Can Humankind Avoid Its Biological Destiny?

Don’t like the sound of that. I know what my biological destiny is. Why would I avoid it?

I’m 28. Have not fulfilled my biological destiny yet. Came close twice but one time I said something stupid and the other time the girl’s dad banged on the wall.

What’s wrong with my destiny I ask you that. I hold no brief against those other destiny types in our time but mine is still the most popular ain’t it? It always was in my neighborhood growing up. All my mates did their destiny before they were proper adults didn’t they? In the proper way. On top I mean.

Father Sean don’t agree but he would disagree would he not? His destiny ain’t getting fulfilled any more than my own unless he would take up something like Father Jules has done devil take him.

I took a vow after getting knocked about in the destiny department by girls I fancied and there were many. I took a vow solemn as my soul that I would never pay for it. That was to be my destiny. Do not explain bloody humankind to me or the world’s oldest profession. My biological destiny is waiting for me at The Crown and Pig and I will not avoid her God willing.

Fifty Shades of Teenage Gray

I’m grounded for the day because my boyfriend got me back home last night after midnight. My mom threw a fit. She does not understand what’s going on between Marcus and me and I am not going to try and explain it to her. I can’t even explain it to Marcus.

So now I’m here alone and I thought I’d count the shades we’ve got up in here:

18 lamp shades

11 window shades on the house’s sunny side

5 pairs of sunglasses

6 patches of shade under the shade trees

2 ghosts – Granny and Pop-Pop

3 more ghosts – the cats Fishy, Whiskers and Whiskers Junior

1 “shades of all the things I dream up to pass time!”

4 shades (Mom, Dad, my brother and me) (non-PC term but I’m black so I can use it)

…and what do you know, that’s 50 shades.

Ask Sister Theresa: Can This Marriage Be Saved?

Dear Sister Theresa,

We are five lovers, recently married in Goosefeather, California.

We are:

Carl,  assigned sex = male, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = cis

Eunice, assigned sex = female, gender identity = female, sexual orientation = cis

Nancy, assigned sex = male, gender identity = female, sexual orientation = cis

Tom, assigned sex = female, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = cis

Brad, assigned sex = male, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = gay

Our problem is that Brad, our only non-cis marriage member, is having trouble fitting in. Or adjusting, might be a better way to put it.

We have “hit the social scene” searching for a solution and have found 4 new potential marriage partners:

Paul,  assigned sex = male, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = bi

Cheryl, assigned sex = female, gender identity = female, sexual orientation = lesbian

Lucy, assigned sex = male, gender identity = female, sexual orientation = intersex

Gordon, assigned sex = female, gender identity = male, sexual orientation = polysex

Do you think Brad may find a more complete true-love connection if we add these prospects to our marriage?

Sister Theresa responds:

Wow. You guys have got me in a bit of a pickle here. When I was Brother John, I had some strong ideas on this subject, but now that I’m Sister Theresa, I’m lucky to get my wimple on straight in the morning.


“Hi. You beat me here. Have you ordered?”

“Just coffee.”

“Miss… Another coffee, please?”

“How long will you be in town?”

“I’m just passing through. I stopped for gas. I decided to drive for a change, instead of flying. See the country and take some time to think.”


“I wasn’t going to stop.”

“Looks like you changed your mind. It’s been a long time.”

“Seems like forever. Seems like yesterday.”

“You look good. Rumpled, as usual.”

“I’ve been driving, but yeah, I guess I’m still the rumpled type. You look good. Better than ever. When I came in and saw you, I…”

“Let’s not get carried away. A long time is a long time.”

“Is that a new scar in your eyebrow?”

“I got clocked by my son’s dump truck in the sandbox.”

“I heard about your marriage. Fill me in.”

“Let’s see. Got over you. Met a man. Got married. Two kids. I teach at a community college. It’s a quiet life. All of a sudden I’m halfway to forty. What about you?”

“No wife. No girlfriend at the moment. No children. Making a living with the writing. Never got over you.”


“I’m sorry. Where did that come from? No, I know where it came from. I just didn’t think I’d actually say it. Stupid.”

“You never came back. Never wrote.”

“Sorry. Pretend I didn’t say that. Forget I said that. ”

“Said what?”

“Right. Thanks. After you married, I couldn’t imagine coming back… So we’re both thirty-five. How did that happen?”

“Get yourself two kids, a teaching job, and a husband who flies airplanes and you’ll find out.”

“It went by fast?”

