Subject: Simply Sacrilicious

Date: 10 Aug 1996 00:00:00 GMT

From: 1Ol01O@radix.net (MegaLiz)

Organization: MotPU: Where Binary Moodswings are ALWAYS on the Menu

Newsgroups: alt.foot.fat-free, alt.slack

 

 

Having nothing constructive that I was willing to do, I decided to

pack up the pupae and li'l (soon to be Arch Deacon) Argon and head out

to a Franciscan Monastery. (I was pretty sure that they wouldn't allow

the monks to lounge around and smoke at me and/or beg for candy. I was

right).

 

By the time I had all these people clothed and fed and pottied and

installed in the car I was thoroughly ready for a bottle and a nice

nap. Sparky asked cheerfully, "Did you know that you have been

screaming all morning?" I did not. Scream, that is. Possibly I WHINED

quite a bit, but I didn't scream more that once or twice, and mostly

out of surprise rather than out of nastiness. Technically, I think the

prefered term is shrieking. THAT was what I did between screams.

 

Once underway, I realized that we were submerged in a randomized

multi-layered conversation. Just like IRC only louder. Argon and I

were having at least two conversations, interspersed with important

questions from Sparky such as, "If you know everything, do you know

what you don't know?" I had to get everybody to eat more food to stop

them. So I did. It didn't work, but the really scary part is: I didn't

mind at all.

 

The monastery was more impressive than I had expected. It smelled

exactly like a Catholic church, but looked far more mosque-like and

had a distinctive stone porch trail all the way around the front

garden. They had probably a good share of the world's teeny tile and

mother-of-pearl Jesuses inside. I counted 165 before I lost track.

 

We abandoned the guided tour and hopes of the catacombs and mostly

explored the gardens instead. I was very relieved to be in the company

of my sacrilicious kin. Argon kept singing "Hava Na Gila" and asking

pointed questions about the frop supply during our wanderings. For the

devout, it must be an exhausting place to visit. Every few yards there

was a monument that depicted a station of the cross and demanded,

"Pray for Mrs. Mertle Snurkish." If we had felt compelled to mutter

more than, "Way to go, Mert!" We'd still be there now.

 

The place was as well-maintained as a Disney park. No weeds AT ALL and

lots of heart- and cross-shaped shrubs and perfectly painted benches

for restful contemplation of the virtues of weed killers. Naturally,

the kids mainly wanted to climb stuff and hoot and echo and peer into

the grottos. The first grotto we saw was the Grotto of Gesthemane. It

was damp and dark and interesting. It was also locked behind a large

gate. All the best stuff is locked at the monastery. Sparky was bummed

when she realized that we couldn't visit the cloister, either, which

was barred by a big KEEP OUT sign.

 

After seeing many more barred doors and inaccessible tunnels, we got

bored, left, and bought lots of candy so that Argon could train Spunky

to say, "Bon Jovi Sucks."

 

We all agreed that monasteries are best appreciated in good company

with pocket sized bolt cutters and long ropes.

 

 

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