Born Again Cretin

Outside my local subterranean locomotive station, a sweaty, red-faced man with a Christian billboard strapped across his shoulders tried to force a wad of inky literature upon me, referring to the grimy pamphlet proffered as his 'Testament.'
He said: "My family Bible is so enormous that we had to sell most of our furniture just so that it could fit into the house. Indeed, the book is so massive and heavy that its pages cannot be turned without the use of industrial haulage equipment. Consequently I am forced to read the daily lesson to my wife and thirteen children from memory. Fortunately, the word of God is both short and memorable: it's No."
"I love my neighbor so much," he continued "that I keep her imprisoned in my basement to prevent her from engaging in harlotry and shamefulness. She calls it 'sunbathing,' but, praise the Lord,  I can recognise the face of Jezebel when it winks at me. Hallelujah. Just say no and repent of thy wantoness and sin."
In return for this unsolicited advice, I thought I should reply in kind, so I sang him an old Capitoline spiritual which goes a little something like this:
'Saturn ate his children, yes Lord
Saturn ate his children, yes my Lord
Saturn ate his children, yes Lord.
Priests keep a sacrificin'
But the God's are still mad."
Alas, he had already stalked off muttering to himself before I began intoning the second verse.

Comments

[Carter]

Only thirteen kids? You've been blogging too much.

I'm no marketing expert, but they should hand out some of that Trappist Ale. I know I'd sign up if they did.