I think you’re wrong if you believe that a “nice place to live” is place that has a prolific “nightlife”, a unique “culture”, and a well-funded “education system”. That’s the wrong attitude to have. A nice place to live is a place where everyone steps outside of their home and feels a small shred of solidarity with their neighbors in knowing that they live in a goddamn madhouse.
Take my neighborhood for example. Now I would hardly describe it as a “shithole”, but it certainly has its “eccentricities” to say the least. One of our elected officials got caught exposing his penis at a gas station and then, weeks later — just a quarter mile down the road — a road rage incident went viral. I love living here.
It’s never the good things that create the strongest bonds. It’s the shit things; things like the godawful sports team, the rampant corruption, the crippling depression you feel because there’s no future. One of the joys in going to the gas station is seeing the guy behind the counter curse god because he sat down on a piss-soaked toilet. It’s the small, relatable incidents like that which brings us closer.
So in an era where we’re all lonely, I say we should forget about finding “our people”. You are an island unto yourself. No one will ever understand you and there’s no sense in trying. Instead, I say you should wonder down that dark alleyway. Maybe try some “stealth camping” by that graffiti-ridden dumpster behind Kroger. Perhaps that knife-wielding hobo has something interesting to say. You never know. You might make a friend or two.
I just got a new pair of truck nuts for my 2004 Dodge Ram 2500. Luciana Ortega De Navarro was impressed.
Luciana was the heiress to the largest cigarette manufacturer in Southern Cal. It recently went out of business. She asked me out on a date while I was sleeping in the doorway of her storefront in Venice.
She had a thing for hard luck cases.
So I finally brushed my teeth and ran a comb through my hair. I put on my best Def Leppard shirt and met her at Il Porcellino, the finest Italian place near Marina Del Ray.
Luciana wore a floral red dress. Her dark hair flowed down to her shoulders and her skin was as radiant as the Mediterranean sunset. She was stunning.
We shared a bottle of Molinara from Veneto over candlelight. She asked, “do you go to church?”
“I’ve been there before.”
“How do you feel about 3rd Baptist Church of Culver City?”
“I’ll give it a shot,” I said.
That Sunday, I wore a clip-on tie and went to church. Elderly people abound. They all asked “Welcome Brother James, isn’t Luciana great?!”
“I guess,” I said.
Services began. The choir sang “Are You Washed in the Blood”. The pastor waddled out from behind the stage.
The preacher was a heavyset man, obscenely flabby. He wore a flannel suit and lightly tinted bifocals. He asked us to take out our Bibles.
“Open to Romans 3:48.”
The parishioners complied.
“Now, my congregation, I wish to speak on god’s grace, his mercy, and his message to all the people of earth.”
Silence fell over the church.
“Yesterday, while I was praying, a voice said to me ‘I will bring forth your people as testimony to this cursed world.’ I replied ‘God! What does this mean?’ The voice said ‘do not worry, just listen to my commands,’”preacher continued.
All eyes were now glued to him.
“The voice said ‘Get up!’ So I got up. Then it said ‘take off your shirt!’ So I took off my shirt. Then it told me ‘take off your pants’. So I took off my pants. ‘Now drink your own piss!’ So I drank my own piss.”
The preacher began to move around the stage.
“It was at this time when I felt the grace of Jesus Christ inside of me. I leapt for joy! And I knew right then what I had to do.”
He then walked over to the assistant pastor.
“Brother Ted, please stand up.”
He stood up.
“Ladies and gentleman of this congregation. This is the future I want to bring forth.”
The preacher then pulled down Brother Ted pants, exposing his fully erect penis.
Gasps filled the audience.
As the parishioners started getting riled up, the preacher continued.
“Do not be afraid,” he said as he held Brother Ted’s member. “Change is always scary. But this is the beginning of a new era!”
The preacher then shoved Brother Ted’s penis into his ass. The sound of clapping ass cheeks echoed throughout the church.
Women in the aisles were passing out. The men shouted “Amen!”
“Come here Brother Al,” the preacher said to another assistant.
And the preacher sucked and fucked his way through the sermon, igniting his congregation into a titillated frenzy.
As we were driving home, Luciana asked, “what did you think about the service?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “It was a little tame. Think I’ll just stay a Catholic.”