“Fast enough. You?”

“Fast, but a grind. I never thought I’d make it to thirty. In my head I’m still in my twenties.”

“You were thirty-five at nineteen. I’ve kept up with your work. On the page, you sound like you’re in your fifties.”

“My God.”

“No, it’s a good thing. You impress the hell out of me. You always did. When I read your stories, I sense a very large spirit.”

“You know me better than that. Evelyn Waugh came across as a wonderful human being in his books. He wasn’t. I write like I write, but it’s just a style. It comes naturally. I spend my days alone in a room. If I ever had a spirit, it’s shrunk to the size of a raisin.”

“That’s not what the media says. You’re in Paris, you’re in Vientiane. You’re in Bali. You’ve got a girl on your arm.”

“I’ve seen the world, that’s for sure. I’ve done everything I ever wanted to do with travel. And then some.”

“Did it change you, seeing the world?”

“Travel changed my perspective but I don’t think it changed me.”

“And the women on your arm?”

“On the arm. Not in the heart.”



“I won’t lie. I’m almost jealous.”

“You don’t look jealous. You look…”


“I’m trying to remember. I know this look. It always got to me. It’s a wary look. Not a happy look. By the way, did you pick this booth on purpose?”

“Of course.”

“You’ve probably been in it a time or two since I left.”

“Many times. With my two kids standing where you’re sitting, looking over into the next booth and giggling. You always said you wanted children.”

“I do want children, but I need a wife first.”

“I’m amazed you’re still single. You seemed so pro-marriage. You said you’d marry me on the spot if I’d go with you. How close have you come since then?”

“You’re as close as I’ve come, and I blew it.”

“…Yes, refill it please. Thanks.”

“There’s that look again. I’m sorry. I’ll restrain myself. It’s just that I’m sitting here having feelings I didn’t expect to have. I’d say more than I already have if I thought it would do any good.”

“So we’re getting right to it? No, it wouldn’t do any good for you to say more, but I won’t lie. You and me together, that was the best time of my life. Followed by you and me apart, which was the worst, and I’m sitting here remembering it.”

“I don’t need to remember it, because I never forgot it. If you could do it over, would you make the same choice?”

“To stay here and go to college instead of running off with you?”

“Yes. Knowing what you know now.”

“I have my children now. That changes everything. Permanently. I’d stay, because otherwise, my children wouldn’t be here, and they mean more to me than you or my husband. So no, I wouldn’t go with you. What about you? Would you still go, knowing what you know now?”

“No, of course I wouldn’t. I could have sat in a room here and written just as well as I did in New York. I didn’t understand that then, but I understand it now. I didn’t have to leave, at least not then. I could have married you and learned my craft, and your children would have been our children and I would have saved myself ten years of regret. No, of course I wouldn’t have gone.”

“You know, I said that I got over you. Most of the time I do think I’m over you, but I don’t have any romance in my life to speak of, any more than you do, if you’re telling the truth. But then, most married couples don’t. Romance is for when you first meet and feel like you’re walking on air. It doesn’t last.”

“It lasted for us, as I recall.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have lasted forever. It would have been gone by now.”

“It doesn’t feel gone. Were you walking on air when you married your husband?”

“I love my husband. Did I say that already? Well, I do. He’s a friend. I trust him. I like him. I admire him. There was never any romance there, at least on my side, but even if there had been, like I say, it would have been gone by now. My days are about my children and my students and a man who sometimes wants me to be his mother and sometimes his housekeeper, who spends his time with flight attendants while I spend mine here in town with the same friends I’ve had all my life. What I don’t spend a lot of time doing is thinking about you and me. I wasn’t going away with you and you weren’t staying here, so now I’ve got my life and you’ve got yours. Our life together, our love, that just got… cut off, I guess. It got cut off the night you walked out of here. Ten years from now, neither of us will remember or care. Ten more and we might forget to mention it to our grandkids if they happen to ask, which they won’t.”

“You’re that bitter?”

“I’m realistic.”

“You don’t sound realistic. You sound angry. Listen. Life in the future doesn’t have to be like life in the past. Just because you’re not in love now doesn’t mean you can’t be.”

“Fine. Those women on your arm? Is that your future?”

“Those women on my arm equal several years of bad dates… All I’m saying is, sometimes you can see the error of your ways and turn it around and do something different.”

“As in, I could go home and collect the children and leave with you now? Like I didn’t before?”

“No, I didn’t mean that.”

