This articles is an extension of a dialogue I and a number of friends had. It is nothing but parody, with no intent to insult or anger anyone of any religious denomination.
I was talking about the commonalities many people have in their religion. Being raised Catholic, I can speak on certain topics to any other Catholic and share a certain comaradery; we all know what it was like in the trenches. It's fun to sit around the and swap stories.
Catholic War Stories
Well. I was stationed in Gascoigne for the inaugural nun wars back in '78 as an auxiliary. This was back before the ecumenical approach toward uniting the factions of the Roman Curia, of course. Heh. Back then every convent and monastery was looking out for number one in hope of gainin' the Pope's favor. Paddle ya' with a ruler soon as look at ya'. It was like a modern-day coliseum. Anyway, the Sisters of Mercy had been fighting a ground war against the Poor Clares for about a week. No food, whatever water you could scrounge out of water butts and ditches that looked clean enough. Disease was rampant, of course. We were always running back and forth to the latrines. Lavie door never stopped swingin'.
Anyway, the Poor Clares had got themselves in a perty tight spot. They didn't watch their salients and the prayer line crumbled in mid-Novena. They retreated and holed up back in an abandoned cannery. Air support didn't seem likely; low-altitude bombers were taken out by Intercontinental Prayer Missiles, ICPMs we call 'em. (You'll really have been to Mass if you caught that joke).
The Sisters of Mercy were right at the threshold of victory. The only problem was that the cannery was posted out in the middle of the street. There was no way of taking their position without crossing in broad daylight.
Well the Sisters of Mercy figured it was too great a risk; ya' never know when a piece of chalk could come flyin' out of nowhere and take you out, so they waited until nightfall.
That right there was their mistake. The Poor Clares had a working radio. And by nightfall they had called for help. They waited until they could see the yellow-whites of their eyes and hear the clack of metal rulers on bone-hard palms before calling in the artillery support. I was safe on the sideline, but I'll tell you what, buddy: if there's one thing the Daughters of Saint Paul know, it's how to fire off a scathing letter. They scribbled away as fast as they could and shot them off with trebuchets.
Had anyone taken the time to read the letters there's no doubt in my mind that they would've quit the field then and there, regardless of what side they fought on. Of course most of the paper caught fire from the sheer scorn inscribed on all those thousands of strictly worded reprimands, demerits, referrals, and notes to parents. I don't think the letters would've done as much damage as they did if they hadn't been weighted down. After all, letters tend to float around a bit; throws off their accuracy dont'cha know. In any case, the Daughters of Saint Paul ended up being disqualified; not because of the bricks they tied to the letters, that was no big deal, nuns are hard-headed folks at the best of times. It was the fact that they failed to consecrate the bricks before sending them aloft that got up the Pope's skirt.
You go down to any Veterans of Foreign Nun Wars post you like and, if you're lucky enough, you might find a Poor Clare who was there that great day. Buy them a few drinks and they might be willing to tell you about how they snatched victory from the jaws of defeat. Though you'll end up burning a hole in your wallet, mark my words. Nuns roll deep.
Ask them and they'll tell you that victory was thanks to their tireless good works and good will towards all mankind; except the Sisters of Mercy, of course. A pack of Poor Clares runs across a Sister of Mercy out on her lonesome and she's likely to get curb-stomped before the end of the day. Wimple flying and rosary beads everywhere; not a perty sight. But what can you do?
Oh, those were great days, them. Not like the modern-day church at all. The final nail in the coffin was back when the priests switched from Latin to English. Once we could understand what the heck they were saying it kinda took all the mystery out of attending. But, let me tell ya, Father Frank McGquire up on Winston Road holds Mass like it was way back when we were little. A'course that wasn't always the way of it. Once he had his stroke attendance shot up like a rocket. Can't hardly figure out what he's saying most the time, but as long as I make sure to throw in a fiver every Sunday everything seems alright.
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