Cured
Predator Press
[LOBO]
“You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz.
“10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.”
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.”
“Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?”
“At the music studio.”
“You have pallets at a music studio?”
“No, no. I was at the warehouse.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, I did like ten or fifteen of them but it was getting really tedious. So I made a recording of saying it, and set it on a loop. According to my calculatrons, by this time next Wednesday I’ll have said like 50,000 of them!”
“I don’t think you understand the concept of Penance,” chided Fritz.
“Sure I do,” I says. “Even after I added drums and guitar, it’s totally mind-numbing after a while. You know, with billions of people doing that every day, I would bet God is ready to blow his brains out.”
“You’re supposed to suffer through it in a show of Faith and Discipline, in hopes that the Saints will prepare your way to Heaven!”
“Aw, but all those guys are dead! Can’t I just smite some pagans or something? I know tons of Protestants just begging to be smoted.”
“Penance isn’t supposed to be fun!”
“We have a gay guy at work. What if I go into Jimmy Orlando’s office once a day, and, like, shuffle all his papers up while he’s a lunch? Or maybe burn his house down?”
“Jimmy Orlando?” says Fritz. “How do you know Jimmy Orlando?”
“I dunno. We met him a year or so ago,” I says. “He claims to work part-time as a pool boy for some hotshot bigwig in Miami.”
“What is Jimmy doing working as a pool boy?”
“I dunno," I shrug. "We checked it out. This guy ain’t got no pool."
[LOBO]
“You’re finished with your Penance already my son?” asks a skeptical Father Fritz.
“10,000 ‘Hail Marys’?” I says. “Not a chance.”
“Well then what are you doing here?”
“It’s a Miracle,” I says excitedly. “I’m no longer a pyromaniac, nymphomaniac, or hypocondriac. And my claustrophobia, necrophobia, xylophobia, spectrophobia, bolshephobia, agateophobia, phthiriophobia, syngenesophobia, coimetrophobia, sophophobia, virginitiphobia, agrophobia, russophobia, spacephobia, myrmecophobia, phasmophobia, and phobophobia? Gone. Gone! And best of all, my sinuses decompressed for the first time in weeks.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Who would’ve thought chemically-treated pallets would smell so good.”
“Pallets?” says Fritz. “Where exactly were you saying those ‘Hail Marys’?”
“At the music studio.”
“You have pallets at a music studio?”
“No, no. I was at the warehouse.”
“I’m not following you.”
“Well, I did like ten or fifteen of them but it was getting really tedious. So I made a recording of saying it, and set it on a loop. According to my calculatrons, by this time next Wednesday I’ll have said like 50,000 of them!”
“I don’t think you understand the concept of Penance,” chided Fritz.
“Sure I do,” I says. “Even after I added drums and guitar, it’s totally mind-numbing after a while. You know, with billions of people doing that every day, I would bet God is ready to blow his brains out.”
“You’re supposed to suffer through it in a show of Faith and Discipline, in hopes that the Saints will prepare your way to Heaven!”
“Aw, but all those guys are dead! Can’t I just smite some pagans or something? I know tons of Protestants just begging to be smoted.”
“Penance isn’t supposed to be fun!”
“We have a gay guy at work. What if I go into Jimmy Orlando’s office once a day, and, like, shuffle all his papers up while he’s a lunch? Or maybe burn his house down?”
“Jimmy Orlando?” says Fritz. “How do you know Jimmy Orlando?”
“I dunno. We met him a year or so ago,” I says. “He claims to work part-time as a pool boy for some hotshot bigwig in Miami.”
“What is Jimmy doing working as a pool boy?”
“I dunno," I shrug. "We checked it out. This guy ain’t got no pool."
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