I Sip Lithium from the Nape of a Glass As Is Standard Operating Procedure

The old lady and I recently gathered all of our worldly possessions and compressed them into every knapsack, duffel bag, tattered cardboard box, and Hefty Hefty Cinch Sak we could get muster, taking our traveling gypsy show on the road yet again. Our new abode rests in a more affable locale a mere fifteen miles from our prior residence where inbred mutants who blare “I Love Rock n’ Roll” by Joan Jett in the mid-afternoon live above people like me and constantly use my washing machine despite numerous threats of physical harm. No longer is my slumber disrupted at odd hours by an angry neighbor beating down the upstairs door because he doesn’t approve of the creepy fucker’s penchant for black prostitutes. Apparently, Negros aren’t permitted in that posh environment, or so says the lusus naturae upstairs. Quite frankly, the dude should have got clocked in the jaw just for denying his half-breed son a dental visit once in his life.

So, yeah. The other day I was exploring my new terrain in search for the local market where I could exchange American currency for fresh produce, frozen chicken, and the yogurt that comes with the crushed cookies and/or Nestle Crunch pieces to mix in and create a delicious treat when I stumbled upon a street lined with log cabins. I also needed to get cat food. But to see so many homes constructed with logs was relatively intriguing. One mile later, I came across this:

What does this cryptic message mean? And who are the zealots who devoted the time and effort to design a bed sheet banner to brazenly portray this message to passers-by? I mulled it over for a few days. Is this some kind of anti-Christian bulletin? Some sort of twisted anti-war cryptogram? The apocalyptic warning of a crackpot soothsayer? I was entertaining myself imagining the possibilities, but I had to knock on the strangers’ door, introduce myself, and express my interest in the sheet tied to their trees alluding to some ambiguous disaster. A woman hesitantly opened the door and looked me up and down as if I had just crawled out of the primordial ooze.

“Hi, I’m Sparky,” I said. “I moved down the street a week or so ago and I pass your house everyday. I am just so curious about that sign. Church Chernobyl…what’s that all about?”

She asked me where I moved and I explained in greater detail. She appeared more comfortable once she established I am legitimate quasi-neighbor with a genuine interest in her cause as opposed to some big city rapist who wants to steal her identity and sell her jewels for money to buy meth.

“So you hate the church, huh?” I asked. That’s when she educated me on the brouhaha stirred up by the adjacent United Methodist Church which can be seen from her front yard, thus presenting the prime opportunity for her to shake her fist at the building while explaining her hostility. Get a load of this shit. The church has embarked on a deal with T-Mobile to install a cellular tower base in the church’s steeple. As a result, churchgoers have become concerned about the health risks associated with this business venture, going so far as to enlist independent industry experts in the field of RF radiation to analyze the decision. The upside of this is members of the congregation can now communicate with God via text message during mass. I suggested to the woman that the church should open a Starbucks in the front of the chapel and the pastor can bless the Frapuccinos. Coca-Cola can buy ad space on the back of the pews and they can probably get a couple extra bucks from Carl’s Jr. if the pastor wears the fast food chain’s logo on the front of his pulpit robe. She found absolutely no humor in my musings. Not even a little bit. Nothing cute or clever at all.

Remember: Jesus contacts all his homies on the Sidekick 3, so you should, too! Hallowed be thy rollover minutes. Repent or perish.