Put Some Gay In Your Day, Dallas!

Roman. Raquel. Repentance.

Behold, the Lord is speaking through me about worldly things.  Take heed.

Roman.  As is frequently the case, some things in this world just make me gag.  I came upon a headline of unsavory proportions:  “Wooden Object Nearly 2,000 Years Old Suggests Romans Used Sex Toys.”  Disgusting.  What sort of archeological pervert puts forward this assumption?  Just because a wooden object in the shape of a male nasty part surfaces, everyone must jump to the conclusion that it’s tool of virginal violation?  Sick.  I, of course, read the article in order to verify the direction our world is headed.  And I’ll admit that the “object” did appear similar to photos I’ve seen of male appendages.  But that’s as far as I’d go.  If it were EVER used for sinful pleasure, we would have also unearthed reports of splinter damage throughout the empire!

Raquel.  It is difficult for me to mark the passing of someone who was always known as a “sex symbol,” but here I am grieving the passing of Sister Raquel Welch.  I do have to admit that the Lord gifted her with earthly beauty, but all this fuss over her bosom was often a bit much.  I also have to question some of her acting choices.  A sexual pervert in MYRA BRECKENRIDGE?  The thought of ANYONE sodomizing Brother Rex Reed turns my stomach.  And did she HAVE to portray a prehistoric woman as a cave-dwelling bombshell?  But here’s the part I love.  Sister Welch never posed nude nor did she smoke or drink.  I can respect that.  And although her father was a Mexican from Bolivia, she was raised a Presbyterian.  Reaching into my Calvinist handbag, let us believe that Raquel was predestined for fame.  And the Lord shone down up her.

Repentance.  Today is one of those Catholic observances.  I can tell because people are running around with dirt on the foreheads.  I just don’t get it.  Perhaps these people need to be marked for all the filth committed yesterday on the end of Mardi Gras.  (I was born in Louisiana, so I’m quite familiar with that alcohol-soaked bacchanal.)  What an embarrassing excuse for adults to publically linger in sin.  To make matters worse, that final day of excess is called Fat Tuesday.  I guess it’s better than Bloated Sunday which I experience regularly after a church supper.  As a Babatist, I don’t have to be marked on my forehead, nor do I believe in giving up something for Lent.  So carry on, repentant sinners……….I’ll keep being better than the rest of you from now until Easter.  Then we’ll talk.