What the Flock?

If you asked me who God was when I was a kid, I would have answered with my own question, “What’s in it for me?”

The word “heaven” wouldn’t even make it out of their mouth.

“I’m not talkin’ later,” I’d interrupt. “I’m talkin’ right frickin now?”

I had a Jewish friend by the last name of Cohen who had a sister that I was interested in getting Biblical with, naked and in the garden. I believed that would have proved God’s existence and qualified me as a chosen one. It’s the one time as a kid I prayed and prayed, occasionally strolling by the garden to see if she was there waiting.

I considered it a huge effort at the time. I never did get to eat that apple or even look at it. My prayers went unanswered. Apparently, God had his favorites and I wasn’t one of them. I barely got to see her with her clothes on. I lived in utter disappointment. After all, I was a Piotter.

I didn’t identify with any religion growing up, but then I discovered weed. Soon I leaned towards Rastafarians, finally believing in God’s existence. I came to appreciate certain aspects of some other religions as well.

  • Catholics were on to something because they obviously liked to have unprotected sex.
  • Jehovah’s witnesses could weasel out of all holiday gift buying and bailout on other dysfunctional family holidays like Thanksgiving. That’s always convenient.
  • Jews get to wear awesome hats and not work on Saturdays no matter what.

My wife was born Jewish. As a child, she was encouraged to attend Rabbinical school. She no longer identifies, claiming she doesn’t need a broker to get close to a Higher Power. I concur.

I live in close proximity to a heavily orthodox populated neighborhood, and either every woman has a cleaning lady or is a cleaning lady. They all shop at the “I’m never getting laid again” clothing store and wear what looks like gourds on their feet. I know it is an important aspect of their religion and that I am ignorant of said importance. It gives me something to think about.

I used to cut my mother’s living bras in half, rendering them dead and wear them on my head. I would fly around the house with my black D-cup warrior helmet on and slay all imaginary foes before getting my ass kicked by mom.

I saw a young man in my hood wearing an awesome black hat I considered to be a ten-gallon yarmulke. It looked like my childhood warrior helmet, a D cup Yarmulke, a Bramulke.

We’re sometimes invited to a Passover dinner by one of our various Jew-ish friends. We’d partake of the God-awful soggy fish cakes and watery grape juice while pretending to wander in the desert. We wiped a little beet juice on the door jamb. It’s supposed to keep the marauders from invading the home, I think. Last year, after the meager feast, we were still hungry and stopped off for some Passover pizza at a non-denominational pizzeria. It was a giant matzo cracker where the toppings passed right over the pizza. For $47 we were deemed safe for another year.

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