“As in, you’re staying here now, like you didn’t before?”

“Would that be so wrong?”

“I probably want it more than you do. But if you chop off your arm, you can’t change your mind later and decide to sew it back on again. It’s gone for good.”

“What kind of analogy is that?”

“A bad one. Let me think of another… You have a large patch of fertile ground. You could cultivate it, build on it, base your life on it. But no, you choose to let it lie fallow. A forest grows on it and animals come to live in the forest. Finally, years later, you change your mind. You decide that you want the fields and the home and a life based on that patch of land. To get it, you’ve got to cut down all the trees and kill all the animals and turn the place into a wasteland full of stumps.”

“Jesus. Go back to chopping off your arm, please.”

“Look, I’ve got regrets, just like you. Yes, I’m angry, at both of us, especially me. I’m bitter. But I also have a life. Maybe not the best life, but a good life.”

“I’m not angry or bitter, but I’ve got an ache that won’t go away. I’ve been stuck with it for a long time. I keep waiting for the regret to fade. It hasn’t. I thought that if I came back, if we talked, if I could look at you and sit down with you like this, it might pull me out of the past. It might help me heal.”

“Well, I’m so sorry about your healing, but something just got torn back open over here.”

“I was stupid to come. Selfish.”

“You were stupid and selfish not to come sooner. I’ve been waiting forever. I haven’t felt this alive since I supposedly got over you.

“Can I…”

“No you can’t. Don’t even think about it.”

“My God, you’re lovely… There was a moment that night when I finally made the choice to leave without you. I’d been thinking about whether I should or not, or could or not, but there was a moment that night when I finally decided. That was the moment I wounded myself, and the wound never healed. You’re right. I cut off my arm. I cut out my heart. Now I can’t separate the hurt from the memory. I love you but it doesn’t matter, because that stupid kid made that stupid decision. It’s as if a ghost or a curse won’t let me touch you again.”

“It’s not a ghost or a curse. It’s my children. It’s my life. I settled for less when you left. It didn’t cure the pain but it dulled it. Or it did until now. It gave me my family and my career.”

“I settled for less, too. I just didn’t know it.”

“It’s going to hurt like hell when you walk out that door.”

“I could stay.”

“That would hurt worse.”

“Can we do this again?”

“Sure. Give me an hour for the tears to dry. Make that a day. Make that a couple of years.”

“I’ll stop for gas on the way through.”

“Call me when you do.”


Flowers, Puppies, and the Love of God

Reading over some of my recent posts, I find them harsh. I regret these posts. The world does not need harsh. The inside of my brain is not a harsh place. Let us  mellow out.

Yes, let us think of… flowers. Their beauty. Floral beauty. Their colors. Floral color. Each flower provides sustenance and living space for myriad small creatures. Sure, the little things eat each other to some extent. There are spiders. It’s a jungle in miniature. Endless soulless remorseless death. But let’s not think about that. Let’s focus on the aromas, the deep satisfying colors. With global warming progressing exponentially, you’ll be able to grow all manner of heat-tolerant, drought-resistant varieties year round, until we reach the point where only cactii can survive. Increasing respiratory illness and allergies might spoil our walk in the roses, as will the advent of the African black death honeybee, but let’s not think about that.

Let us think instead of… puppies. So fuzzy. So friendly, except for those traumatized into quivering catatonia by their previous experiences with humans. Ha. You think you know where this is going: into negative territory, again and again. Wrong. Watch this. Puppies, yapping, tussling, months away from developing into vicious pit bulls… Now you think I’ll promise not to go dark, but then I will go dark. No. I won’t promise anything. Why should I? You don’t know me. We’ve never met. Have you ever been bitten by a rabid dog? Sure, the dog was tiny. But it’s teeth were like needles. Have you ever had rabies treatment? The needles into the abdomen? Sure, I can be mellow, but give me a friggin break! Let me work through a couple of issues first, alright?

So let us think of… love. The Love of God. I no longer say a blessing over dinner. Why? Because in the space of time that I am speaking the words of thanks, and while I’m also asking for a blessing upon family members, in that space of time, an average 423,706 individuals around the world will die, often in what some would call hilariously macabre circumstances. If I keep up the blessings, one or more of my family members are increasingly likely to drop dead while I pray, as am I. It’s simple statistics.

Will I read this later and find it harsh? I think not. If flowers, puppies, and The Lord are not mellow, what is? Or what are?

