Kulturkampf
Feb 8th, 2006, 02:20 AM
NOTE: This is a fictional story that could happen to you if you misbehave consistently.
One day you were laughing and laying on your back, and your smile was drunk and your underwear were a little wet because you didn't whipe it off -- you had sex without a condom because it was a good night, and good nights don't end because you forgot a condom. Good nights end in kicking off your boots and laying down in a bed, and waking up with a special scent and feeling that you were alive last night. They don't end with frustrated looking around, awkward silences, and fumbling hands. And if you are buying, they certainly, most certainly do not, end in fumbling hands. You risk it.
Two weeks later your underwear are a little more wet, and there is a yellowish discharge seeping from your goods. When the goods bump your thigh or your pants a sharp pain fills you and you grimace. You have to go ride a crowded subway or run with your military unit, so you stand at close quarters wondering if the people next to you can smell something sick & rotting or when you run you feel it drops shake off of it and you have to stop because it hurts so bad, so you fake that you can't run anymore and that you are going to vomit.
In reality, you just learned a lesson the hard way, and now your underpants are toxic waste and you wonder if you could ever be healed. Next weekend you aren't in the mood to dance -- you are in the mood to stand in frontt of the John holding onto the toilet paper holder and a towel rack, looking down at a sickly sausage and grittng your teeth.
"Gghhhhhh!!! ggaaahhhhh!!!!" and with a great pain a passage is opened a continuous drip continue to flow. "Awwwwwggggkkhhh cuuunnnnnnntt--chhhhhh-fuck!" and you spend the next four minutes squeezing out a urinous sludge of some kind of cake mixture, veins popping out of your neck and forehead. You remember the words of Jesus Christ as He died on the cross:
'Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?' which means, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'" (Mk 15:34; cf. Mt 27:46).
But unfortunately this was not the result of persecution born from resisting sin and refusing to cause a blasphemy. It is caused by a satanic glory. But all religon aside:
You still have to go out -- you can't waste a weekend -- you spend a nigt pounding beers fearing the bathroom, until a bladder cannot hold anymore liquids. Unfortunately, there is a long line and you begin standing at a urinal with five other men, grabbing a sick worm and biting your lower lip with an insane glare in your eyes, the glint of murder. You can tell people look over at you funny as you redden and spend 25 minutes and about 20 rotations of men standing at the middle urinal, a terrible drippity drop haunting your ears as you hear a clean stream of the yellow gold from other urinals.
You vow to get better one day, and sure enough you will says a doctor, and soon painful urination goes away after you are shot full of pennicilin and given bizarre drugs whose names you do not know. You vow to never be such a fool again.
You go to your calender each year, now, and go to the date marked: JANUARY 22ND
and you write:
"THIS WAS THE DAY THAT THE SATANIC GLORY FADED, AND I PAID IN PAINFUL URINATION FOR APPROXIMATELY TWO WEEKS. FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, WHENEVER I HEAR THE SOUND OF A DRIPPING FAUCET, I WILL MAKE SURE THERE IS THREE CONDOMS IN MY WALLET.
"ONE FOR A FRIDAY, ONE FOR A SATURDAY, AND ONE IN CASE OF GOOD LUCK OR A SECOND RUT."
You have learned a lesson, and your satanic glory continues -- protected by the Democratic People's Republic of the Congo and their rubber trees that make a miracle wrap called 'Latex.'
One day you were laughing and laying on your back, and your smile was drunk and your underwear were a little wet because you didn't whipe it off -- you had sex without a condom because it was a good night, and good nights don't end because you forgot a condom. Good nights end in kicking off your boots and laying down in a bed, and waking up with a special scent and feeling that you were alive last night. They don't end with frustrated looking around, awkward silences, and fumbling hands. And if you are buying, they certainly, most certainly do not, end in fumbling hands. You risk it.
Two weeks later your underwear are a little more wet, and there is a yellowish discharge seeping from your goods. When the goods bump your thigh or your pants a sharp pain fills you and you grimace. You have to go ride a crowded subway or run with your military unit, so you stand at close quarters wondering if the people next to you can smell something sick & rotting or when you run you feel it drops shake off of it and you have to stop because it hurts so bad, so you fake that you can't run anymore and that you are going to vomit.
In reality, you just learned a lesson the hard way, and now your underpants are toxic waste and you wonder if you could ever be healed. Next weekend you aren't in the mood to dance -- you are in the mood to stand in frontt of the John holding onto the toilet paper holder and a towel rack, looking down at a sickly sausage and grittng your teeth.
"Gghhhhhh!!! ggaaahhhhh!!!!" and with a great pain a passage is opened a continuous drip continue to flow. "Awwwwwggggkkhhh cuuunnnnnnntt--chhhhhh-fuck!" and you spend the next four minutes squeezing out a urinous sludge of some kind of cake mixture, veins popping out of your neck and forehead. You remember the words of Jesus Christ as He died on the cross:
'Eloi, Eloi, lema sabachthani?' which means, 'My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?'" (Mk 15:34; cf. Mt 27:46).
But unfortunately this was not the result of persecution born from resisting sin and refusing to cause a blasphemy. It is caused by a satanic glory. But all religon aside:
You still have to go out -- you can't waste a weekend -- you spend a nigt pounding beers fearing the bathroom, until a bladder cannot hold anymore liquids. Unfortunately, there is a long line and you begin standing at a urinal with five other men, grabbing a sick worm and biting your lower lip with an insane glare in your eyes, the glint of murder. You can tell people look over at you funny as you redden and spend 25 minutes and about 20 rotations of men standing at the middle urinal, a terrible drippity drop haunting your ears as you hear a clean stream of the yellow gold from other urinals.
You vow to get better one day, and sure enough you will says a doctor, and soon painful urination goes away after you are shot full of pennicilin and given bizarre drugs whose names you do not know. You vow to never be such a fool again.
You go to your calender each year, now, and go to the date marked: JANUARY 22ND
and you write:
"THIS WAS THE DAY THAT THE SATANIC GLORY FADED, AND I PAID IN PAINFUL URINATION FOR APPROXIMATELY TWO WEEKS. FROM THIS DAY FORWARD, WHENEVER I HEAR THE SOUND OF A DRIPPING FAUCET, I WILL MAKE SURE THERE IS THREE CONDOMS IN MY WALLET.
"ONE FOR A FRIDAY, ONE FOR A SATURDAY, AND ONE IN CASE OF GOOD LUCK OR A SECOND RUT."
You have learned a lesson, and your satanic glory continues -- protected by the Democratic People's Republic of the Congo and their rubber trees that make a miracle wrap called 'Latex.'