strumming a harp. Ridiculous as this sounds, this is the milieu of Camille and Antonio.
“Boorism isn’t the real name for our faith,” Crescent says. “That’s just a phony label the media vultures invented to pigeonhole us. Officially we refer to ourselves as apostles of Madlantis.”
Realistically I can’t slight my folks for getting so excited. Their previous theology of “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” must’ve offered scant emotional comfort in the face of their only child being killed on her birthday. Yes, I expired on my birthday in an erotic-asphyxiation scenario that shames me to revisit here.
This is the death of angst. Forget Nietzsche. Forget Sartre. Existentialism is dead. God has been resurrected, and people have a road map for attaining glorious immortality. In Boorism, everyone who’d abandoned religion now has a path by which to return to God, and that feels … great. Just look at their strolling, patient gaits. In light of this new salvation, mortal life feels like the final day of school.
It’s not the threat of Hell or jail or societal shunning that’s brought this bliss. It’s the complete assurance of paradise. It makes the inevitability of death shine like a final cosmic Friday preceding an infinite party weekend in Mazatlán.
As we wait in the jetway, Crescent says, “In Heaven the first thing I’m getting myself is a new liver. And a new body, and hair like I used to have.” Clutching his boarding pass, he says, “I swear, once I’m in Heaven I’m never touching drugs. Never again.”
“Amen,” a voice says. It’s a woman standing behind us inline. She’s shouldering a tote bag and thumbing the buttons of a PDA as she says, “In Heaven I’m eating steak and fries for every meal, and I’m still never weighing more than one hundred fifteen, maximum.”
“Amen,” says another voice waiting in line.
“In Heaven,” says another voice, farther back in the jetway, “I’m going to reestablish contact with my kids and give them the kind of father those good kids deserve.”
“Hallelujah!” someone shouts. Several “Praise bes” echo in the narrow jetway space. With that, everyone in line volunteers his or her aspirations for eternity.
“After I go to be with God, I’m going to finish high school.”
“My car in Heaven is going to be bigger than anything you’ve ever seen.”
“When I die, I’m asking for a dick bigger than your car!” someone spits.
Aboard the plane, in the first-class section, Crescent City finds our seats. He says, “You want the window or the aisle? I bought two tickets.” He waits as if for me to choose. “I’ll be right back,” he says, and goes up to the toilet.
I take the window. The flight attendant makes an announcement. “As we prepare for takeoff, please fasten your fucking seat belts and make sure your cocksucking seat backs are in the full upright and locked position.…” The passengers laugh and applaud. Before the flight crew has finished its safety announcement, the familiar translucent form of Crescent City’s spirit comes walking back down the airplane aisle and takes the aisle seat next to mine. His body must be near overdosed on ketamine, still occupying the locked toilet cubicle.
Watery, clear like a prism, but suggesting every color in the spectrum, the ghost smiles at me and says, “I can’t wait to be an angel like you.” At the front of the cabin, the flight crew is knocking, soon pounding at the locked bathroom door. Oblivious, Crescent’s ghost asks me, “So, what was Heaven really like?”
DECEMBER 21, 8:43 A . M . EST
An Abomination Is Born
Posted by [email protected]
And what became of the latex thing-baby abandoned in the storm? In the account given by Solon, the Egyptian priests sang that the miniature idol will gradually come to be alive. Smeared with lipstick and chocolate, its body will circulate with the cooled seed expressed by a stranger.
And not for long does our
“Boorism isn’t the real name for our faith,” Crescent says. “That’s just a phony label the media vultures invented to pigeonhole us. Officially we refer to ourselves as apostles of Madlantis.”
Realistically I can’t slight my folks for getting so excited. Their previous theology of “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle” must’ve offered scant emotional comfort in the face of their only child being killed on her birthday. Yes, I expired on my birthday in an erotic-asphyxiation scenario that shames me to revisit here.
This is the death of angst. Forget Nietzsche. Forget Sartre. Existentialism is dead. God has been resurrected, and people have a road map for attaining glorious immortality. In Boorism, everyone who’d abandoned religion now has a path by which to return to God, and that feels … great. Just look at their strolling, patient gaits. In light of this new salvation, mortal life feels like the final day of school.
It’s not the threat of Hell or jail or societal shunning that’s brought this bliss. It’s the complete assurance of paradise. It makes the inevitability of death shine like a final cosmic Friday preceding an infinite party weekend in Mazatlán.
As we wait in the jetway, Crescent says, “In Heaven the first thing I’m getting myself is a new liver. And a new body, and hair like I used to have.” Clutching his boarding pass, he says, “I swear, once I’m in Heaven I’m never touching drugs. Never again.”
“Amen,” a voice says. It’s a woman standing behind us inline. She’s shouldering a tote bag and thumbing the buttons of a PDA as she says, “In Heaven I’m eating steak and fries for every meal, and I’m still never weighing more than one hundred fifteen, maximum.”
“Amen,” says another voice waiting in line.
“In Heaven,” says another voice, farther back in the jetway, “I’m going to reestablish contact with my kids and give them the kind of father those good kids deserve.”
“Hallelujah!” someone shouts. Several “Praise bes” echo in the narrow jetway space. With that, everyone in line volunteers his or her aspirations for eternity.
“After I go to be with God, I’m going to finish high school.”
“My car in Heaven is going to be bigger than anything you’ve ever seen.”
“When I die, I’m asking for a dick bigger than your car!” someone spits.
Aboard the plane, in the first-class section, Crescent City finds our seats. He says, “You want the window or the aisle? I bought two tickets.” He waits as if for me to choose. “I’ll be right back,” he says, and goes up to the toilet.
I take the window. The flight attendant makes an announcement. “As we prepare for takeoff, please fasten your fucking seat belts and make sure your cocksucking seat backs are in the full upright and locked position.…” The passengers laugh and applaud. Before the flight crew has finished its safety announcement, the familiar translucent form of Crescent City’s spirit comes walking back down the airplane aisle and takes the aisle seat next to mine. His body must be near overdosed on ketamine, still occupying the locked toilet cubicle.
Watery, clear like a prism, but suggesting every color in the spectrum, the ghost smiles at me and says, “I can’t wait to be an angel like you.” At the front of the cabin, the flight crew is knocking, soon pounding at the locked bathroom door. Oblivious, Crescent’s ghost asks me, “So, what was Heaven really like?”
DECEMBER 21, 8:43 A . M . EST
An Abomination Is Born
Posted by [email protected]
And what became of the latex thing-baby abandoned in the storm? In the account given by Solon, the Egyptian priests sang that the miniature idol will gradually come to be alive. Smeared with lipstick and chocolate, its body will circulate with the cooled seed expressed by a stranger.
And not for long does our
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