Guest Post: Sister Ildephonsus

I’m often asked whether nuns have a sense of humor. I have many answers to this. For example:

– If you had a sense of humor, would you be a nun?

– Two nuns and a dwarf walk into a bar. You’re probably familiar with this thigh-slapper.

– I’m married to Jesus Christ. Dude doesn’t laugh much.

I’m writing this guest post to address the issue of God’s Wife. “God moves in mysterious ways.” I believe that. I’m not married. Does that make me God? The priest at Saint [—–] is not married to those young boys of his. Is he God?

I could have been a wife to some normal guy, you know. In high school, the boys were after me like I was a bitch in heat. I’m not saying that I wasn’t, but even then, I’d only do it in the apse, or out back in the graveyard. Please, no jokes about nuns and their bad habits.

Actually, forget about God’s Wife. That older generation. Who cares about the grandparents? What about Jesus? Is he married? If so, what does his Wife make of all us nuns claiming to be married to Him (except for the superannuated Sister Gerd, the seriously bent Sister Bruce, and the butt-ugly Sister Angelina)? Does Jesus’ Wife laugh it off or does She have it in for us? Are we pathetic? You know, like “I want to marry my daddy when I grow up”? Is She a nun, or an ex-nun? Jesus has got to have some kind of relationship going up there. Of course, there’s the long hair and that dreamy look he’s got in the pictures. The flowing robes. Light on his feet? Jesus, I hope not! Father Brutus says that Jesus and Satan have been spending a lot of time together and that they’ll come out of one of those anterooms to Hell with shit-eating grins on their faces pardon my French.

I’m in one of those tough orders where you shave your head and spend the day washing dishes and scrubbing floors and shelling peas. And for what? I don’t even have some lout sitting in his favorite easychair drinking beer, eating peanuts, and scratching his hairy chest through his wife-beater, ignoring me till he’s hungry or horny or both. What’s the point? This is the twenty-first century. Nobody shells peas anymore. We’ve got an army of undocumented Catholics up from the south to do that.

It says right there in the Book of Something or Other – I can’t keep the damned things straight – that, yes, God has infinite wives. Infinite, meaning numberless or without number. Doesn’t that mean by simple mathematical calculation and proof that I’ve got to be one of them? If it’s infinite, don’t you have to count me in there at some point? So God, please raise the freaking red lantern.

God’s Wife 3

Does God have a wife? What do you think? He’s God, for Christ’s sake. Of course He’s got a wife. And, He hasn’t got a wife. Get it? That’s how God rolls. He’s got infinite wives. The universe is 4 billion years old and, at the rate of one per night, or no, two or three per night, you know, a “two-fer” or a “three-fer,” say, God has still got a lot of wives that He hasn’t even seen yet, much less “known.” He could pass one of these women in the street and go, hey, what a babe, and unbeknownst to him, she’s His wife! He don’t even recognize her! And these aren’t dogs we’re talking about. There are so many babes around (speaking for Hollywood anyway) that even Satan has babes. The bad ones! He doesn’t marry them, either. He’s the Devil. He goes trolling every night. But I’m getting off track here.

So let’s get to it: Mrs. God. What’s going on with this Supreme Deity? Or Supreme Deitress? Well, She’s not some gay male wife or trophy wife young enough to be God’s daughter, I’ll tell you that. She rocks. What does she do? Is she like the First Lady, in charge of prayers from all the orphanages, and flowers blooming in the Spring, and rainbows? Or is she edgy like Hillary, with a large staff, always angling to become head of the World Bank or suchlike?

There are only two ways to find out for sure, of  course: prayer and the holy scriptures.

Go ahead and try prayer first. Every so often somebody gets up in the morning with their answer, although it’s usually about what color to paint  the guest bathroom or something like that.

As for the scriptures, you’ll come up short in the Bible, but fortunately there is also the Pseudepigrapha, available used from Amazon in hardcover for less than $100, which is one hell of a deal.

There’s also the Apocrypha, but it’s got nothin.

The Pseudepigrapha is a gold mine when it comes to stuff like Mrs. God. The title means “falsely attributed” in Greek, but don’t let that put you off. For the dope on the big Wife, check out especially the Syriac Apocalypse of Baruch (the Wife gets mad), Cave of Treasures (yes, that “cave”), and Sword of Moses (yes, that “sword”).

Some facts gleaned from these scriptures:

– There are four hundred billion galaxies in the known universe, two hundred billion over there and two hundred billion over here. Mrs. God prefers the two hundred billion over there.

