Hi, I'm Rick, and I feel sick. That's why I dropped by Delilah's Delightful Donut this morning, hoping for a heaping helping of corn pone and grits to fill me up, re-energize me. Add in a brimming glass of OJ to wash it down, and I'll be good to go. If only my tummy wasn't rumbling so...
Fifteen minutes later...
First come, last served, I see, as my favorite waitress Charlotte, the girl with steamy lashes and whirlwind curls, does a donut run in pointy heels toward my table. Do you hear the dull red ink pen tapping on her notepad as she asks me what I wish to dunk my donuts in?
The edges of her mouth curl upward, drooling at my digestive dilemma.
"Would you like a drink, Rick? Ice, perhaps?"
Dense rivulets of intense perspiration drop from my forehead.
"Yes, please, in lemon water." She retrieves. I sip, while listening to the drip of
deceitfully delicious risk-infested pork
delivered by four hungry self-proclaimed "hams" slobbering over hash browns and onions in a corner booth.
First up: Horace Hogmaster, hip-hopping hero of highway hooligans, strumming on his air guitar as he croons about the road kill he flattened just the other day.
"The old bag hag's always nagging me to fix the faucet, clean the toilet, and patch the leaky roof. If'n I don't, it's a frying pan to the head."
With reckless words he slaughters his wife, fries up the gossip, then drains the grease... grunt by gluttonous grunt, through an invisible sieve.
"Ha! You think you got it bad? Soon as I bring home the bacon, my old lady burns it to a crisp," brags Wally Weasel, slick wheel stealer and one-time used car salesman.
Not to be outdone, Larry Flummox, lewd lover of licentiousness, takes a moment to boast. "Well, that's noth-in' compared to the gossip my rooster-peck-in' hen makes me swaller."
His drivel make me feel like I've been dunked in a pig waller. Do I dare risk ingesting partial plates of such deceitfully delicious, risk-infested pork? If truth be told, I've had my fill - of all such demonic swill. The more I chew, the emptier I feel inside. So yes, I ate the risky pork, and now I feel a sharp pitchfork, telling me what a fool I've been. The slop I once slurped greedily I can no longer stomach.
My former friends can tell, without me saying a word. It's like I've got this mark on me, giving off convicting vibes whenever they roast somebody. Maybe that's why last time I tried to join them, they attacked me.
"Well, if it isn't old Bible boy, come to tell us what to do."
"God knows he ain't live-in' it."
"That's for sure. Got a dirty story to tell I'm sure he'd love to hear, but he's got ter pretend he don't like it. See that thar flush creep-in' up his cheeks? He knows what I mean. Self righteous hypocrite. Go find yerself an empty pew to preach to."
Hypocrite. They called me a hypocrite. I hate that word hypocrite. In fact, hypocrites were the reason I gave up on church. I was tired of seeing folks act all religious on Sunday, then turn around and deny the LORD on Monday. If you ask me, such behavior stinks. There's no excuse for it.
Then again, isn't that sort of what I'm doing now? I know the truth, but I've taken to denying it. And now the guys I used to call my buddies are feasting on prodigal pie.
Can't say I blame 'em. If only I could turn things around, send that herd of swine plunging off a cliff.
Dumped royally into perpetual pigsty.
Ah, here comes Charlotte, just in time. I see her saunter over with the bill, her brown eyes swimming with seduction. "How 'bout a scintillating desert, Sugar?" Her honey lips beg for a kiss, making my saliva flow.
"No, thanks," I tell her, following the urgings of my dreadfully reoccurring internal pipe disorder. With those words I lay down my last quarter, and head for the door.
Desiring Repentance, Internal Pivot
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