So Sayeth I
by Albert Russo
My religious friends will
say that I’m a blasphemer, and some of the
fanatic fathers of my Islamist sisters - yeah, it’s
always the men who wreak havoc on our planet -
would chop my head off if they could, calling me
Salmana Rushtits.
But since I’m living
in the West and I deem freedom of expreshun
an unalienable right - wow, ain’t that a
swell highfalutin phrase the intellettuces
use to sound important! - I want to tell it the
way I feel.
Bonka - that’s how I
call my darlin pussymousy of an uncle (‘pusillanimous’,
come on, now, let’s not exaggerate with them
Shake’em pear words, on account
that three quarters of my readers would desert me
pronto presto and get so depressed, with such a
complex of inferiority, that they would have to
be locked up in a looney bin for a while,
consulting a sigh-kayak-tryst thrice a
week in order to return to their senses.
Oh, so you complain that I’m
jumping from our hi-tech, hi-crazed 21st century
to my ghostly appearances in the Bible times! Who’s
the writer here and what’s the imagination
for if you can’t use it? Do I meddle with
some of your muddled asinine comments, that have
neither heads nor tails? Then too - stick this
into your lil dingling heads -, how could I
counter those biblical bozos gone haywire without
the experience of our collective history of
thousands of years? Not that this collective
history helped any during World War Two or with
the genocides in India and Pakistan just after
independence, in Rwanda, in Syria, and in other
regions of the world, still to come, coz men are
the darnest creatures that were ever invented.
Thanks again, dear Goddess, you seem to greatly
enjoy these vicious and unvirtual war
games.
Unky Berky claims that I’m
an agnostic - what an ugly word; for some reason
it reminds me of wriggling and slimy worms. When
he explained its meaning I just said uh uh, so be
it. It ain’t so bad, since I’m supposed
to question the existence of Goddess without
being an extremist like them atheists who call
her an impostress and say that all She
represents is bunk and chickenshit.
True, I often think there
must be someone up or down there, on account that
there are too many things we can’t explain,
and that brave Darwin doesn’t have all the
answers to the mysteries we face, like what
happens to us when we conk out. Does our soul
continue to live, where and in what form? Between
you and me I would freak out if they all decided
to visit us while we’re asleep, or even
worse, if they appeared in some nooks and
crannies of the cellars of our homes. Haunted
houses is ok to watch in horror films once a year,
and only when you’re tipsy, so that you get
so confused you forget to be scared.
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