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The sermon for Sunday, May. 12, 2002 is: ummmm 11:59 p.m. Dear Diary, sorry about my lamentable lapse into sonnetphistry. Instead of writing poems that won't be read to people whom I will never know in some gnomic attempt to recover my childhood belief in a nice guy god endlessly patting me on the head, let's talk about what gets red-blooded americans out supporting the economy, which would be tits and ass. Larsen called me this evening. He wanted to know what was going on with Colleen. Moreover, he wanted me to stop dwelling on the baroque melancholy which had disquieted me a couple days ago. 'Jesus, John,' Larsen said, 'can't you act like a guy for once and just tell me how she was!? And remember I'm an ass-man.' So how did it go today? Did you finally get some? Some what? Jesus, John! Dude, sometimes you just puzzle me-- I mean, you had this totally hot girl in your bed, she's like letting you touch her tits, why didn't you tap that? 'Tap that'? Whyever would I do that? You're fucking strange, dude. Yes, yes, I know, I'm gay. That's not even funny, dude! Is it all the fucking drugs? Is what all the fucking drugs? Jesus fuck, are you high right now!? Right now? 'High' as in 'artificially expansive'? As in 'ten thousand feet above sea level'? As in-- You've got to lay off that shit, guy. Before your dick shrivels off and dissolves like an old fruit roll-up. Before that? Um, okay. pause So tell me about Colleen's ass. Colleen's ass. Um, okay. She calls it Falafel. It's grey-blue in colour, has long ears, and is predominantly phlegmatic in the distribution of its humours. Falafel mopes about his stable throughout the week, dreaming of the glorious day when he will be rendered triumphantly into glue. Why did I have this feeling you wouldn't satisfy even my simplest sexual curiosity? My gosh, Larsen, do people come to me in order to be satisfied in their sexual needs? Colleen does. I don't think so. I didn't get that vibe. Dude, get that vibe! Get a lot of vibes! She's probably into all that freaky-deaky shit! You're a veritable font of helpful hints and how-to's today. A modern-day Maimonides of the freaky-deaky. How long you been up, boy? I don't think I've slept since 1942. You're gonna fucking die, you know. I'm depending on that. That's why I'm not wallowing in self-pity and despair these days. You lost me. What was I talking about? So what did you do with Colleen today? Tell me at least you copped a feel of her fine fine breasts. Sorry, Larsen. If you'd like to come over, I've some rotting heads of lettuce in the fridge that may satisfy your curious longing. Dude, that's gross. Touching... I can't endure the weight, the gravity of touching Colleen. This is where you go all fucking gay. This is where I go all fucking gay. When we hold hands, I feel like we're each other's buoys, each other's liferafts, you know? as we're drawn into the undertow of pedestrians and traffic and shops and shit, we hold onto one another in desparate fear that otherwise we would become submerged, drown. Dude, you're fuckin' whack. That's a good thing, right? That means that I'm, what, the top of the pops with your youth group, yes? Dude. That's all I'm gonna say. 'Dude.' That's not all you're gonna say. Damn straight that's not all I'm gonna say. Face it, John: you're totally scared of Colleen, you're being a little pussy coward, and what you gotta do, like today, like right now, is get some and show her what the fuck's what. What the fuck's what? You know what I'm talking about, boy. I haven't the slightest inkling what you've said. Come over and sodomise my cabbages, for some reason I think this would complete your social evolution into a cabbage-fucking jerk. Dude, I'm Audi. How proud you must be. Late, faggot.
 
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