Monday, January 23, 2012


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The preacher whisper screams something about mixed emotions and temptation of the flesh. He’s not yelling! He’s just trying to get everyone’s attention. Three piece suit wrapped around his portly figure, talking about hunger, sacrifice and humility. More production than an ABBA concert. It sounds like he’s sobbing under the stage-lights, more sweat than tears rolling down his spray-tan face. The swell of string music. The audience holds their arms straight up and cup their hands like little satellite dishes. The preacher looks into the camera and blames Satan for war, poverty, Halloween and rough sex. He jumps and paces around the pulpit. Takes off his jacket, speaks in tongues, dives off the stage, runs past the band, the camera men and cue-card holders. High-fives the congregation up and down the isles. On his way back to the stage he hugs his wife, winks at his mistress and kisses his boyfriend. The preacher calmly returns to the pulpit and closes his eyes. He whisper screams a prayer to heal the world’s scabs and cellulite. An organ wails. He pauses and asks the deacons to pass the collection plate.

-Charly Fasano

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