– She’s an ethnic.

– She’s not jealous but she will kill off a million or two of her Husband’s favorites if He pisses her off, just on principle.

– She likes to fingerpaint.

– She’s had more than four trillion babies and suffers from a touch of prolapsed uterus.

We’ll take up the question of Devine Abortions in a later post.

God’s Wife 2

As soon as you mention God’s Wife, the specter of sexual organs is raised. We all know that, for example, the penis comes in many shapes and sizes. An exception about knowing shapes and sizes would be the faithful wife, who has only seen one. If the faithful wife is female, that is. If the faithful wife is male, then it is unlikely that the penises of husband and wife will be identical, perhaps to the surprise and disappointment of the faithful but well-hung wife. In this case, if her penis is much larger than your own, it doesn’t mean that you have to take any shit from her pardon my French.

We did a poll in Montana on this. 78% of respondents stated that they’d rather discuss the private parts of their cattle. 10% stated that they’d rather discuss the private parts of their sheep which they can’t quit, and 12% said they would only discuss such matters in their own bedroom or in a motel room if we would be interested in that.

So the thing is, suppose your penis does not look like God’s penis? Or your wife’s private bits do not look like those of God’s Wife – you know, are more, well, prominent, or perhaps more sequestered? Maybe the carpet doesn’t match the drapes, but I guess that’s another subject. If you’re very different from the Divine, does God still love you? No. If you’re unusual in some way, is there a chance that God’s Wife might take a special interest in you? Maybe. I know a guy like that.

But let’s get our minds out of the gutter. God’s Wife. Does She do the dishes? No. That’s what the angels are there for. Does She want to go out every night, or is She content to let God lie on the couch and for once watch a goddamned football game in peace? Hmm. I’ll set up a poll on that one.

God’s Wife 1

First of all: this is a serious post. No way I’m going to dis God in a WordPress post. Maybe it would be ok over on Facebook, which besides its 100 million Godless teenagers has several large pockets of Satanists, who, except for the group sex, are the most boring… I’m getting off subject.

There are some Christian religions that believe that God has a wife. They don’t talk about it much, but if you pin them down, they will admit it. Most will say more about the Holy Ghost, but the Holy Ghost – he or she or it – is a ghost, a spirit, a cloud, whatever. Nobody ever tells us that the Holy Ghost has, say, a penis. The Holy Ghost is just easier to talk about than God’s wife. Or should it be God’s Wife? Sometimes the Holy Ghost does appear in the shape of a bird, but nobody ever tells us what the sex of that bird is, or that it’s got a twig in it beak (for nest-building). Or maybe an olive branch, for reasons unknown.

Later: Hold on. I’m wrong. If you poll the rural preachers of Mississippi, asking them whether the Holy Ghost is male, female, both, or neither, 100% reply that the Holy Ghost is male. If you ask whether the HG has a penis, 100% say well hell yes. If you ask whether that penis is large or small, 100% of the black preachers say large. 100% of the white preachers say that it’s medium in size; perhaps just a hair small. If you ask the black preachers whether the penis bends to the left or right or hangs straight down, 100% respond that the penis hangs, or “dangles,” straight down. 100% of the white preachers respond that it bends to the right.

One Asian preacher was polled. He dropped his trousers and waggled his member in the pollster’s face, without articulating an answer. Very Zen.

Guest Post: Goodbye

Dear joem18b. I am using this guest post to say goodbye. Sayonara, baby. I have been your girlfriend for three years now and I still don’t know what you look like or how old you are or where you live or what you do or nothing.

I am out of here.

Don’t comment me or email me or write on my wall. Do not tweet me. Do not leave a message on my home phone machine in a disguised voice, Mr. Invisible Man.

I’m going out tonight with a real person, a guy that I found on a dating site. He may turn out to be a serial killer, but at least I’ll feel his hands around my throat.

We had some good times, you and me, especially after we met on Phoenix University’s online campus. Those were the days, snugglebuns. Do you know what I’m doing right now. I’m in the bath and… Aw, nuts. Forget it.

Those “personal items” I sent to your anonymous postal-service box? I want them back. Laundered.

Is anything that you told me really true? My friend Trudy has been out with a hundred guys and she says that you are way exaggerating. Have to be. Trudy says that if you’re telling the truth, she’d be willing to wait three years for you herself, or even four, to hook up.

So goodbye. Unless you want to get together later or something. Let me know what you think.