Christianity and sex are so insanely melded together, from virgin births to "don't hit that ho in the head with a bunch of rocks!" Indeed, all the Abrahamic religions were invented to give civilization a way of handling the fact that horny big guys want to fuck scared little guys' women. The Big Daddy in the Clouds had to give the little guys some way to handle this crisis (this was before AR-15s were readily available). In this article, we tackle of few of the issues Christians have to contend with to keep their deeply cherished spiritual goodness and reproductive impulses under control (and their women, too, of course) as they wait in joyful harmony for the coming of the lord.
Autumnal Moves
Just another incident of Seasonal madness
It used to be, every fall I’d get depressed and turn to my favorite drug for relief: sex, specifically, Big Boobs.
I don’t understand where/why/how this fixation came about for me, and I don’t really care.
But I have this sneaking suspicion I’m not alone in this.
Breasts, as they are called in polite, grown-up circles when they are discussed at all, may have once had the function of feeding babies, (that’s what I’ve heard anyway). And there’re organizations of women (mostly women with an occasional nutty man thrown in just to confuse us all) who dedicate big parts of their lives to encouraging this ancient, primitive, mammalian activity.
But for me and I’m fairly certain, for a lot of other men, big boobs have little to do with passing along important nutritional benefits from mother to newborn, nope.
NO!
That’s what ‘formulas’ and sterilized baby bottles are for.
Big boobs are for making men stare and drool internally and fantasize all these ridiculous things.
Big boobs are for making us follow them around a grocery store pretending we’re looking for grocery items just so we can stare/glance at them again, more, a little while longer —
Another ridiculous aspect of my autumnal madness is that I shouldn’t even be commenting on this, at all, about how often I try to pray away this pounding lust in my heart and groin.
It’s immature of me and childish and I should be scolded as if I were a ‘Naughty’ school boy — ‘Naughty’ being the perfect pejorative for condemning my behavior because it diminishes my attraction/urges/fixation to something petty and silly and unimportant.
But here’s the deal, it seems to me that, big boobs exist as a result of a kazillion years of evolution (which actually is a real thing whether we try to pray it away or not, a lot like lust)
Evolution: guys got taller, women got bigger boobs. Is this because babies, suddenly, got hungrier?
Bullshit. It’s because guys mated with women who had glorious, amazing, tantalizing, big-boob-genes.
You want further proof? Take Twitter: covered in an avalanche of cleavage and big boob shots and big boob references/mentions/delights where naughty guys like me abound and pretend we care about women’s witty comments while we stare longingly, endlessly, at their big boob pics.
Yep,
when fall comes again ladies no amount of warm winter coats, and thick baggy sweaters can save you, from our thoughts and fantasies...
So we’ll see you soon in the produce aisle, or wherever else you roam, at the local Safeway store. And when we smile at you in the check-out line and say, “Have a nice day.” You can be sure that we’ll maintain eye contact for only as long as you do.
Calling All Sexy, Drunk Christians
When it comes to sex, none of us ever catch a break...
There’re still pockets of deep dishonesty in myself and my work. For instance, even when I’m in appropriate interactions with sexy women, even devout Christian women in what I think sound like reasonable conversations and civilized back and forth, I have to battle fantasies of how we could be spending our time lying on a warm bed, sunlight streaming in, her flesh, her hair sparks of love-light flashing off her silver cross necklace: nipples, sweat, lips, eyes, and simply Her… T.S. Elliot, stripping away all his artistry in Prufrock, was talking the same shit: “In the room the women come and go speaking of Michelangelo..."
...My ass. He mighta heard the words but he was thinking of body parts, and coming and going in his own wet ways. Sigh… I’d hoped by the time I reached nearly 75 years old I’d have had a few relationships with women, based on something other then this mysterious pull towards nakedness and that special kind of knowing the other that’s only attainable via afterglow. Well, it turns out not so much, at least not yet. And who knows, maybe you Christians have this part right, maybe heaven is nothing more and nothing less than perpetual/eternal orgasms absent the need for any refractory periods or the demands for conversation, whether chit-chat or epic.
Gorgeous, Bare-breasted Woman Celebrating the Season of Joy
Even if you’re not, technically, a devout, practicing Evangelical Christian
In fact, probably, ESPECIALLY if yer not that kind of judgmental, ass-hat, self-righteous idiotic anti-science, anti-vaxxer, anti-sex pro-pandemic, pro-end-times-loving fuckin’ lunatic — especially if yer not THAT kind of Christian, you gotta admit that my pal Kore Goddess (pictured above) is clearly in a generous, sharing, loving kinda mood to let me post this happy-go-lucky reminder of nature’s blessed, abundant bounty in joyful celebration for a bunch of people’s savior’s b-day.
I mean we can deal with our hangovers later, right? After all the special January sales start as soon as the trees hit the roadside dumping grounds...
