I’m a practicing “Bad Catholic.” That means the closest I come to going to mass is shouting, “Holy Shit! Learn how to drive, Jackass!” from my car window at churchgoers who don’t pay attention to traffic signals. I never know when lent is or if it’s capitalized (and even if I did, I would still order pepperoni pizza on Friday nights) and the only time I pray to God is when I’m trying to cram my fat ass into my jeans or when the room won’t stop spinning. But yet, this weekend, I baptized my daughter and two years ago I baptized the other one.
Both times, I insisted, and, not just because I wanted to collect money from my relatives. Sure, that was part of it. But the bigger reason is because every neck twisting, eye rolling, fucked up devil possession movie that ever kept me awake at night started with the words, “Based on a true story.”
I have no idea what guidelines evil-ass entities use to decide who’s worthy of demonic possession but I’m not taking any chances. I imagine they levitate through the streets at 3 am, swigging beers, smoking cigs and having conversations like: “Yo! Pazuzu,” (Evil entities always have Zs in their names) “I hear the Dunderman’s just had a baby. You should get on that!” Then Pazuzu says, “Nah, Captain Howdy’s got dibs on that one. I’ve got my eye on the Johnson kid—9 years old, avid Ouija board user, no religious affiliations. I’m excited. I already released the flies.”
Thanks to The Amityville Horror (also based on a true story) every time I see a fly in the house I make the sign of the cross, but not before I chase it around the bathroom with a shoe and a can of hairspray yelling, “Holy shit, just die already!”
So here’s the thing—no matter what you believe, do whatever your religion recommends you do to keep Pazuzu and his friends from creeping into your house and teaching your kids how walk on their hands and speak in tongues. Within reason of course! I mean the Catholics have way too many rules—don’t curse, don’t cheat, don’t have baptisms just to ward off evil entities and collect cash from relatives, don’t eat meat on Fridays…
Jesus Christ, Catholics! What happens if I follow all of those rules only to reach the pearly gates of Heaven and discover that God is a cod? How do I explain a lifetime of Friday night fish and chips to a giant codfish?
Pazuzu and his friends sound like way more fun. They probably order extra pepperoni on their Friday night pizza and curse at the delivery guy when it shows up cold and stuck to the lid. I’m sure they also understand that it’s not “drinking alone,” if the kids are home. They sound like my kind of Bad Catholics!
Crap. Am I an evil entity? I hate when my husband is right.
Anyway, just get a holy man to dip your kid in water and say little a prayer to protect them from…me, I guess. If you can’t find one, I’m sure that jackass who cut me off in front of my local church can find one for you. Anybody who drives like that and is still alive must have an in with God.
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