The Life of Jesus as a Religious Paranoic

I have a compulsion for confession. This is my concession. I won't be the first person to point out to you that my therapist and the rapist are only a space apart. It has been fifty years since my past transgression.

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As a teen I acquired a bible and sat down to read it, front to back. Woodcock was an atheist, Ethel a devout Roman Catholic. She flipped the table on him. How would you react if the stone floor under your feet became a river? The church was founded on a rock of deception. Old Mrs. Mac in her wheelchair proffered her twisted fingers to all who would listen. The Rabbi did this to me, she would warn, he'll do it to you. There are rules to be followed. Thou shalt not be self-determined.

In the beginning, Ethel created the world and Woodcock was... comforted. No, compliant. No complaints. Ethel laid down the rules and Woodcock abided. Thou shalt not, and it didn't matter what came next. Call him Oedipus.

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Rex was a German Shepherd and a former member of the police. He was given to us by the former Pharoah Ramses of Frankville. Both were retired but, as they say, you can't take the cop out of the kennel without losing some fingers. Rex wanted to be a family pet but his nature wouldn't be leashed. He needed a stern mistress to rein in his animal nature and Ethel was never that.

After the wedding, Woodcock was given a pamphlet by the priest: Pastoral Directives for the Deportment of Couples in Marriage aka In Which a Dom becomes a Sub and Vice Versa.

One of Ethel's complaints about me was that I was too dramatic, always wanting attention. If the fool shits, ennit?

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I guess I was lucky because Saint Stephen's only touching of me was perfectly fine, a simple and brief hand on my head on the sidewalk in front of the world. Tousled hair. He became my middle name, so I am stuck with him forever. (Dude looked like a lady.)

I didn't get very far. Too many begets killed the narrative.