Ursuline High School Marching Band

Every Christmas our family gets together for the holiday and after dinner old family stories are retold again and again. Most of the family would gather in the family room and recount those funny stories from our past. One of my favorite stories is about the poem my Dad wrote about his high school he attended. (Ursuline High School, Youngstown Ohio)

The year was 1942, and his teacher, (Of course was a Catholic Nun) handed out an English assignment. Each student was to write a poem about something uplifting about Ursuline High School. My Dad was called by the nun to read his poem aloud in front of the class. Dad cleared his throat and read aloud...

The Majorettes came on the field,
The first in Ursuline's history.
Followed by the marching band,
But what they're playing is a mystery.

All the students in class burst out in laughter. However, the Ursuline Nun was not amused. She immediately sent my Dad down to the office. He took his seat and awaited his punishment.

Father Gallagher, (Yes, an Irish priest) walked into the office and sat at his chair and asked my Dad why he was sent to the office. My Dad told him the Nun did not like his poem. Father Gallagher asked my Dad to recite the poem. My Dad did.

Father Gallagher seemed to almost smirk and told my Dad to get the Hell out of the office and back to class.
Like father, like son.

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Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up

Do Black Patent Leather Shoes Really Reflect Up

The age-old question for every Catholic school boy in the 1960's was; Do black patent leather shoes reflect upwards? Wait a minute, you don't know what that means?

You see, in the 1960's at Catholic grade school, it was pretty difficult to get a little female action as there were a few obstacles in our way. First, the girls had to wear ugly ass uniforms with the hem having to touch the knee making them feel non-sexy.

Second, they were Catholic grade school girls. (Only the good die young) They were indoctrined early to stay chaste.

Third, there were approximately 100 Catholic nuns (I say approximately 100 nuns for they never let on to their exact number perhaps to keep us off guard) patrolling the halls and class rooms just waiting for a boy to make eye contact with a girl for more than three seconds. (Three seconds was the standard time frame) A mere second longer, and the nuns would administer blunt force trauma.

However, all hope wasn't lost. The boys did have a well-known secret kept among ourselves. We knew the secret that black patent leather shoes really did reflect up. You see, it was our only hope of stealing a glimpse of girls underwear as they were waiting in line at the drinking fountain, or lining up to go out on the playground for recess, or even marching into church. Since most of the girls wore black shoes, and if the lighting was just right, we were treated to a magnificent view. (Way better than the National Geographics)

There were many a sunny days on the playground that a small crowd of boys gathered around several select girls unwittingly displaying her underwear. Thinking back, I believe that perhaps many of the girls knew of this phenomenon as well and out of the goodness of their hearts offered us cheap thrills to get us through religion class. Perhaps they wanted our lunch and mass money, or both. Welcome to Catholic grade school, 1965.

Thank Christ the Nuns wore flat black (Non shiny) shoes. I would have been scarred for life.

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Catholic Nuns Unveiled

Catholic Nun Vigilantes

Ever wonder what Catholic Nuns look like outside the church walls? Wonder no more, the Grassy Knoll Institute snapped this rare photograph of four Nuns out loose in the wild.

As evidenced, Catholic Nuns are a very dangerous species. Upon them hearing the click of my digital camera, (50 Fucking Feet Away) all four nuns reeled around in unison pointing their hand guns with deadly aim at my head. (Notice the pleasure it caused them to have me in their sites)

I was lucky to escape. My 8 years of attending Catholic grade school in the 1960's helped me survive.

Every child learned the Duck and Serpentine manuever. It was a critical lesson of survival. With an eraser in hand, a nuns aim was deadly.

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Another Reason To Hate Catholic Nuns

Another Reason To Hate Nuns

The Minnesota Vikings, (My team) lost the NFC championship game Sunday to the New Orleans Saints. And these sons-of-bitches nuns are smiling and carrying on after the game like they just got to kiss the Popes ring.

I will exact revenge!!!

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Catholic Nun Mafia

I'm Funny How

Patrick: You're funny!
Sister Tommasina Devito: You mean, let me understand this cause, ya know maybe it's me, but I'm funny how, I mean funny like I'm a clown, I amuse you? I make you laugh, I'm here to amuse you? What do you mean funny, funny how? How am I funny?
Patrick: Just... you know, how you tell the story, what?
Sister Tommasina Devito: No, no, I don't know, you said it. How do I know? You said I'm funny. How am I funny, what is so funny about me? Tell me, tell me what's funny!