If Christianity Was a Dame
(bitch)
Would you feel blasphemous towards her?
Would you be possessive and watch her every second, like some kind of troll squatting on a ledge over her while she slept, or after you’d had your filthy way with her?
Or would you bombard her with constant questioning while she’s makin’ dinner: Do you love me? Enough? Will you always? WILL YOU? Do you love me as much as I love you? Do ya? DO YA???!!!!! Just to keep her confused and wondering?
Or would you be like: “You know what, Christianity, I’ve had enough of your cock-teasing.
And frankly, I don’t give a fuck!”
Happy Mother’s Day?
I don’t know
My mother died in 1988. She was a lifetime smoker and she had skinny legs and big boobs. She drank too much but was always sweet and loving, generous and kind at least to me. And she protected me from my dad’s anger, rage and frustrations as best she could.
I was the kind of kid who wore black tee-shirts and black jeans and would have loved to have owned and carried with me a hand-grenade disguised as something else, like a little bottle of something hidden in the wrap of my fingers and behind my body when I walked past women who perhaps unconsciously reminded me of my mother. I dunno. I know this is a stretch, but WTF it’s Mother’s Day tomorrow and I don’t know what else to say.
If my mother hadn’t been my mother, I think I’d have been quite attracted to her when she was still young and pretty and sitting in a fringy dress on a park bench, legs crossed, always smoking a Marlboro watching me pass by with my hidden grenade.
Families are an invention created to keep us from mating with the wrong partners, so that we don’t have kids with hugely increased chances of having hemophilia or flippers or monkey tails etc. Mating with our parents, experience taught us, was a bad idea. So you can’t do it unless you’re a super-charged holy daughter-humping zealot with your own magic reading of scriptures that somehow allows you to fuck anybody you want, anywhere, anytime you want (but this is a rant better served by waiting for Father’s Day.)
We aren’t super rare in this not screwing our kin thing as most mammals don’t mate with their parents. We and they are called mammals because we produce milk for our offspring from mammary glands (boobs). But other species who don’t follow bizarre religious doctrines, kick the babies out at a certain age and both the parents and the adult kids go their own ways, finding other members of their species with whom to mate. This is called nature and shit. You won’t find lions, chipmunks, white tailed deer or even horny canines, reaching out to their moms tomorrow, you just won’t.
We humans think we’re special. You go all the way back to Adam and Eve who had two sons (no females needed) who figured out some way to populate the entire planet except for Eden from where the fam had been banished to find the origins of this no-fucking-mom-or-dad rule. Seriously, just read the bible and you’ll find it in there somewhere. While you’re there, be sure and skim thorough Leviticus too, always both entertaining and instructive.
I refuse to celebrate family holidays that are made-up primarily or maybe singularly, for the Hallmark Greeting Card Co. to be able to sell expensive cards, and for full grown adults to act like groveling stupid children again. Happy Mother’s Day mom we’re making you French toast.
Most of the time I liked and loved my mother a lot and I still do, even though her smoking killed her at age 65 and it may have been genes inherited from her that gave me such a hankering for Scotch and Soda (even though she preferred martinis).
So, yeah, I guess happy fuckin’ mothers day and shit. Show your mommy how much you really care. A nice fruit basket oughta do the job.
Of course my attitudes towards Mother’s Day particularly, but all the other festive religious or quasi holy bullshit, is made less complicated by my mom having been dead for 34 years and by my belief that religious faith almost always does more harm than good in the world.
French toast.
Fruit Basket.
I tell you, sometimes I adore myself.
Home
Not so much, at least for many of us...
Honor thy mother and father...
Get on your knees and pray, pledging allegiance “to the wall” (as Paul Simon phrased it.)
Home... a good Christian upbringing
I know, I know, when you read that word “home” some of you, many of you, thought of your home didn’t you?
Not the house you grew-up in so much, although that was part of it. Nor the ways you really felt there, much of the time.
Maybe your memory includes the neighborhood, the town/city/suburb and the pencil markings on the door-trim where your height was tracked over the years.
Ever notice how many pictures there were of you as a little kid or a baby and how far fewer pics there were and so many fewer pencil marks the higher and higher up the door-trim they went until they finally just stopped altogether?
For many of us, home is that place you now avoid because why revisit times of fear, loneliness, and bullshit piled upon bullshit?
Nope, when some of you read or hear that word “Home” you go all Norman Rockwell, “The Homecoming”
The big happy family: Granny, Little Becky and Bucky and Ma and Pa and the big turkey ready to be carved-up and the soldier boy back safe and sound, In the Norman Rockwell era, he usually had his legs still attached/still working, and everything, less so in later wars.
But the truth is for many of us, home is NOT where the heart is: certainly not for artists, future drunks, and many other human beings.
