Well, first place, any church camp for teens run by an overweight person who goes by her first name, that stinks to high hell of psychological problems we don’t even want to think about. Do we.
Of course she wears glasses. And curly hair most all cut off. Can’t you take nothin for granted?
So these kids, their hormones are buzzin and pretty soon she’s got them yappin like dogs, weeping for Christ and George W. Bush, who almost overlap, both bein’ in the Pantheon, you see. Pastor Becky’s got her eye on a spot for herself, but it don’t do to move too fast. How many souls do you s’pose you have to save before you can sit up there with Christ?
When Pastor Becky thinks about very large numbers, she has to take a extra Ativan. Doctor says so. And the headaches from the yappin’ you just would not believe. Sometimes Pastor Becky lets herself be weak and dwell upon her years behind the cosmetics counter, where is was so damn quiet and the most she had to puzzle over was mascara, brush or wand. Oh here, she sometimes thought, take the wand you old bag and go home—but seldom, because she wasn’t being tested for the Lord, in those days.
Not like this. For one thing, sex. Pastor Becky is certain that at least eight of her campers are humpin’ like bunnies and she wishes to heck she had hired more Juniors for Jesus. Zip! Zip! Zip! She couldn’t very well unzip every sleeping bag herself now could she. Not and get a good night’s sleep. Besides which, it made Pastor Becky remember highschool—and what she wanted more than anything else, right now, was to forget her past, forget there is even such a thing as the future, and most of all forget she was stuck for life in that body, and wouldn’t ever be Pure Spirit.
Does the Spirit appreciate Ativan? She chomped another one down …