Pooting publicly

SATURDAY — When I told Jay that I was getting weary of dealing with sometimes-rude, sometimes-crazed Christians, she gave me a Bible. "Take it with you when you're on Telegraph," she said, "and keep it on the table, in plain sight. It'll really fuck with them."

A brilliant idea, no? And now, for the past week or so, the Holy Bible has been on my table. I've been protected by the word of someone else's lord and savior. And it's working, I think.

I still sometimes see people with that look in their eye, like they want to brain me with a frying pan, but then they see the Bible and frown, and almost visibly become unsure of themselves, like, maybe they've misunderstood everything about the fish and the fish-stand and the fish-man. 

♦ ♦ ♦

In a good mood today, I took Jay's plan to the next logical level, singing hymns at the table, but adding a flamboyant fart sound at the end of every line. "How Great Thou Art" was my favorite:

"Oh Lord my God — poot — when I in awesome wonder — poot — consider all — poot — the worlds thy hands have made — poot…"

The vendor next to me was selling all sorts of left and atheist buttons and bumper stickers, and for just a dollar I bought this fabulous pin that sums up my feelings quite well:

He is YOUR God. They are YOUR rules. YOU burn in Hell.

♦ ♦ ♦

SUNDAY — There are some days so damned boring I don't think there's a word worth writing, but that doesn't stop me.

♦ ♦ ♦

MONDAY — Took the train under the bay and into San Francisco, for my weekly afternoon working at Black Sheets, the sex mag. It's office work, a little data entry, and filling and mailing orders. It's no different from office work at a medical clinic or a car dealership, except that instead of dealing with diagnoses or warranty claims, we deal with porn. It's not unpleasant, and the guys I work with, Bill and Steve, are always mellow.

Today was a typical day at the office: Steve read an awful porn submission out loud, and we laughed at how bad it was; Bill had me sort through the incoming mail, and believe me, a sex mag's incoming mail is more interesting than your mailbox. There were free samples of products probably illegal in Utah, guys and dolls sending unsolicited nudies, invitations to sex parties, and porn industry newsletters.

Like any other mailbox, though, most of it's junk mail, which gets recycled into three piles: plain paper, glossy paper, and the goodies I get to take home.

♦ ♦ ♦

BARTing back to Berkeley at the same time, on the same train as a week ago today, I walked the length of the train, hoping to 'accidentally' bump into Andrea, the woman I met in the train last Monday. We've got to start meeting like this, but we didn't, and chances are, we never will again.

From Pathetic Life #15
Saturday, Sunday, and Monday,
August 26-28, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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