Situation Normal. Atmosphere Breathable. Brainstem Injected. Dialogue Engaged.
Friday, September 30, 2005

Gilroy's Afternoon Hallucination

I almost knocked that nun clean off her bicycle. If I'd hit her, her old pudding body would've splashed out of her habit. Her holy vessel would've sprung a leak. Or two. Hell, she'd smear across all three lanes. It didn't happen, though. So I get to laugh. What's black, white, red, and silent?

What was she thinking? Everybody knows it's dumb to ride a bicycle on the main streets during rush hour. She took the idiot concept to a higher level. That old leathercrotch took her ten speed out on the highway. The highway! She shot across three lanes of screaming semi trailers to the concrete median. I didn't see anybody in the breakdown lane, and even if somebody did need help, what could she offer? Nothing. There's no way that old crone could change a tire without osteoporosis reducing her bones to rubberbands the first time she tried to crank the jack.

She's religious and old. Possibly senile. Something set her off. Broke her mind, snapped her sanity. Had to. It's certainly no stretch of logic to imagine she was kneeling, praying to one sideshow Saint or another when she was suddenly visited by a holy presence. It could be that Lucifer himself appeared in a cloud of red smoke and ejaculated blood all over her favorite stained glass depiction of the three wise men. I know I'd soil my diapers if that happened to me.

It could've affected her fragile psyche. What if he touched her there? That could've been the trigger. I was driving too fast to see if she was screaming, laughing, or riding with her eyes squeezed shut. I thought nuns weren't supposed to commit suicide. Right? Maybe she quit.

Maybe it was something nicer, something sweet. Even God. If he gave her The Sight, maybe she could see invisible things. Maybe the highway is full of lost children, choking their soft children's coughs with each whistle of gasoline exhaust that scrapes down their young throats to stain their pink lungs. Maybe they're already dead, accident victims, lost wandering souls, and she wants to lead them to Jesus. What better way to meet car crash ghosts than to get pureed by the front grill of my crappy Detroit four door?

I don't care why she did that. Don't care what caused her problem. I still have payments on this thing. I can't afford to have my insurance premium rise. I hope somebody else mangles her. On a motorcycle. That would be cool.

I'm not going to let this strange experience bother me. It's daytime, and my headlights are off.
5:37 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm


September 30, 2005 5:38 PM, Blogger The Unknown said...

Beware of nuns. Love me?

October 01, 2005 3:42 PM, Blogger Mishka said...

Could be she was testing God, her faith or both?

October 02, 2005 10:31 PM, Blogger Lostinspace said...

I liked your image of Lucifer appearing. And the imagery of the osteoporosis reducing her bones to rubberbands. PS, when is your article being published? Isn't it sometime in October?

October 03, 2005 9:48 AM, Blogger Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm said...

The Unholy Biscuit item is scheduled for later this month, and the Theatre Of Decay story will be on New Years' Day.

October 03, 2005 10:46 AM, Blogger Bobby said...

It was me
in a rubber suit
performance art, you see

October 03, 2005 11:37 AM, Blogger ty bluesmith said...

you are so fucking twisted, steve. and hilarious. but still, totally twisted

October 03, 2005 2:23 PM, Blogger Dave Morris said...

Perhaps her Hummer was in the shop getting rims, and, accustomed to being the biggest MFing thing on the road, temporarily lost track of where she was.

I dunno. Nuns are difficult some times.

October 04, 2005 1:13 PM, Blogger Other Brother said...

Mark my words, Steve.
The Houston Astros will win the World Series.

October 05, 2005 1:15 AM, Blogger karen gsteiger said...

The nuns I knew in my life...? They probably would have slammed your car into the shoulder of the road. They had super-human strength.


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