The Nun Mafia, a little known Catholic church faction rarely spoken about, was at its peak in the 1960's, (When I attended school) and wielded almost as much power as the Pope (Godfather) himself. The Catholic nun was the absolute authority in the school. (You cross one of them, you cross all of them) A Catholic nun was always the principal (Don) of the school. The rest of them (Made Women) were teachers, tutors, hall monitors, munitions experts, and playground enforcers. More importantly, they controlled our Permanent Record.

The Nun mafia was far-reaching. Their power didn't end at the school door exits but extended into the Catholic school child's home life. A simple edit of our permanent record could cause catastrophic pain to your very soul, your money, and your ass. Perhaps not in that order, but almost always those three. (What is your Permanent Record? Every time a Catholic sinned, it would be recorded in your permanent record like a running tally of all the sins you committed in life. Then, when you died and went to the pearly gates to face Saint Peter, he would have all the ammunition he needed to send you to hell.)

If a child misbehaved, (Whispered in class, took to long in the bathroom, shirt not tucked all the way in, or smiled in a no smile zone) the nun acted immediately. You would be subjected to swift punishment in front of the entire class. Or what we liked to call, The Whack and Yack. The whack and yack consisted of being whacked by the nuns yard stick either across your hands or your ass several times, more intense if the sin was deemed severe. Then the child would receive a public humiliating tirade lecture on why Jesus is not happy with you  and  he is crying for the hideous sin you just committed. That was standard operating procedure for the nuns.

Now that your ass hurt and your soul ached, the third phase, the money phase, would be implemented. It was time to make the child feel remorse for the sin and want to atone for the damages to his soul. Or what we liked to call, (Extortion!) After said beating, the child would not be going outside for recess with the other children, but instead would have to stay behind for a private conference.

These conferences went something like this.
Nun: Patrick, you now know what you did earlier was a sin and that you had to be punished.
Patrick: Yes sister, I know.
Nun: Are you sorry for what you did?
Patrick: Yes sister, I am. (Sort of like, Thank you sir may I have another)
Nun: And how disruptive it was to the class and to the entire school?
Patrick: Yes sister, I know.
Nun: Will you ever commit that sin again?
Patrick: I hope not to sister. (Hold please, this is where they get you. Of course you are going to commit that exact same sin again, if you can call it a sin anyway, but they made you answer)
Nun: Perhaps after you go to confession this Saturday, you can add some extra money to your mass donation.
Patrick: Yes sister, I will. (A bold face lie!)
Nun: And in your student church envelope, maybe you can sacrifice a little more and add some extra money as well. Jesus needs it more than you do. It wasn't enough that our parents gave a weekly church envelope, (Pay off) but the student had one as well. With our names emblazoned on the front.
Patrick: Yes sister, I will try. (Not in a million years you old fuck!)
Nun: OK, recess is almost over. You have just enough time to erase and wash the chalkboard before the next class.
Patrick: Yes sister. (Quietly imagining duct tape over her mouth, her hands tied, and me kicking her into a well so deep that not even Lassie could save her)

Soul, money, and ass. One, two, three. Absolution. That is how the Catholic Nun Mafia rolled in the 1960's.

I wondered where that extra money the other students gave in their envelopes when they were subjected to the whack and yack. (I say other students because I never put an extra red cent in my envelope.) Every beginning school year, we would have to pledge (Payoff) an amount of money to give in our church envelopes. Did the sisters remove (Skim) the excess to further fund their organization? One can never be certain. However, they never seemed to lack or want for any tools or equipment needed.

The Catholic Nun Mafia affected more than just the students. It also affected the Parrish priests. And more importantly, the confessional. Everyone knew the Catholic priests were just as afraid of the nuns as the students were. (The Nuns knew everything that was going on in the school and church. Nothing ever got by them.) To avoid confrontation, and keep their secrets, we had it on good authority that they would inform the nuns of the juiciest sins the students committed so they (The Nuns) would have more leverage and play more psychological mind games. That's why I always disguised my voice in the confessional, so the priest wouldn't recognize me.

