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my mother should be Pope

A phenomenal spirit filtered into my vermin-friendly studio this morning, which might be classified as angelic or demonic depending on your stance in the solemn, wonky worlds of religion. This inspirational voice box visitor inspired me to toss another hat into the papal nest.

Currently, the high holy top robes of the world are convening in Rome for the announcement of a magical man adorned in white who is the highest high holy top hat and robe ruler of men costumed in red who are the high holy top birds managing flocks of collared prayer men everywhere.

All of this ceremonial minutia was initiated due to the passing of the prior highest high holy top hat and robe ruler ascending spiritually, to enjoy an endless retirement floating within cloud hemispheres sans body.

If this appears muddy, this is the predetermined ultimate intention sewn into the fabric of religion. One could argue this view seems a bit off-putting or blasphemous, but those factors should never enter the field of flash fiction. Non-Fiction is like indica, if you need to be comatose, hit those facts hard and leave us imagination creatures alone.

The Roman Catholics, by association, have painted a shun pop lightning strike on my soul. I could not be prouder. It turns out, shunning is not derived from the three-letter word ‘son’. The act of shunning presents as a death ninja, severing all love perceived to be infinite in the first place. The shunning process is quick, with an uncontrollable venomous bile ingredient spilling into the memories of the individual who is being shunned.

Before I was rocketed into the cornfields of Shunnedland, the Church was the clubhouse for all gatherings of congregations filled with believers who met and repeated words with song. The core breakdown of any required bless service would dazzle in the riveting zones of memorization. Stiff recitation blended with holy water sprinkles and requests for cash-fueled offerings. Curtains would close on all theatrical events with group hugs, donuts, and lessons learned.

Instructional pamphlets were distributed around secret club meetings held on Sundays. Messages were decoded from sacred books on glorious altars that seemed to leak incense. If you were not a devout member of this brass bell candle club, you were automatically considered a smudge. A smudge was annoying but manageable.

A smudge could visit a whisper closet in a church, on an off-day, to meet with a collared who absorbed your smudged sin into himself with his specialized superhero attire. Priests could brush away lower-level sin violations, but not anything to do with addictions or CSI felonies involving weapons. Alcoholics, gamblers, and those individuals who did not reciprocate with Christmas cards were demons. Once a smudge becomes a stain, the outlier would be shunned.

As a shunned, I do not have the option to vote for the next Pope. You must always capitalize the word Pope, much like Prince demanded of his music congregation. My goal with the possible publication of this plea to the smile people of now is to elect my agitated mother lamb who once called me ‘whose kid are you’ aka ‘sonny boy’ to the royal kingdom so she can gain an audition for Pope.

I sense no other qualified candidate in my circle of oxygen-breathers who embodies so much perfection. The vessel that carried me for over nine months, talk about a clinger, has never been incorrect. All of her decisions are spot-on, precise, and correct. Facing any challenge, placing money over love, she will annihilate any bond or connection for the sanctity of the cash. The Church will be protected.

When mother transitions into Pope, her dream quest board will be complete. The prayer wheel she continues to rotate daily will receive a much-needed respite from its current hurricane spin cycle.

Money, God, and Christmas will be the pillars for success. When the smoke dances from black to white and Pope Mom is in sight, my father can regain his hibernating status at the whiskey smile bikini girl saloon for eternity. Lettuce prey.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Berthed from mischievous leprechauns near technicolor shadow lands surrounding Honah Lee, Theodore Wallbanger rides mysterious sparkle railcars bursting with crunchy cotton candy clouds dispatched from slippery erotic massage vixens who rage pillow laugh hourly within a splintered transportation module that screams along butterscotch wonder tracks forming vibrations for audiences across Sugar Hill Mountain.

Image generated on Magic Studio