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
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.
My sig is not under construction. It's deader than dead.
But MY NEWSGROUP alt.foot.fat-free LIVES!
Hear the pitter-patter! Thrill to the podiatry! While it lasts!