The other day I received a small package at my house. In the package was a chalk board eraser. Smeared in blood. With a note attached saying, "You can easily be erased!"

Amen!

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Catholic School Special Talent Day

At my Catholic school in the 1960's, there was what the nuns called "Special talent day." Basically, talent day was a thinly disguised ruse run by the nuns to gather what special skill sets each child possessed outside of the norm. (Apparently if a nuclear war broke out, the nuns wanted to know what students to save to guarantee survival and what students to leave behind)

One morning, Sister Mary Francis announced to the class that the upcoming Friday would be special talent day. On Friday, each student would be asked (Told) to go to the front of the class and reveal what special talent they possessed. My mind wandered to the league of super heroes, and what super power I would like to have. Flying would be ultra cool but invisibility would always win out to my perverted mind. (Walking into the girls locker room without being seen, how cool would that be?)

Anyway, Friday came slowly and child by child was called to the front of the class for their special talent. One nun brown noser student sang. (Let there be peace, a religious tune, go figure)

One student, Kevin, danced an authentic Irish jig. It was hilarious. He was the original Michael Flatley, Riverdance king.

One girl, brought in drawings and paintings she drew. I have to admit, they were pretty good for a 3rd grader.

A couple of students performed gymnastics, a few flips, jumps and leaps. I was secretly hoping for them to fall or crash into the nun. None of them did. (Damn!)

Some played musical instruments. The drums, guitar, clarinet, and one played the flute-o-phone. It was going to be difficult to follow this diverse group of talent.

My name was called next. I was just your normal everyday Joe. I had no special talents. God knows I couldn't sing, dance, or play an instrument. At that moment I wish I had given this assignment a little more thought before now. Then it dawned on me. I remembered back in first grade, when we all learned how to print with big boy and big girl pencils. I would use that lesson to my advantage. I was going to dazzle the students and impress the hell out of the nuns.

I confidently walked to the black board, took a piece of chalk in my right hand and asked a student to say aloud any sentence that came to their mind. I immediately wrote it down on the black board. Now here is the special talent. I then switched the chalk to my left hand and wrote the same sentence underneath the one I wrote with my right hand. The writing looked identical.

Time for a little back story. In the 1960's, at Catholic grade school, all students were considered right handed. From day one in first grade, the nuns instructed us in right handed printing only. I was left handed and was having problems with my writing. I wasn't really ambidextrous, but no one needed to know that. See this link for the back story. All Catholics Are Right Handed

Gasps were heard from the kids seated in class. It was a show stopper folks. No one including the nuns ever saw someone that could write left and right handed. Sister Mary Francis stopped and asked me where I learned how to do that trick, to write left handed. I told her the trick was to learn to write right handed and that she was looking at a real life left handed Catholic.

Special Talent day was over for me that day as I was sent to wait in the principal's office.

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Alter Boys Secret Society - Serving Mass

Altar Boys Secret Society

"I was in. A made man. An Altar boy. A license to skip school virtually almost every day. Life was good. I couldn’t wait for Friday." (From Part One of the Original Altar Boys Secret Society)

Friday morning, 8:01 am, the vestibule, my first meeting as an official Altar Boy. I was very smug as I handed Sister Mary Hateme my excuse slip to ditch class in lieu of a crash course in Altar Boyship. There were 10 new recruits, including myself. We were all seated in folding steel chairs waiting for Father Iatti to arrive. A door opened and slammed and in walked Father Iatti.

Before I go on, I have to describe Father Iatti seen through the eyes of a fifth grader in the 1960's. He was of Italian descent. Dark complexion. Slicked back widows peak jet black hair. Dressed completely in black. All Catholic priests are dressed in black. (Better to blend into the shadows on street corners at night. Or so I've heard) And he had a black velvet cape with a red inseam. Yes, there before me stood Dracula incarnate.

Father Iatti had a booming voice, it could be heard from miles around. His confessional booth was avoided like the plague for fear of having your penance announced to the entire church congregation.

