Worst Sunday Ever! I was in an awful quandary over Communion this past Sunday. Mike was on one side of the isle holding the paten for Father Kwansi and Ricky was on my side of the church carrying the paten for Father Bond. Either way I knew I was in trouble. Last week I got a good jab in on Ricky's Adam-apple when it was his turn to take communion and ever since I beat up Mike in the 5th grade for taking a bite of my sourdough toast, he has been looking for payback.
I knew my number was up and that one of these two guys would try to jab my throat with the brass, communion-plate thingy that is nothing more than an implement of torture in the hands of a seventh grade boy.
Seventh Grade altar boys are like little devils with halos hanging from the pointed horns that stick out of our heads. You can't see horns, but if you were to touch a seventh grader on the head, you sure can feel them just below the surface of the hair.I didn't know which side of the isle to go down. I figured I'd take my chances with Ricky and stick to my side of the church. Now regretting what I did last Sunday, I was hoping that Ricky would show more respect for the Altar Boy uniform than I did last time. I grabbed my neighbors, Tommy Blaser and Jeffery Lennon, for moral support and nervously walked down toward the altar. I could have opted out by appealing to the fact that I had not sufficiently fasted before communion. Since Vatican II, a couple years ago, all we had to do now was fast for one hour before Mass, but I didn't even make that. It seemed like Tommy was always chewing bubble gum and he gave me piece on our way to Mass. I could have refused to go up and take communion and find myself waking up in the middle of the night asking, "WHY DIDN'T I OPT OUT?"
The reason I was afraid not to go up was because everyone stares at you and makes you feel like you'll spend the rest of your eternity in Purgatory...you know "Under Pain of Mortal Sin" and all that. After this particular incident, I'm pretty certain that I'm probably going to skip Purgatory altogether and go right to the bottom of that other hot place- where the Devil lives.
Anyway, one of my older brothers told me that if the old guys from The Knights of Columbus (like Mr. McCarthy and Mr. Downey), find that you're not taking communion, they'll write down your name, take you out back in a dark alley and beat the snot out of you. I believed my brother and went down to communion even though I had just swallowed my gum. I didn't look it up in Canon Law or anything, but it might have been a Mortal sin to have Jesus in my stomach along with some bubble gum. The way I got around this was by telling myself that Jesus was going to be in my stomach with some old oatmeal (see post XXX) and sour milk (see Post 7/13/13)anyway. I thought He might like the gum! Mea Culpa, Mea Culpa, Mea Maxima Culpa!
Hands folded in proper form and head bowed low - not to provoke or catch the eye of Ricky, the priest put the Eucharist on Tommy's tongue. I was next, followed by Jeffery.
"The......Body....of...Christ" said Father Bond in the slow, boring monotone, required of being a Catholic Priest. Just as I was sticking my tongue out..WHAM...went the blunt metal thing Ricky was holding - like a sharp Karate chop to the neck.
(Okay, I need to put this on pause for just a second... because I had been smothered and electrocuted and buried and placed under mattresses and tied to trees and tied up and thrown over cliffs - and proven to be pretty indestructible. To be honest it actually made me feel good to be the center of attention - like I mattered or that I was somehow connected to my tribe...SO I WAS MENTALLY ILL, what of it? Anyway, there was no way one-of-me could fight off something like ten of the marijuana-smoking, hippie Wolf-Pack.So I had developed a "Superpower." I don't know what planet it came from...don't ask me...but it did work! Vomit! That was my power! I could take out 5, 6, 7, or 8 of them at a time (post 7/8 and 7/11/13).
Don't fart.. don't make me scoop the dog poop and whatever you do DON'T touch my neck - seriously!
BACK TO THE STORY: Ricky, paying me back for last week (for doing the same thing to him), had absolutely no idea what he was about to trigger. As the Eucharist was about to reach my mouth - tongue hanging out in anticipation- before I could even say, "Amen" I gagged and began heaving. I threw up twice in my mouth and managed to swallow it back down...hallelujah...I was winning! The Priest stood there angrily and held Jesus up so he would not get contaminated as I went through my violent convulsions at the altar rail. Jeffery thought it was funny and tried not to laugh and did everything he could kept his lips tightly sealed shut... only problem was, Jeffery probably never missed communion and the old guys must have never beat the snot of him...his entire sinus cavity was so full when he snorted through his nose, out came a billion gallons of boogers. HELLO!
That's all it took...a steady stream of green mucus to trigger my "SuperPowers" Yep! This morning's 98.6 degree oatmeal and sour milk went everywhere. All over Ricky, yay me! All over the black, government issue, jack-boots of Father Bond, all over the altar, and all over Jeffery. Sorry Jeffery!
Next week, the Priest used me as an object lesson for an illustration of what it means to be a bad catholic in his Homily, but poor Jeffery got the worst part because everyone thought it was his fault and he had to say like a bazillion Hail Marys and five hundred million Our Fathers.
Jeffery only snotted like that one other time, that's when he and Tommy and I were at Mr. D's restaurant in the Marina. Yep.. you guessed it, we were just monkeying around and Jeffery tried to hold back a laugh when 500 gallons of green snot drained out of his sinus cavity and filled his salad plate. HELLO SUPERPOWERS! I threw up all over the restaurant and the three of us were thrown out and never allowed in there again. Guess what? Didn't have to pay - but as good Catholics, we did say some Our Fathers on the way home.
