Sometime around the age of 10, I learned to dislike religion. Some of this had to do with a cleverly disguised systematic torture known as catechism class, which always left me blue in the car on the way home. In the back seat I sat morose, picturing my soul getting indelibly blacker each time I burgled my nose or sneaked a Triscuit after 9pm. During those Sunday journeys home in our Oldsmobile 98, my older sister might occasionally nod my way, getting my hopes up that we'd joke about something, but only to tell me I smelled like onions and grossed her out so much that milk would run out her nose. I corrected her in a number of ways, first by educating her that usually that particular joke refers to milk or Coco-Puffs flying out their noses when they are laughing so hard about something, and that she wasn't laughing. I also mentioned that she wasn't currently drinking milk, and unless those pubescent boobies had something they needed to tell us, she should probably shut up and practice her pom-pom routine silently. Catechism classes, arranged after Sunday morning services and in order, I think, to give our parents an hour and a half to shop, argue or screw, were always taught by women whom I was convinced were witches. I know this because I was a healthy but small-framed child. I was popular with women, I have no doubt. Sometimes that's because, upon being a very nice child, impeccably dressed, groomed and after having been introduced and shaken their hand delicately, I would comment on how interesting I found the weave in their jacket to be, or how evocative the little squiggle on their knuckle was. But mostly it was because of my hair.
I had exceptionally wavy, curly, unruly, thick, blond, healthy hair, moreso than many had ever seen. Women fawned over it, despite my own hatred of it. But I felt like a religious icon. Hell, maybe that's why I'm gay, because dozens of middle-aged women fondled me regularly, simply to touch my hair...hair which they would sell their first-born to have. Or at the very least, pay a fair amount of money per visit to their local salon to replicate. But back to the witches. The Sunday school sybyls looked at me like I would be too much work, regardless of how long I boiled and bubbled in their massive black pot. My meat would be much too lean and flavorless. For the record, I never had a male Sunday school teacher. Thank jeepers, because Father [nnn] was enough. I'm digressing. I like this quote by Bill Maher.