Married to Jesus
Bathilda Butts was married to Jesus, and she had the ring on her finger to prove it. An awkward situation, one would have to concede, given that nuptial vows generally carried the promise of some form of physical consummation. And while the spiritual bliss in anticipation of ethereal lovemaking to the savior was useful for derivation of a snobbish holier-than-thou sort of headrush, she secretly hedged the bet with various forms of compensation.
Not that the perks were so bad -- she got to wear this cool-looking and intimidating uniform, and to crouch behind the image of pristine purity as she regularly devoured opportunities to crush the dreams and creativity of young children.
And while one might dispute the contention that she was built like a refrigerator, there was no denying that her distinguished physique had been constructed from the contents of many a refrigerator. And while the thick, dark facial hairs that sprouted and lengthened, curling freely untrimmed across her chin could not properly be referred to as a beard, neither could they be casually dismissed as simple peach fuzz. And while one might hesitate in labeling the hideous expression permanently wrinkled into her ominous visage -- was it a scowl, or perhaps a sneer? -- there was little doubt it sprang from decades of grudgery and guilt. Many decades. Many, many decades. The term “fossil” would not have been far out of place.
Nonetheless, the decades without sex still took their toll, and many a night she found herself yearning for more than the stamped and officially approved Papal Promise of future bliss in the company of her beloved. His image that hung on the wall opposite her bed bore a peculiar expression, as if the artist had been shooting for an emotion of holy immersion in divine contemplation, but had unintentionally instead arrived at a mixture of stunned bewilderment and astonishment, an expression indeed appropriate for those occasions when Bathilda supplemented etheric philosophical speculation regarding her future marital bliss, with digital stimulation.
So one might imagine her delight one evening, as her formidable bulk sat in front of the computer on the Internet, when she stumbled upon the raptureready.com website which promised, not only a physical incarnation of her beloved, but gladly furnished details including the projected schedule of events to take place on his arrival, thus encouraging her to gleefully formulate various plans and contingencies designed to ensure her place, not only at his right hand, but at the front of the line of those to whom he was betrothed, as they awaited fulfillment of their nuptial vows.
At this point, we must circulate the suspicion that one of the younger nuns was endowed with a certain playfulness of spirit, in addition to some not insignificant savvy in terms of networking, or otherwise devious manipulation of computers. We might suspect that she glimpsed over the shoulder the object of Bathilda’s obsession, and secretly crafted an alteration of bookmarked URLs or perhaps a more subtle spoofing of webpage data.
In any event, several nights later, one imagine the sweet pure essence of delight that poured forth from the inner core of Bathilda’s being as she read the news that her savior had been spotted, already incarnate on the earth, and was simply awaiting the signal to commence the holy proceedings, the damning of the bad and blessing of the good and so forth. The article was accompanied by a plethora of Biblical quotations to establish with ultimate certainty the truth with which it spoke, and more importantly, the street address of the suburban dwelling in which her beloved could be found.
The article mentioned the name he would be found to answer to, Billy-Bob Flagstaff, a resident of Decatur Texas, and the article bearing the unbelievable news was soon printed in multiple copies and circulated throughout the convent. Bathilda may have been greedy, but she was no fool. She knew that, in order to authorize the bus for the trip to Decatur, she would need to have a quorum.
A factor she may have underestimated, however, was the quantity of email that blossomed and grew, each further embellishing and embroidering the wondrous news, leading to the certainty that many busloads from convents across the U.S. would soon converge on the residence of a certain hapless Mr. Flagstaff, whose name (as it happens) had been picked more or less at random from the phone book by a certain mischevious nun. Yes, busloads of sacredly betrothed, stopping by to pick up what had long been promised to them.
We need not tarry long on the details of the ensuing bus ride, other than to say that aspects of the nuns’ conversations surrounding the name “Flagstaff,” the act of arousing the flag, and the length of the staff and so on raised some doubt whether the name had been selected entirely at random.
We also might mention the book explaining various techniques of fellation which Bathilda confiscated, and would have ripped to shreds had not it been wrested from her grasp by another of the senior nuns. There followed a discussion between “Batty” (as Bathilda was familiarly known) and the other nuns, a discussion highly technical theoretical, which pitted Batty’s exclusive preference for the missionary position against views of those more liberally minded who felt that our Lord ought to have the opportunity to experience a bit of variety in terms of nuptial pleasure, that the King of Kings ought to be entitled to something more than ordinary, run-of-the-mill sex.
