I saw way too many clean foreheads out there yesterday and now I’m heated.
America has become a vain and faithless waiting room for Hell.
Let’s get a couple things straight:
- It’s called “Fat Tuesday” and that’s final. Mardi is a dog’s name, and I don’t smoke Gras because it will shrink your organs and you’ll be in renal failure before you and your roommate Buzz can polish off that extra large with Oreos you ordered from Donatos, okay? Let’s just stick with the holiday’s Christian name and leave the French where it belongs — on the backrest of a recumbent bicycle. Seriously, Louisiana has nothing. They just fired their ball coach. If we take “fat” from them, too, they’re gonna be praying for another storm just so we remember they’re there.
- You can never have too many ashes on Ash Wednesday. I mean, if other people can’t see your faith, that means it’s not even there.
Can I tell you how I demonstrate my throbbing love of Christ on Ash Wednesday?
I go full Jolson. I smoke a carton of unfiltereds and spread the ashes from the tip of my handsome, all-natural widow’s peak to the nape of my bowed Catholic neck. I’ve been doing it for thirty-five years and not once has my faith been questioned. Have I had to defend myself physically against faith-based persecution? Yes, on some two to three dozen occasions since 1980 I’ve been assaulted on the streets by agnostics, polytheists, and radical Islamists as I mind my own business, just loving God out loud — the only way I know how. Wasn’t Christ Himself beaten for his beliefs? I would say that this is probably pretty much the same thing.
Look. I don’t agree with the bumrushes and sucker punches these haters throw my way, but I respect their right to chuck them. That’s The American Way and it has been since before Charles Sumner got clobbered on the floor of Congress for all that good stuff he was pushing. You know what I’m talking about.
Let’s just look at the facts. Ash Wednesday is a day where we make ourselves ugly on purpose because Jesus went to Mexico and didn’t sip a single marg or munch a single Tostitos because he was on a cleanse. He did this for forty days. Can you imagine? That’s like if I, Buck Crimshaw, a man whose urologist told him he has “active gonads,” started working at a tanning salon (just for the hell of it; I’m doing very well financially due to the tremendous success of my twelfth book Made You Look: All The Untrue Stuff I’ve Said On Television, Radio and in Print 1985–1991) and didn’t take like even a single damn peek.
He does this for us and we can’t even put a dash of burnt crud on our faces for a day? Steve Buscemi has been ugly his whole life.
It’s up to the youth. If a mere forty to fifty million young people decide next year to laser off their barbed wire tattoos and return to a life of piety, I think we can turn this thing around. Until then, I’m gonna be caking this stuff on thick, leaving only my lips uncovered so that I can explain to the police that I am a Christian martyr akin to St. Stephen and my dear friend Mel Gibson.