhere making the priest scream (because he thought his robes were about to catch fire), which scared one of pall-bearers who dropped the casket, which caused the dead body to slide out onto the floor on top of the burning incense, which caused the wife to faint and the Lutheran son-in-law to curse... something that has not happened in a Catholic Church since 1517.
Fire is one thing... but to put a blunt metal plate in the hands of 12-year-old boy (that he has to hold under the chin and can imperceptible push into throat of another 12-year-old) is perhaps too much temptation. I have been on both ends of the paten (the paten is the brass communion plate- thingy) which had become the instrument of payback for any pranks at school during the past week. Every time Richard Stiman came up for communion, when the Priest wasn't looking, I pressed that brass plate-thingy into his developing Adam's Apple for stealing the first girl I ever loved.
I pressed it into Ricky Arredondo's very pronounced Adam's Apple - hoping he would choke - because he had just turned 13 and already had a mustache (I didn't see any "Jealously Clause" in our Altar Boy training manual).
The only problem was - that when it was Ricky's turn to press the blunt brass thingy into my throat for revenge, he had no idea about my "superpowers." But when it was all said and done the entire church found out about it - as warm stinky "Fish-Stick' vomit sprayed all over Ricky...and unfortunately the Priest.
I thought they were going to have to have a Third Vatican Council in order to decide what to do with Markie D and to cancel putting dangerous things into the hands of Altar Boys.
"Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa." "Sub ubi semper ubi and Ustjay aitway untilay extnay imetay."
No comments:
Post a Comment