After the service had concluded, all the members of the congregation
flocked to the entrance of the church, where they engaged each other in their novel, and noble
Christian rhetoric, making plans about upcoming outreach projects, and exchange
the latest gossip about who was sinning and who was just a plain old whore.
The sign posted on the entrance to
the church read:
THE SANCUAREY OF THIS CHURCH WELCOMES
ALL: STONERS; PROSITUTES; ADDICTS; RAPISTS; TWEAKERS; HOMOSEXUALLS; ALCOHOLICS;
HORDERS; THIEFS; JUNKIES; WIFE-BEATERS; GANG MEMBERS; WORKAHOLICS; RACISTS;
SKIN-HEADS; MURDERORS; HATERS; AND ALL OTHER LOST SHEEP
Timmy took notice to this sign, and
felt it a little strange that a church need to advertise fundamental truths and core values that were taught by Jesus (love thy neighbor) in such a derogatory way...or perhaps the church had gone a little out of its way to prove that it was indeed a church, and no longer an amateur wrestling arena, as it had indeed been only 16 months prior.
It was right at this moment that Timmy was pondering the life style of
Jesus Christ, who was never married, traveled around with 12 different men, and
one of these men was referred to as “The man Jesus loved more then anyone else”
when his attention was diverted back to the “flock”.
Michael and Chris were not just members
of the congregation, but were also “Brothers in Christ” with Timmy, as that was
the solemn oath taken every night before Michael’s bed time while they all
joined hands in a circle, and ostentatiously prayed for just about everything and
everyone conceivable, in just about every conceivable way and fashion. The gang of apostles were currently living in
a “Christian” house known as “The Manger of Christ”, a beautiful out reach Christian
home that bordered the 5FWY and the 91FWY in the city of Anaheim, CA. The Manger, or the “Mange” as Timmy thought
about it, was shared with the landlord’s Sunni fundamentalist, Indonesian
brother-Auk mod. Auk mod lived in a separate
room that touched the back patio, sharing only the backyard as true common
ground with the tenaciously yet tentative tenants. This provided quite a contrast from the over
zealous pseudo-Pentecostal Christian atmosphere that was attempted by the
brothers, lightly seasoned with a Taliban-esc décor, with hinted tastes of gamelan
music and garnished with a hint of religiously intolerant resentment. Michael beckoned Timmy over to the crowd to
congregate with them. Timmy reluctantly
joined as his worst fear, misguided and meaningless prayer, was about to take
place.
“All right, everyone is here
right? First off, I want to take a
picture. Everyone down to evangelize the
gospel this moment in time?!” The members
started cheering Michael on as he began to vehemently evangelize his thoughts
through open communal prayer.
“Dear father Lord, father Lord…”Michael
began to sob a little…”We thank you father Lord, we thank YOU…IN THE NAME OF
SWEET…SWEET…SWEET JEEEZ-US O LORD-AH!!!
Father God, father god, I just pray…that…what’s your name again…Jimmy?” Timmy was asked.
“No it’s Timmy!” The poor Irishman protested.
“Father Lord…” Michael dismissively
continued “Father LORD…we pray that poor Jimmy here can receive the spirit here
and abandon his Catholic ways O LORD-AH…THAT HE MAY FEEL THE SPIRIT AND
STOOOO-PPPP…praying to statues of whores and worshiped false god’s O LORD-AH!!!” Timmy was once again becoming irritable and offended
by the anti-Catholic and anti-Mormon rhetoric that was often whispered like
bird-song amongst those in the congregation, who were not familiar with Timmy,
and in such cavalier fashion too. It was
at moments in life, just like this, when Timmy’s felt trapped that his mind would
often wonder, as if attempting mental escape in loo of physical escape, to
accomplish the same goals, almost like settling for the last girl standing at a
serious Irish drinking bout. As the newspeak
of Christianity faded slowly from the frontal lobes of Timmy’s mind, he found himself
wondering back to Patti’s Pub on that night fate would play its cruel and
twisted joke on him.
Patti’s Pub was located in the Suburban
thicket of Lake Forest, CA. Hardly being
either a lake or a forest, Lake Forest, was home to endless housing, Guitar
Centers, The Library Gentleman’s, and the south Orange County division of the
controlling command unit for the Sheriff’s Department. It was not unlike any other typical Tuesday night
for Timmy O’Doul, as was his pay check would arrive every month on this Tuesday. He had a bit of financial problems the month
before and fell a bit behind on rent, but this was the payday check where he
caught up and paid his rent as well of a myriad of other fees and fines that
where threatening Timmy’s mere existence in this country. To commemorate this event, good ole Timmy O’Doul
went out for a wee bit of crack. Crack
being an Irish term equivalent to the American expression of “Party’en” and not
to be confused with the actions of getting high on crack, and mugging someone
at an ATM machine and then going out and partying with their money.
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