Ever gone to confession?
Think about it.
You wait your turn to enter into the dreaded confessional.
The priest is in the middle, with you on one side and someone else on the other.
The priest has drapes hanging around him, but he can open those drapes.
I know he peeped out of the drapes and saw me.
Geez. He knows me.
Do I tell him what a bad ass I have been?
Or do I tell him I forget to say my prayers on 3 nights, ate a hamburger on Friday and held up a bank last week?
I am not enjoying this.
I wonder if he is.
I hear a cork pop.
The smell of wine and cheap perfume.
Oh wait, I am wearing the perfume.
“Hey, Father, can you and I get the heck out of here? I need to confess, and I think I would do that if we could share a bottle of the bubbly.
We wouldn’t have to hide behind a curtain.
We could do this confessing thing in a civilized environment, like I do every night.
It’s good for the soul and fills me with the spirits.”
I noticed his voice was getting louder and his speech was slurred.
He said: “Is that you Wolf?”
I said: “Hey, this is supposed to be anonymous. It’s not nice to use names in a confessional.”
He said: “Yeah, well, tell you what. Can you high tail it to the wine store and pick me up a few bottles? I have to hang out here for another 2 hours, listening to people who never really tell me the truth. A bottle of shiraz and a bottle of malbec, please, and sneak them in through the curtains.”
“Hey, what about my penance?”
“Yeah, well, 3 hail marys for the bank robbery, 2 rosaries for forgetting your prayers and if you ever eat meat again on Friday, I will report you to the pope.”
“Ok. So I hear the pope is coming to town. You gonna see him?”
“Only if I see you eating a big Mac next Friday.”