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THE GORKO’S SECOND WHOOPS SELECTION FOR 12-18 August

Content Warning: One instance of oral Holy Ghosting. Also (cover your eyes) Jesus does NOT fuck off.

Holy ghost power

Four score and seven years ago, she throat punched a nun.

The nun blabbered in tongues through a tight lipped scowl while Mo knelt vulnerable beneath the alter.

This was after the priest passed her over at the Eucharistic Adoration offering with barely a glance.

She hadn’t been to church since her mom died, and her dad was too busy dying in the hospital to come pray for himself.

She was sweating and shaking, watching the molded Jesus on its cross – it, too, dying.

She had no anger, just needed the nun to shut the fuck up, quick casting her wicked spells.

Her fist shot out before she could gain control. The nun’s eyes bulged and her veiny, waxen hands clutched at her throat.

And Mo ran.

With each step, over and over, her mind said, ‘Holy Ghost Power. Holy Ghost Power. Holy Ghost Power.’

She ran until she couldn’t, until she was bent over the sidewalk with her hands braced against her knees, gasping for breath.

A fifty odd year-old man slowed to check her out, blasting ‘I Wanna Know What Love Is’ by Foreigner through the speakers of his baby blue convertible – top down, obviously.

He said, “Need a ride, sweetheart?”

She didn’t respond, and he puckered his lips into a kissy face, smacked them together.

“Muuah!”

“Fuck you!” She screamed and ran at the guy. “Fuck you! Fuck you!”

He pulled away laughing, leaving Mo in white knuckled fury, screaming in the middle of the road.

The baby blue convertible stopped down the block and the guy yelled something she couldn’t hear (probably cunt), then tossed her the bird as he peeled out around the corner.

Underneath all that muck and anger, her prevailing thought was – How can I become that confident?

When her sister met her outside the hospital and asked about Mo’s day, she said it was “Fine, going fine ”

“I think I just met one of the four horsemen of the apocalypse,” her sister said about their father’s nurse. “She’s a sickly-sweet woman who identifies as a Susan B. Anthony feminist.”

Mo squinted at her sister’s shit eating grin and said, “Bring on the reckoning.”

Her sister’s snapping shoes and tapping canes echoed off the linoleum tiles as she dragged her muscular dystrophically crooked spine through the fluorescent hallway.

Mo moved a few steps ahead of her and said, “Hurry up already.”

And they laughed and laughed.

Yep.

Get this – Mo’s dad had a vasectomy before she was born.

Before the vasectomy, four kids – all wholesome, God fearing, teetotalling conservatives.

After the vasectomy, four more – a heroin addict, a violent bully, a cripple, and a lesbian.

Mo’s dad didn’t tell her mom when he got his vasectomy reversed.

“Your father is a shit,” were among her mother’s last words.

As it ended up, Mo’s father wasn’t dying, but he still handed her a stack of death letters he wrote to each of his kids in case he didn’t make it.

“There’s only seven here,” she said.

He didn’t respond, just turned up the volume of the Hallmark movie he was watching.

“Do you think dad ranks his kids?” Mo asked her sister, snapping and tapping her way back down the hall.

“Yeah, but he only gives us superlatives.”

Based on her dad’s sprawling, run on sentenced letter detailing the fire and fury awaiting Mo’s kind after death, she assumed he didn’t rank her all too high.

She masturbated for hours that night to curb the near constant panic attacks that revolved around visions of dead nuns, and just as she teetered on the brink of orgasm, she saw God through warm toned swirling colors and soft lights.

“But you’re a woman,” she said to God.

God nodded at Mo’s vagina and said, “It makes sense. Think about it.”

“But what about Jesus?”

God scoffed. “That dude was a fuckin’ joke.”

“I thought he died for you.”

“That motherfucker died for his own ego. There ain’t no men in heaven. They’re all burnin’ in hell where they belong.”

Then God crouched between her legs, and with one long, slow, tender lick, rocked her very soul with a shivering series of drawn out and spastic orgasms.

Before she fell asleep, she took the ceramic Jesus she kept over her kitchen sink to ‘Bless this Mess’ and hurled it into the street. She watched it shatter into a million pieces on the asphalt and said, “Fuck off Jesus” to the pieces.

But Jesus didn’t fuck off.

He came to her that night.

His eyes wild, beard dirty, hair dreaded.

He straddled her, his long snaking fingers wrapped around her throat. She felt his dagger tipped nails burrowing into her flesh as she gasped for breath that did not come.

“Do you curse me now?” he growled through broken, stained teeth. “Do you curse me now?”

Behind him, stood a harem of nuns all chanting in tongues, smiling in pure joy at their righteous savior.