See the video:
The Church of Holy Me
By Peaches Porcine
When I was a boy, my mom and step-dad would take me to church revivals. You know – those shindigs where people would get a little crazy, what with speaking in tongues, handling poisonous snakes, and whatnot. I was too young then, but as I got older, it came back to haunt me in my deepest, darkest dreams. They were trying to tell me something, but like a puppy, I didn’t understand.
As I reached my 20s, the dreams that would haunt me in my sleep became the ones that would haunt me while awake. After a while, I couldn’t tell the difference. That’s when I got my holy-roller on. Of course, my friends – both of them – would have none of it. They did humor me a couple of times, driving me places to investigate portals to hell.
One such place was Morass, Illinois, on the south side of the river. Aside from the cemetery, a little farther outside of town was the nuclear plant.The ponds around that plant were like hot tubs, except that the bugs that landed on the water didn’t last too long. They must have used some powerful good chlorine pellets in it. Anyways, taking a skinny-dip in there eased my neck pain from when I got stabbed with a ballpoint pen, and it made my fingernails all shiny.
My friends left me there for good, when I wanted to stay overnight, and wouldn’t get back in the car with them to go home. Thus begins my story, living in Morass.
I had walked back from the nuclear plant to the cemetery, and camped out under the stars next to a gravestone that I liked. An elderly woman visited the graveyard the next morning to lay some flowers on a grave, and saw me, sleeping, a few graves away. She thought I was homeless.
I wasn’t, because I had a P.O. box in Joylet, but she offered me pizza, so I went with her to her modest home. She let me spend the next few days with her, and I didn’t have to pay for anything. Fuck those guys who dropped me off there. I had a good thing going now. The only problem was when she tried to set some rules for me. I couldn’t raid the fridge at 2am, I couldn’t give out all her contact info for my friends to find me, I had to stay in the basement, and I had to take out the dog to do his business.
It got worse when she cut off my phone and internet access, just because she got pissed off at the bill I was racking up on her dime. She made me pay for my own internet and phone! Be-yotch! At least, she lets me play the role of author and publisher on the internet. As long as I can walk or bicycle to the Morass library, I can upload my stuff to Lulu.
I only have to pay people for their stories when they find out their stories were used without their knowledge or permission (fuck contracts!) after the book was released for sale, and since most of them don’t care, I’ll keep operating this way. I pay the old lady by pretending to walk her dog. So, I chain it outside overnight, when the temps are well below freezing. She won’t know the difference.
That’s when I hunker down in front of my PC, and write my creepy stories that involve dreams, spiders, snakes, graveyards, abandoned buildings, and make them come to life. In my spare time, I rig my cheap-ass video camera to shoot either half my face, or up my nose, while I do the marble-mouth vocals that I hope some metal band will hire me to do for them. Metal bands love it when you can’t understand a word of their lyrics, and I’m the perfect person to help them out with that.
Since my buddies abandoned me at the home of this old lady, I have made my mark in the Goth, Metal, and Publishing worlds. My grammar, spelling, and writing is just like I was taught in second grade, so fuck all of you!
In the end, I started my own church, because none of the Goths, Metalheads, diner divers, or anyone else would have me. I have a conservative ethic, blended with a go-for-the-gut style against my only friends in the world. Hey, they love me for it. At least, the old lady who took me in pretends to love me. My grandma won’t join my new church, because she’s too sick. Same with my grandpa, and my uncle. My cousin couldn’t give a bird what I do here, as long I don’t steal his Pabst, but when I do, we get scrapping, because I can’t drink booze while I’m on my drugs. Like yuuuh!
It’s the Church of Holy Me. Please come join it, if you like the dark side of worship, and want to worship me — me –me! I am the Godzilla of the holy word. If you do not worship me, I will crush you. Or maybe just take a whiz in the backyard of granny’s place, and do some sort of weird dance around it.
/parody
Well done! 😀
I agree, it was very enjoyable to read!
Hahahaa. Nice one.
Love it! It could use a touch more unintentional homoeroticism, though.