There's got to be a morning after
No wonder I was so weepy yesterday -- the Lord decided to bless me with an extra large helping of the Curse of Eve. Even the cruel taunts of leftists and homosexuals, which I usually consider the highest form of honor, turned me into a river of tears. "This must be how it feels to be Michelle Malkin," I thought. A few puffs of ceremonial frankincense helped unclench Satan's grip on my ladyparts, so I figured a few more would expel him from me completely. That worked all too well, but unfortunately Sister Chandrika and I had chosen last night to work on our anti-Halloween protest costumes, since Jesus was going to be at His second job until 11.
A few weeks ago I helped myself to an acid-washed denim jacket in the donations box at Our Lady of the Denunciation -- it was far too nice to go the poor. I had planned to use my trusty hot-glue gun and some sequins to turn it into an elaborate Bosch-like vision of hellfire and damnation, but after all that frankincense, it looked more like a Mondrian. It also weighed nearly 30 pounds, and I think I may have herniated a disk trying it on in front of the mirror and striking various poses. I'm hoping to offset my unintentional foray into America-hating Modernism by getting this spectacular rhinestone rosary at a religious supply store in Chatsworth, but first I have to figure out where Chatsworth is. Sister Chandrika graciously offered to navigate, but I'm going to decline.
Sister Chandrika is certainly a "love," as they say in her native Sri Lanka, but the ceremonial frankincense made her unbearably loquacious, and she prattled on and on and on about her girlhood on her uncle's teakwood plantation in innermost outer Sri Lanka proper, or someplace like that, and the fruitbats dwelling therein. Listening to this was worse than a slow, agonizing death, because death, I knew, was never going to come. Jesus finally made it home and started undressing for bed, a signal that any sentient creature would have known meant to call it a night. Mercifully, this sign is universal.
This is turning into another weekend of endless lists of chores, but only for me. Jesus announced His intention last Sunday to spend all of the coming weekend on the couch, watching tv and working on His grad school applications. I wish I could take this more relaxed approach, but I've got souls to save. OK, gotta run, Jesus wants breakfast...
A few weeks ago I helped myself to an acid-washed denim jacket in the donations box at Our Lady of the Denunciation -- it was far too nice to go the poor. I had planned to use my trusty hot-glue gun and some sequins to turn it into an elaborate Bosch-like vision of hellfire and damnation, but after all that frankincense, it looked more like a Mondrian. It also weighed nearly 30 pounds, and I think I may have herniated a disk trying it on in front of the mirror and striking various poses. I'm hoping to offset my unintentional foray into America-hating Modernism by getting this spectacular rhinestone rosary at a religious supply store in Chatsworth, but first I have to figure out where Chatsworth is. Sister Chandrika graciously offered to navigate, but I'm going to decline.
Sister Chandrika is certainly a "love," as they say in her native Sri Lanka, but the ceremonial frankincense made her unbearably loquacious, and she prattled on and on and on about her girlhood on her uncle's teakwood plantation in innermost outer Sri Lanka proper, or someplace like that, and the fruitbats dwelling therein. Listening to this was worse than a slow, agonizing death, because death, I knew, was never going to come. Jesus finally made it home and started undressing for bed, a signal that any sentient creature would have known meant to call it a night. Mercifully, this sign is universal.
This is turning into another weekend of endless lists of chores, but only for me. Jesus announced His intention last Sunday to spend all of the coming weekend on the couch, watching tv and working on His grad school applications. I wish I could take this more relaxed approach, but I've got souls to save. OK, gotta run, Jesus wants breakfast...
posted by Sister Nancy Beth Eczema @ 7:53 AM
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