Being Blessed in New York City
I sit here uttering blasphemy under my breath as I am typing on this Mac with a totally wholesome holy streaming of sunshine coming shafting down through my southern window, sunshine rays from Ra, the original god, the god of blinding light--whose counterpart, by the way, is the Night Goddess, the one who swallows Ra's seed in the evening and then gives birth to a new Ra, a reborn Ra, the next morning--ah how simple it all is--you see, at night, in the midnight of the womb, is when the pregnancy of all Woman (Isis) is taking place, according to Freud a most dramatic and traumatic time for both mother and being-evacuated child, and at dawn comes the birth, or the being reborn of Ra, relief for the mother but the recognition of fear by the newborn as it goes on on its new path across the skies to rise to finally rise again to full power and glory at noon. Sorry, but my feeling today of such blessings has just taken me over and I'm really getting into this holy (read: "holier than thou") shit.
All morning long, since way early this morning, every television channel in NYC has been bullshitting on and on, with back-up scenes, about how BLESSED HIS HOLINESS is, how we should respectfully address him as the HOLY FATHER--and I'm Crusty-the-Clown-like screaming and pulling my Jell-O-flavors-colored hair out at the same time, "Why not call this fakir THE BIG CHEESE? why not BIG DADDY? BIG PAPA? BIG POPPY?"--and I look jokingly at this old withering up, paling down, humping over fool (is the HOLY FATHER in a slump?--that's a joke, son, come on--let's have some levity here--let's levitate--oh HOLY SMOKE! Oh Lordy I'm hungry! Lawdy Lawd send me down a platter of groat clusters! Send it down NOW!)--I mean, old Benedictis is pale as I assume the HOLY GHOST is, so, hey, maybe this old Nazi fossil has transcended into perhaps playing the role of the HOLY GHOST here on the Devil's Playground, you know, and, yes, I'm growling at you good Catholics--but, hey, also you disbelievers, too, you cockeyed liberal intellectuals and scientists and secular humanists and Devil-kissin' heathen like that, I say, "WORD UP," since the Holy Babble sez Joshua of Nazareth when he transcended, his transubstantiation--oh, it gets sillier and sillier the more you listen to it--that's why masses and shit used to be in Latin--then the dumbass Barbarians and Visigoths and Lutherans couldn't understand how utterly flippantly stupid all the priests (the ziggot (like zygote) attendants and accountants) were teaching was--and you know old Jesus once he became holy and left the temporal earth and ascended unto the heavens--in all religions all sacrificed whatevers are immediately zoomed to a Utopia in the earth or sky or imagination somewhere, whether they be the holy virgins of Chichen Itza or the King of the Jews). So in Jesus X's transcendental ascent he not only became the Messiah on a big white horse but he also hooked up with and became one with the HOLY TRINITY, same as Big Daddy the HOLY SPERM-SHOOTER (father), Big Daddy the Son (Gee-ho-vah sucks in his own only son into his own molecules one would suppose), and Big Daddy the HOLY SPIRIT (read: "Holy Ghost")--therefore, after such a damn long trip around old Farmer Robbin's barn, this old crusty papa is perhaps representing the HOLY GHOST and therefore old JX Christ himself during this visit to his big-buck believers here in Manhattan--you know, playing these roles to inspire his HOLINESS's faithful to keep on sending their pitiful or big honcho wages to him--bucks to keep the Vatican running efficiently-plus they need millions to pay off all the boy and girl molestation suits against various parish priests or local-yokel bishops--plus Big Bad Papa has to keep the summer palace up in the sunny hills of Campagna up to date, plus all the church bank holdings and property holdings--HOLY MOTHER of Joshua of Nazareth--this old coot can afford an ermine collar on his nun-sewn sequined ball gowns--one for each occasion--festivals and seasons of celebrations--same as was with the Romans when they were Pagans and had Bacchanalias and all the Emperors were Divine, but then accordin' to the HOLY BABBLE that this old raggedy il papa's bishop ancestors rendered the official HOLY BABBLE of the ROMAN CHRISTIAN world, states that the first il papa was? Come on, all you good Catholics: who was the first Big Poppy? He denied old Jesus X thrice. Doesn't that give you all a clue? You mean, me, theatheistgrowlingwolf, knows more about the Catholic church than Catholics?
So the pope is all over NYC television as he scoots around Manhattan, and then he's in his bubble car and tooling down to Ground Zero to bless all the Catholics who died in the very strange 9-11 attack on the World Trade Center (that tag "World Trade" had a lot to do with Islam jihad hatred of that set of Rockefeller-pride-built cost-overrun buildings at the expense of the citizens of the State of New York, the Commonwealth of New York, and then he's back in his popemobile headed for the Bronx and a little chorus of choir boys, and the pope is snarling traffic everywhere he goes, with Secret Service and NYPD black/blackwindowed SUVs and the five hundred police cars with their top lights flashing holy terror at us and their whining, Nazi-like sirens rendering the air sirenophonic cacophony as they rush along ahead of and behind him to protect him from, as our shanty Irish police chief, Little-man Ray Kelly, put it, "from that one loner who may be out there," and we all say, "Yeah, Ray, one never knows do one?" Ray, as you know, knows crime since when he headed the US Customs tons of bucks disappeared from their coffers--Ray beat the rap by running back to NYC where his old mentor Rudi Mussolini (who I saw faithfully humbling his sorry ass with special privileges with the HOLY MODAL ROUNDER FATHER) shelter him by getting his little dick-boy now our Little-Man Billionaire Mayor (Mr. Fuck Poor and Black and Hispanic New York Citians:
"the rich don't want poor slobs on OUR precious island) to hire Shantytown Ray as his police chief.
Oh the blasphemy of all this!
I hate royal fops, the privileged rich, and those who think they are more pious than I am (whatever that means since I don't believe in concepts like "good" and "evil" and "soul" and "conscious" (yeah, Freudian consciousness but not the one old-line-DAR-American Christians believe is an organ in the body--or as the Christian HOLY BABBLE sez, it's in the heart--yep, the heart that represents the blood of the crucified Christ, the crucifixion so important in Roman Catholic ritual since hell it was the Romans who crucified Jesus X so I suppose that getz the Holy Romans the right to comfortably house the Holy Roman See of which the BIG CHEESE like old Benedictis is the bossman--it's nice the il papa wave sort of resembles, like it's calmed down a bit, the old Nazi Siegheil salute. "Bless you, my child." I mean, he's right if you really believe he's your HOLY FATHER--then he's yo' daddy! Amen.
It's such bullshit, and it's such a beautiful day here in Manhattan--wow, it's La-La Land like here today--I mean super beautiful--a day for Pagan celebration--like let's have some god-damn fertility rites and some wild naked virgins dancing about a pile of corn and 100-lb bags of rice, some roasted chickens, some hams, and wow, look, a barbecued ox! Hey, mama, where's the wine, it's time to shine!
I've been blessed this week by the only imaginary god I admire, Saturn, the god who eats little chillin' whole--what's that great painting of Saturn with little nippers dripping out of his munching mouth? Old Saturn, I sacrificed a sewer rat to him, blessed me with a big wad of depreciating US dollars coming at me over the wires--and it is enough to allow this old Wolf to float along down the river of time for a month or more--oh Praise de Lawd--and while you're at it pass me a slice of that pizza and a bottle of that rotgut Chianti. Salud.
for The Daily "Abomination" Growler
The Holy Man at work.