Father Iatti began our session informing us that what we were about to embark on was a sacred rite, and that we would become closer to God serving as altar boys. (I was hoping this is where the secret handshake came in) I would have to wait for that. He told us to follow him into the church so we could understand or duties.

What are an altar boy's duties? From the congregation pews, it looked pretty easy. Walk in with a cross, have a seat, bring some stuff to the altar, hold a sword under the neck of the people going to communion, bring more stuff, walk out with the cross. End of mass. This would be easy.

Father Iatti had a differing opinion. To him, everything had to be exactly perfect. One slip up from us, and the entire mass miracle of the bread, water and wine changing into the body and blood of Christ would all be for naught. No pressure here.

For the rest of the day, we learned the duties of a rookie altar boy. Yes, there were several types of altar boys. First were the rookie altar boys, who only served regular masses. Second, there were veteran altar boys, who not only served regular masses, but also weddings and funerals. And third, the kiss ass altar boy. These ass clowns were the priests pets. They claimed they wanted to be priests when they grew up. (Little did these fella's know what was in store for them in the privacy of the sacristy) They got to pick and choose what mass they would serve. They would also receive the honor of serving holy holiday's and midnight mass and the like.

We stayed in the church the entire day learning the ropes of the altar boy and I missed every class that day. (Take that you nun bitches) Sweet! I was an altar boy one day and already getting perks. Until the hammer fell. Father Iatti felt that we needed more instruction and ordered us to be back at the church at 8am sharp Saturday morning to continue. WTF! Saturday morning, my day off from school, and I had to go back to church. What the hell did I get myself into. My father merely chuckled when I told him about Saturday.

Well, after three grueling weeks of training and two damn Saturdays, I was well trained. I found out what duties each altar boy performed and I was well versed in each aspect. For all you non Catholic folks, (You don't know how lucky you are) the altar boy had specific duties before, during, and after a mass. Usually more than one altar boy served each mass.

Typically, three altar boys served each mass. There was the cross man, who carried the cross in the front of the procession at the beginning and end of the mass. He would plant the cross center altar and retreat behind the altar. He would only resurface at the end of the mass, grab the cross, and lead the procession out.

The other two altar boys were the servers that catered to the priests every whim while at the altar. They followed the cross man in the procession and then took up residence on the right side of the altar. At certain times, the altar boy would have to ring a bell hidden in between the stools. I still don't know why we had to ring the bell, but we did. Three times! Sometimes the ball in the bell would roll around the casing and not ring getting the ire up of the priest on duty.

While the cross guy had no other duties, the servers were an intricate part of the mass. Not only did we ring bells, we also assisted the priest with the presentation of the gifts from the offertory, the bread, (The round white host) the chalice, and the water and wine. At the miracle part of the mass, (When the priest changed the water into wine and the bread into the body of Christ) we sprang into action.

The altar boys would gather the water and wine jars and bring them to the priest. He would pour the all the wine into the chalice and then just a drop of water in as well. He would then give the jars back to us. We would go back to our table and and bring back the water and a white towel. The priest would hold out his hands and one altar boy would pour some water over them. The priest would then wash his hands and take the towel from the other altar boy and dry his hands. He would fold the towel and give itm back to us.

The next duty was the fun part. For communion, we would grab our "Patens" (A 3 foot long gold rod with a gold flat plate attached) and follow the priest down to the railing where all the parishioners were lining up to receive communion. When there was a crowded mass, another priest would appear and assist in giving out communion. The priest would work his way down the railing handing out communion. The altar boys job was to place the paten under the chin of each parishioner to catch and particles of the host that may have fallen.

After communion, the priest would wipe off the patens, and motion to the altar boys to bring more water and a towel. He would then pour some water into the chalice, drink the contents, and clean it out with the towel. He would then beckon for the altar boys again to take the chalice and towel back to our table.

A minute later and the cross guy would appear and the altar boys would walk off the altar with the priest joining them and the mass was over.

I was ready to serve my first mass. The next week, the list of masses were posted and who would be the servers. I scanned for my name and there I was, Sunday mass, 11:30 am. This was a prime time mass, the most attended.

