My travails began last Friday morning at the Beauty Palace, when I felt a suspicious rumbling deep in my innards. "Nope, that ain't good," I thought to myself. It was either some lower g/i problem, or demonic possession: The early signs of each are barely distinguishable from one another. Jesus kindly picked me up from work after I toughed out my shift, and I figured I could sleep it off.
I woke up feeling as if I hadn't even slept at all, but decided to go ahead and go through the motions of my Saturday anyway. Rather than surrendering to the ravages of whatever it was that was conspiring against me, I tried a new tact: I would use the power of Prayer, the most powerful weapon in the Christian arsenal, to combat its evil powers. At my weekly guitar lesson, I made my instructor bow his head and began with the following Devotional: "Heavenly Father, please accept the following music as exaltation of Your Mighty Grace, though You probably won't since all the songs my teacher here picks out for me to learn are written by communists or homosexuals. In Jesus' name, Amen." I didn't feel much better, but I did manage to strip "Sittin' On Top of the World" of all the Sinful elements (rhythm, melody, playing in tune) that typify the wasteland of contemporary music and return American Song to its Christian roots, for one brief, shining moment. Glory!
Afterwards I went to the car wash, and as I handed my sales slip and debit card to the cashier, I closed my eyes and intoned the following with as much solemnity as can be mustered while surrounded by cherry air fresheners: "King of Kings, I humbly ask that today's ablutions restore my car to showroom condition, and that all the illegal aliens working here be deported, but not before they finish hand-waxing the Praisemobile. For Thine is the Kingdom and the Glory, forever and ever, Amen." I waited for the others around the cash register to join in. "Amen," I repeated, slightly louder, only to open my eyes to find the cashier flicking the pages of her magazine with her acrylics while the woman behind me fidgeted with her PDA, two obvious ACLU members if I'd ever seen any.
The final stop before I could go home and pray en seul was Gxxxxx's, my local grocery store and frequent battlefield in the war on Christianity here in West Hollywood. As I brought my toothpaste up to the register, I was greeted by the friendly face of "Luz," the checkout girl, and, I suspected, a spiritual ally in my fight. "Heavenly Queen, just as you conceived your only begotten Son without sin, so too may my teeth reach a similarly Immaculate state with this tartar-control dentrifrice. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen." I crossed myself and left, but did my ears deceive me? Did I hear Luz exhale an "Amen" as I walked through the sliding doors? Or was she offering her coworker a mint? Despite how horrible I felt, I couldn't help but savor this potential victory, especially in light of all the stinging defeats I had experienced there in the past: In your face, shift-manager "Randy," loyal supporter of pornographic vegetable displays in the produce department, for wherever two or more are gathered in my name, or His name, or whoever's, etc. etc. etc. Well anyways, now was not the time to split hairs over such trivial matters, because Love had won out!
I'll spare you the details of Sunday, but let it suffice to say the floodgates opened at about 3:30 a.m. and have yet to fully shut. As fate would have it, I had my annual physical scheduled for 9:30 Monday morning (otherwise I'd still be haggling with the receptionist for an appointment time two weeks from now), so I used the opportunity to give my doctor an earful about what was going on downstairs. I provided the following Offering to diminish the inherent Sinfulness of the doctor-patient relationship, and I think it may have worked: "Benevolent Lord, please help this physician with his expensive medical schooling find out what's wrong with me, even though it's probably something mentioned in Genesis, and please keep the scope he sticks up my ladyparts from bragging to its friends about it so they don't disrespect me. Keep it real, Lord. Amen."
His diagnosis was somewhat vague, but something about it -- parasites -- made my eyes widen.
"Parasites, like... illegal aliens?" Suddenly all the pieces were falling into place. An El Salvadoran family had miniaturized themselves and relocated to my colon. They were probably stealing cable, too.
"No," he clarified, "It's probably bacteria, like food poisoning or amoeba." But then he gave me a prescription for Flagyl and for Cipro, which we Patriots know is usually given to treat mail-borne anthrax. Didn't I just get an advertisement in the mail from The Nation wanting me to subscribe to their commie rag? It was one of those "a-ha" moments, much like when Flopping Aces discovered that Hummel figurine memo was a forgery: Major leftist publication gives prominent rightwing blogger anthrax! You may be wondering why MSM hasn't reported on my illness, but apprarently it's only news when unionized, Democratic-voting government workers get anthrax, not when us defenders of Freedom do.
Anyway, I'm not going to make too much of a fuss about it. I was pretty happy to be able rattle my bottles of pills at Conchita when she asked me why I was out all day yesterday instead of being in at 11:00 like I had indicated on Friday (much easier than trying to convince her that the feast day of
Labels: Christian persecution