Judas Priest

WHAT IS YOUR CONFESSION, MY SON?

When I was young, about eight or so, I tried making friends with God by inviting Him to my house to watch the World Series. He never showed.

THAT DOESN'T SOUND LIKE A SIN. MORE OF A MISCALCULATION BY YOU OF HIS DIVINE POWER. WHO WAS PLAYING, BY THE WAY?

I can't remember, actually. Kids under 12 can't appreciate baseball.

HEAR, HEAR.

Is Is, an EP, is greater than Show Your Bones, an LP.

YOU HAVE TO BE A LITTLE CLEARER, MY SON. I'M NOT A PHARMACOLOGIST.

I want to have sex with Karen O. Not her, exactly. Just her voice.

HMM, THAT ONE HAS POTENTIAL. HAVE YOU EVER MANUALLY ABUSED YOURSELF WHILE LISTENING TO THIS SIREN'S CALL?

Like every night!

2 HAIL MARYS AND A GRAHAM CRACKER. WHAT ELSE YOU GOT?

I wouldn't fuck myself with Bea Arthur's dick.

SOUNDS MORE LIKE SELF HATRED THAN AN ACTUAL AFFRONT TO THE LORD.

But aren't God and I the same? My body's a temple, flesh of my flesh, and all that?

WHAT DID YOU HAVE FOR BREAKFAST THIS MORNING?

Morning and I aren't exactly on speaking terms these days, father. We sort of clash, like striped shirts and plaid pants. Is there a point to your query?

DOES THE POPE SHIT IN THE WOODS?

Sorry?

NO, MY BAD. YOU ARE VERY ELUSIVE, YOU KNOW. I ASK YOU A STRAIGHT QUESTION AND YOU THROW ME A KNUCKLE BALL.

Are you trying to say I'm a homosexual?

PLEASE DON'T MISINTERPRET ME. I DIDN'T SAY THAT AT ALL.

Ironic. But par for the course I suppose, seeing as what you represent.

MY SON, IF YOU WANT TO GET INTO A LENGTHY DISCUSSION ABOUT THE EVILS OF ORGANIZED RELIGION, WAIT RIGHT HERE. I HAVE A BOTTLE OF SCOTCH WITH MY NAME ON IT. I'LL BE BACK WHEN I'M DRUNK AND YOU FIND A CURE FOR PHANTOM LIMB SYNDROME.

Father, I don't want to argue, either. On the court/field/diamond of life, arguing over whether religion or atheism is the true path is just as fruitless as picking which team will win the next NBA/NFL/MLBA championship. It's a crap shoot: lucky seven. You've got your reasons, and me I've got mine.

WHILE I DON'T ENDORSE YOUR GAMBLING ANALOGY -- BECAUSE IT'S WICKED -- YOU HAVE A POINT. WHY CAN'T WE BE FRIENDS?

I've asked myself the same question, usually in the shower (aka the place from which all great thoughts must come). Occasionally on the toilet (no disrespect). And, on one singular occasion, strapped to a minivan rooftop, sandwiched between two bicycles. I know not the answer father. But I'm getting, getting, getting there. This was therapeutic.

STOP BY ANY TIME. I'LL BE HERE. UNLESS I SEE YOU FIRST.

You and the cockroaches. By the way, Padre, I had 3/4 of a croissant roll and 3/5 of a 500mL bottle of Gatorade for breakfast. If you're still curious.

STOP IT WITH THE NUMBERS, ALREADY. FOR THEY ARE TRULY EVIL.

I knew it!

LIVE THROUGH THIS: GOD CAN TOLERATE YOU. HE'S JUST NOT THAT SURE THAT YOU CAN TOLERATE HIM. JESUS WEEPS.

I'll try my best, father.

TRUE DAT.