Sunday, 18 February 2018


Whorrified, Marie Sutherland, Christians, barbecue,
SISTER MARY WHORRIFIED bends over her cheese tray in holy prayer. "Dear Jesus, please smite the dirty Christian who stole what was rightfully mine. Amen."

I had a religious experience last week, and if you know anything about me at all, you can probably guess it ended badly. As do most of my religious experiences. And all of my marriages. Without boring you with the details of how I got conned into it, let's just say I went to a Ladies' Night Church Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza and came away with a fresh appreciation for how cut-throat those Christians can be.

It all started with the prize tickets they gave out at the door. That's nice, I thought, maybe I'll score one of those knitted tea cosies the church ladies make so that the world's ugliest yarn won't feel unwanted. That'd be just my luck. (Which, in hindsight, might have been where I went wrong. Snide goeth before a fall: Proverbs 16:18.) 

There was dinner and skits and singing and then finally, the promised gift giveaway extravaganza got underway. Within minutes, I'd won a book, a box of bonbons and a tube of hand cream.
But what I really wanted was the big shiny barbecue I'd spotted amongst the giveaway loot. 
"Bless me Father for I have sinned but holy Moses wouldst I ever loveth to win that friggin barbecue," I chanted in my most virginal voice. 
And then suddenly ... praise the lord ... like the miracle of the loaves or whatever, my ticket number was called, and I rushed that stage like you've never seen a woman in six-inch stilettos rush anything. However, one hates to appear greedy (especially on one's first visit to what one has suddenly decided is going to become a regular thing), so I hesitated when I got there. "What do I do?" I asked one of the other women whose number had also been called. "Do I just pick any prize I want?" 
"Hold on a sec, honey, I'll ask Pastor Kay." (Not her real name, because holy crap, the last thing I need is the evangelicals coming after me.)
And then she turns around and she grabs the barbecue! 

I stared at her in unholy astonishment. 
"Did you just take the barbecue?" I said. 
She smiled and shrugged. "You can pick any prize you want," she said.
Lord forgive me, but I didn't want any other damn prize. I wanted to knock her down and snatch that barbecue. But then Jesus stepped in and whispered that it would look a bit sinful to start kicking good Christian women at their own ladies night, so I sullenly chose a lovely stupid cheese-serving tray and flounced back to my table.

For the rest of the evening, I tried to talk myself out of the seething resentment I was feeling, and then I went home and seethed some more. And do you think I could sleep a goddam wink that night? "Why, Jesus? WHY? WHY DID SHE TAKE MY BARBECUE RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER ME? Can't you strike her with the clap or something? You have the power ... supposedly." 
Yeah. It wasn't pretty. 

It's now been three full days and the rage still hasn't left me. Every time I look at that stupid cheese tray it courses through me like lava. I'm obviously going to have to regift the fucking thing. (Hey Liz, guess what you're getting for Christmas?) But in the end, just like pregnancy, the hours of maddening agony and communing with our Lord and Saviour yielded something wonderful: I found Jesus. And have now become his personal blogger. He actually finds me quite hilarious and, more importantly, this will give me a fantastic edge at the next Ladies' Night Dinner and Gift Giveaway Extravaganza (Monday, Jan. 6, 2014; I checked). Ha! Cheese tray, me arse! *makes sign of the cross*

EDITOR'S NOTE: I have a terrible feeling this is going to end with you being burned at the stake.
MY NOTE: That's for witches, you moron!
EDITOR'S NOTE: *hides behind wall, fist-pumps air, returns* Oh, right. How silly of me.