Plagues
Early last week, I found one of those religious chain letters in our mailbox at the Crackhouse. It was addressed to "Resident," but I was fairly certain inle_rah would not mind my taking it.
The last time we got one of these, it contained this funky paper prayer-rug illustration of Jesus. In a Magic Eye type of optical illusion, His eyes appeared to open. (I seem to recall including this bit of miracle art in a package to gymli.)
This time, there was nothing more exciting than a "faith handkerchief" -- essentially an 8-1/2x11 inch sheet of white paper with an illustrated border (depicting embroidery). Oh, and some "prophecies," which were really just snippets of positive thinking.
The recipient is supposed to write his/her name in the center of the paper hanky, and add a loved one's name below that. On a separate sheet of paper is a checklist, from which the recipient may select his/her area of need. For example, one may opt for "a closer walk with Jesus." Good health. Financial relief. Even "confusion in the home." (Not relief from said confusion, mind you. Oh no. You get the confusion itself.)
I took the whole packet to work with me, and shared it with ninjaturtlepunk (whose curiosity had been piqued by all the cackling she heard from my cubicle)
Then I wrote a name in the center of the hanky. "Satan," I wrote. And below that: "Beelzebub." And of course I chose "confusion in the home" from the checklist, and even penned "Pandemonium!" beside my selection.
I showed ninjaturtlepunk, who dared me to mail it back (in the postage-paid envelope, of course). So I did.
And in the next week, I got royally spanked by the Judeo-Christian deity.
Late Thursday afternoon, I learned that claxman and I would not be getting the great apartment we'd viewed on Monday. (There was one applicant ahead of us, and she decided to take the place.)
Friday was crappy storm day. ("Out like a lamb," my ass.) But God must've been bitch-slapping somebody else that day, because I did all right. (Of course, this could have been a temporary reprieve, in light of the fact that I'd given blood on Wednesday. Sure, Thursday sucked...but by Friday, the Providential paperwork must've cleared.)
Late Saturday morning, claxman and I spent a good hour or so trying to extricate our cars from the snowy lot in front of his apartment building. While shoveling next to my car, I turned my head and -- SMACK! Eyeglasses, meet driver's-side mirror. So now the left wing of the frame is fractured. (Between this and the seriously scuffed lenses, I definitely need to get me some new spectacles.)
Sunday morning, when claxman and I met up to view another apartment (which didn't much appeal to either of us, unfortunately), he informed me that one of my headlights was all smashed. I hadn't noticed it on leaving, but apparently a Crackhouse neighbor...or the crackhead guest of a neighbor...or some drunk fresh from the bar down the road...whatever. Apparently, some asshat had hit my car during the night.
No note, of course.
Just a smashed up headlamp, scuffed bumper, and cracked hood.
But no note.
So I'm left to foot the bill. (My deductible is $500, so I probably won't even put a claim in. I'll just get the light fixed, and parts and labor for that alone will run me about $240.)
Now, some of you may think this is merely a run of lousy luck. But wait -- there's more!
On Sunday, I got a boil. Just one. But still.
The Plague of Boil. (See, this is how I put it all together.) My Satan hanky-pranky must've really pissed God off. I mean, not Eve-and-the-serpent pissed. Not Sodom-and-Gomorrah pissed. But He was at least a little miffed.
Or maybe this was just a test. If so, I fear I've failed it. Because Job I am not. After less than a week of this shit, I was ready to curse God and die.
Christ.
Oh, and claxman and I are looking at another apartment tonight. Send good thoughts our way. Put in a good word for us with the deity of your choice. But whatever you do, don't write it on a prayer hanky!
The last time we got one of these, it contained this funky paper prayer-rug illustration of Jesus. In a Magic Eye type of optical illusion, His eyes appeared to open. (I seem to recall including this bit of miracle art in a package to gymli.)
This time, there was nothing more exciting than a "faith handkerchief" -- essentially an 8-1/2x11 inch sheet of white paper with an illustrated border (depicting embroidery). Oh, and some "prophecies," which were really just snippets of positive thinking.
The recipient is supposed to write his/her name in the center of the paper hanky, and add a loved one's name below that. On a separate sheet of paper is a checklist, from which the recipient may select his/her area of need. For example, one may opt for "a closer walk with Jesus." Good health. Financial relief. Even "confusion in the home." (Not relief from said confusion, mind you. Oh no. You get the confusion itself.)
I took the whole packet to work with me, and shared it with ninjaturtlepunk (whose curiosity had been piqued by all the cackling she heard from my cubicle)
Then I wrote a name in the center of the hanky. "Satan," I wrote. And below that: "Beelzebub." And of course I chose "confusion in the home" from the checklist, and even penned "Pandemonium!" beside my selection.
I showed ninjaturtlepunk, who dared me to mail it back (in the postage-paid envelope, of course). So I did.
And in the next week, I got royally spanked by the Judeo-Christian deity.
Late Thursday afternoon, I learned that claxman and I would not be getting the great apartment we'd viewed on Monday. (There was one applicant ahead of us, and she decided to take the place.)
Friday was crappy storm day. ("Out like a lamb," my ass.) But God must've been bitch-slapping somebody else that day, because I did all right. (Of course, this could have been a temporary reprieve, in light of the fact that I'd given blood on Wednesday. Sure, Thursday sucked...but by Friday, the Providential paperwork must've cleared.)
Late Saturday morning, claxman and I spent a good hour or so trying to extricate our cars from the snowy lot in front of his apartment building. While shoveling next to my car, I turned my head and -- SMACK! Eyeglasses, meet driver's-side mirror. So now the left wing of the frame is fractured. (Between this and the seriously scuffed lenses, I definitely need to get me some new spectacles.)
Sunday morning, when claxman and I met up to view another apartment (which didn't much appeal to either of us, unfortunately), he informed me that one of my headlights was all smashed. I hadn't noticed it on leaving, but apparently a Crackhouse neighbor...or the crackhead guest of a neighbor...or some drunk fresh from the bar down the road...whatever. Apparently, some asshat had hit my car during the night.
No note, of course.
Just a smashed up headlamp, scuffed bumper, and cracked hood.
But no note.
So I'm left to foot the bill. (My deductible is $500, so I probably won't even put a claim in. I'll just get the light fixed, and parts and labor for that alone will run me about $240.)
Now, some of you may think this is merely a run of lousy luck. But wait -- there's more!
On Sunday, I got a boil. Just one. But still.
The Plague of Boil. (See, this is how I put it all together.) My Satan hanky-pranky must've really pissed God off. I mean, not Eve-and-the-serpent pissed. Not Sodom-and-Gomorrah pissed. But He was at least a little miffed.
Or maybe this was just a test. If so, I fear I've failed it. Because Job I am not. After less than a week of this shit, I was ready to curse God and die.
Christ.
Oh, and claxman and I are looking at another apartment tonight. Send good thoughts our way. Put in a good word for us with the deity of your choice. But whatever you do, don't write it on a prayer hanky!