For many of us home is that place, whether from your past or in the present, or any time, always, where you could neither rise above, escape, or live up to the promises made to you, Or that you made to others, inside those rooms.
For many of us, home was constructed of sad, small walls that seemed so towering, sometimes protective, sometimes torturous, sometimes solid and real. And sometimes, for some of us, simply by closing our eyes, the place became invisible for a precious few moments. And that was the best we could do.
For many of us, home was indeed, thank goodness for “once upon a time,” but certainly NOT for “happily ever after.”
Faith and Hope/Hope Vs. Faith
Religion and spirituality or maybe nope.
Mostly of course it’s the clickbait power of the blue tutu and the protruding nipple that grabs me in this pic above —
But I also love the position of the left arm asking, “What? What’s going on?” And it is that aspect of the pic that made me select it for our purposes here.
Faith and hope are NOT the same things, although people often confuse the words in pronouncements regarding “beliefs” and religious or spiritual matters.
Hope need not have any boundaries at all. You may hope whatever you wish, fervently or lightly, it doesn’t matter because hope is all yours and sometimes it will be all you have left.
Faith on the other hand has boundaries, or it should. Believing that God=Life=Love and that the world is full of unknown and unknowable things we may call “mysteries” is just fine. Insisting that others agree with your beliefs and writing them off as lost souls when they don’t, is a perverse violation of faith, the opposite of validation and confirmation.
I hope you all understand what I’m saying. I have little faith that everyone will. So allow me to put on my blue tutu and raise my arm and ask, “What? What’s going on?” As you explain to me that your faith beliefs are the only right ones and the only ones that matter.
Mysterious Beauty
But still a mystery; Rampant in Nature
We don’t always call it mysterious, yet if we stopped and asked ourselves, or were asked by someone else, “What is it that draws you so strongly to this, to her?” The image? The person we think she might be? Could be? Want her to be?
While there is an undeniable sexual aspect to this, it is not purely or simply sex. So what is it? A feeling? A hope? The promise so rarely delivered but so often suggested in every mysterious moment of encounters or near-encounters we have or will ever have? Her.
She. Maybe, somehow, Us.
How would you answer the questions unspoken by the mystery of a glance in your direction? How should you answer? How could you?
Sometimes you get just a glance that stays with you forever ...
“Sometimes you get just a glance...”
Sometimes it’s a look from behind a veil, a cloud of unknowing not to God’s impenetrability, but every bit as impossible to grasp. It’s easy to accept that we are not meant to know the mind of God, yet other mysteries remain every bit as perplexing and unsolvable...
And sometimes the veil is removed yet you find yourself drawn just as strongly, but with no more understanding than before as she stare at you, through you, and not about you at all.
We don’t need a monotheistic creation from our imaginations to inspire us to seek out “God.” God is love. God is beauty. God is nature. But more than anything else, God is mystery, demanding without command that our hearts be turned over and left to wonder, to seek and mostly never to find answers less because God is so mighty than because we are too afraid of how much we'll never know and never understand.
Abortion Is Not the Issue
And if yer too fuckin’ dumb to see that, please don’t read on.
It’s been awhile since I've had a chance to use a headline link as damning proof of the fucked-up idiocy of ‘Merica’s far right asshole-ism —
On this glorious occasion of SCOTUS deciding to stand up bravely for the rights of an idiot religious minority dedicated to keeping women down, I say, ‘Let the games begin’: Legal experts say new sedition charges prove a coup and insurrection on Jan. 6.
But here we are. Conspiracy to commit sedition. If you can’t see the connective tissue between abortion rights and violent right wing assholism, you’re too stupid to talk to, so just fuck off.
Remember 2015?
“But her emails!!!”
“Obama’s a Manchurian Kenyan POTUS!!!” and a few years later:
“We don’t need no stinkin’ vaccine or masks!!!”
Indeed, now SCOTUS shows just how willing a self-righteous band of old, fucked-up hypocrites are willing to go by deciding to let states decide whether or not to deny women the most basic human right of all, the freedom to decide what to do with their own bodies.
I thought our country’s little conflagration, 1860–1865 decided that the US Constitution’s rules of operation made clear, the rights of slaveholders in Mississippi and Virginia were secondary to the rights of human beings to not be enslaved?
Silly fuckin’ me.
My depression and rage and heartbreak over this shit should make all you moron lib-haters giddy with delight — You won!! You won!!! Congrats. Have fun.
But you won’t, of course, because your default position in life is anger, grievance and unhappiness.
Well, we’re both unhappy now motherfuckers so, indeed, let the fuckin’ games begin!!!!!
Marriage is a tricky proposition.
I should know, I’m on my 4th and final try
A loving glance or sizing-up the kill...
The holiest of holy sacraments? Or something a little different than that?
Marriage
Lion, lying down with a lamb or lioness sizing-up the ram?
Depends on the day and the orbicular ways of the
particular woman and man.