The outcome was that the book remained intact on the condition that the Savior would be immediately consulted regarding the sinfulness or virtue of the procedures detailed therein; and that furthermore, since the Savior had ultimate authority to pardon any sins that might have recently accrued, there was little harm in the nuns’ taking turns reading aloud from the sacred tome, and memorizing any particularly juicy passage that might thus cross their lips for later discussion, until the entire thing had been spoken through out loud several times during the course of the long and tedious voyage.
There was also a lively debate as to whether the consummation would take place in series or parallel, whether each sister would have to wait in line for her separate turn, or whether instead He would have some miraculous method of servicing them all at once. This was, after all, the fellow who had produced the loaves and fishes.
We might also relate the story of the fortunate roadside hot-dog vendor whose stand they eagerly patronized, remarking that the average age of those ladies riding the bus hovered somewhere between 70 and 80 years. Alongside photographs of his bewildered expression as he witnessed the busload of nuns practicing various newly-learned techniques on the hot-dogs, techniques one would rarely expect to see in such company, in preparation for the coming of our Lord.
The tale of the sacred pilgrammage trails off with the fortuitously-timed arrival in the cool, still, velvety darkness of several busloads from diversely located convents at some time around 3:00 A.M. Tuesday morning, and how after huddled consultation it was decided that there would commence a prayer vigil on the savior’s enormous hillside front lawn. And so they lit candles and kneeled in trancelike enthrallment on the soft dewy grass, awaiting the rising of the sun and the emergence of the Lord onto his front doorstep.
Billy-Bob Flagstaff was not a religious man. He was a Texas Republican, in other words one of the meanest ,sleaziest low-down vipers one might ever expect to find. As a good Republican, he detested natural beauty, despised the poor, and took great pleasure in causing anguish and distress to anyone weaker than him, particularly if he thought that person might embrace any sort of liberal ideals. In short, he was a lazy bullying coward, or in other words, a Texas Republican.
Today he hummed a tuneless melody as he shaved and poured a breakfast of cold cereal and coffee, donning his extra-special 3-piece suit that had just freshly been dry-cleaned, in preparation for the meeting today with the Regional Head of the bank at which he was currently a loan officer, in order to discuss his promotion.
He loved his job (although he sometimes dreamed of becoming an IRS auditor) because it afforded so many opportunities to gloat over the failure of poor people to achieve the standards of earning necessary to qualify. He had learned that the gloating was enhanced by concealment via contrition -- he would go out of his way to feign disappointment and sadness at the unfortunate outcome -- and the suckers would be eating out of his sweaty little hands. The best part was, the management would consistently reward such behavior for its efficiency. He cackled with delight as he straightened his tie, gnashing his teeth at himself in the mirror, in anticipation of yet another wonderful day at his heavenly job.
Ready to go, he paused with his hand on the doorknob in the drab grayness of the front room, pushing aside nagging memories of some bizarre dreams last night, checking that the front curtains were securely shut to prevent his across-the-street neighbor from lustfully scrutinizing through the window is impressive collection of Readers’ Digest while he was away at work.
Then he opened the front door, stepping out onto the porch into the blazing brilliance of the new day.
The very instant Bathilda had been waiting for all these years had finally arrived. She was thrilled to see that her beloved was clean-cut and nicely dressed, not at all like the scruffy fellow depicted in popular illustrations.
She immediately sprang up from kneeling and began bounding across the lawn with spriteliness that astonished all familiar with her age and bulk. The other virgin ladies soon followed, flanking alongside to surround the savior.
Mr. Flagstaff stood for a moment on his porch, briefcase in hand, assessing first the busses parked alongside the curb, then the crowd of elderly ladies rushing toward him. The astonishment quickly turned to anger, and he strode brusquely out onto the grassy hilltop.
“What the Jesus Fuck are you people doing on my front lawn?!” he demanded, in unintended accord with the theme of the event.
In the next instant, the battle front converged. Buttons flew from the 3-piece suit, and the suit itself was soon flung upward in the breeze, to flutter down into a crumpled pile trodden beneath the feet of lustful nuns.
Billy-Bob’s protests were of no avail, particularly as there were plenty of free hands to provide restraint. The flood-gates had opened, the flagstaff hoisted to full-mast, and there was no turning back the tide of of collected pent-up carnal lust, as each wrinkled nun in turn took her share of the holy communion.