When I was a little girl, I wanted to be a Priest. I used to love to go to church, and I would look at the Priest in his grand robes right up in front, and think how wonderful it would be to be the one right there at the altar, where God lived, breathing the glorious holy air in the windowed sweeping spaces over Him. My mother told me I could be an Organist, but the Organist didn’t get to stand by the altar and bless the bread and put her hands on anyone’s head to bless them. She told me I could help with the Altar Guild, and then I could even touch the things on the altar, but then I’d have to hide before anyone saw me there, even if I might get my name in the Bulletin if I was lucky. No, I dreamed of being a Priest. I wanted to stand in front of the altar and talk to God. When I was a little girl, that is.
I’d have made a lousy Priest anyway. I don’t have a dick. And a Priest has to have a dick, even if he’s not allowed to use it for anything except to piss, and shouldn’t even mention that.
So, one day, when I was older, I bought one. The realistic dicks for sale were, well, ugly . . . so I bought a bright neon-yellow one, with an attachment or two no Priest would need to piss, and I took it home to my girlfriend to find God.
And we did. And She smiled. “All acts of love and pleasure are My rites.”
That was a long time ago, and I know a lot more about God now. And of course there are a few billion other ways to realize that God doesn’t need a dick, and neither do Priests. Maybe I’m just twisted that way. But I’m OK. And I still think God’s a really cool Lady.