My parents dropped me off at 11am Sunday morning so I could prepare. I walked into the side doors of the sacristy and went to put on my cassock. (A red and white robe worn over your clothes) I then went and filled up the gold bowls with unblessed hosts, filled the wine and water bottles, then went out and dressed the altar. I was wondering where the other altar boys were as it was almost showtime.

Come to think of it, where the hell was Father Iatti? 11:25 gave me my answer. Father Iatti whisked into the sacristy, jumped into his black cassock and said let's go. But wait, where were the other two altar boys. Father Iatti said that it was only me and him today. He wanted to see how rookies acted under pressure.

Damn!

Damn Damn!

Well here we go. I grabbed the cross and made my way to the back of the church. Cue the organ music and away we went. Up the aisle we went with Father Iatti singing behind me. Did I mention that he was a loud talker. His singing was twice as loud. And lousy. But who was going to tell him that.

We reached the front of the church and I went to stick the cross in the holder on the front of the altar. An instant later, terror set in. I couldn't get the cross stem into the holder. CLANG CLANG CLANG. I got it in there folks, it was leaning toward the left, but it was in there.

I assumed my position at the table on the right side of Father Iatti. Thank God I got my screw up over with. WRONG! There would be more. I got two out of three bell ringers correct, one did the dreaded spin around the housing. Father Iatti gave me a Dracula stare letting me know he was pissed and that I couldn't afford to make any more mistakes. (All that in a single one second stare)

Now it was time for the magic. I brought up the water and wine. So far so good. I returned for the towel and water. I forgot to put out a towel before mass. DAMN DAMN! I improvised and took the table cloth from my small server table and took it to the altar along with the water. Father Iatti spied the so-called towel and almost exploded. He took it though but concealed it behind his altar.

I thought Jesus himself would begin the Rapture early and start judgment day with me. But there were no lights, fog, thunder, just organ music signaling communion time. The nightmare was almost over. At this time, I was extremely nervous, wondering what was worse, the wrath of God or Iatti.

I fetched the paten and began the communion ritual. Please Lord, don't let me screw up anymore. hey, I was in a church, God was tuned in. He would hear my plea. God must have been on a different channel. Just as I was about to escape communion, I accidentally jabbed a guy in the neck with the paten. Not hard, just a little tap really, but we had an actor on our hands. He fell to the flow clutching his throat like I had cut him with a machete. However, the paten did it's job, I caught the host that he spit out.

A parish member came up to help the macheted man while Father Iatti took the host and placed it back into the chalice. After a minute of drama, the man took the host from Father Iatti and took his seat. We finished the rest of communion and the mass was ended and I was allowed to grab the cross and go in peace.

As soon as I stepped into the sacristy, Father Iatti was in my grill. His face was like a cartoon, his mouth could fit a bowling ball in it. He was yelling faster than I ever heard before. Suddenly Yosemite Sam snapped into my brain. I saw Iatti yelling but heard Yosemite Sam. "GREAT HORNY TOADS!" I was on the verge of laughing which would have been sudden death. Not the kind in football when a tie in a game occurs, but the real deal, sudden death.

The Lord heard my prayer as I was able to avoid cracking a smile or laughing and took Father Iatti's five minute tirade. He finished with a little cherub telling me that this incident was going on my permanent record. (Big deal! My permanent record entries weighed forty already) I told (Lied) Father Iatti I would try harder next mass. He ended the tirade with, "We shall see Patrick. We shall see!"

I checked the schedule for next week's masses and damn, I was penciled in for the God Damn 7am Saturday service. Either Father Iatti was punishing me with such an early mass, or limiting calatteral damage. Either way, I knew my time as an altar boy would be short.

Next Saturday was rapidly approaching and something told me the tide was ready to turn. We shall see Iatti. We shall see!

PS: And there is no secret handshake.

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Anatomy Of A Catholic Mass

I have been asked by many non-Catholics just what goes on during a Sunday mass. Being a former Altar Boy, I think I can amply field this question.

To the naked eye and non believers, it appears that Sunday mass is nothing more than a very upscale exercise program. You see a lot of standing, sitting, standing, sitting, kneeling, singing, standing, sitting, and walking. (A regular aerobic exercise) (They should charge for the workout. Get your heart and soul fit with the Lord)

But to the trained observer (Me) and Catholic parishioners, there really is a method to the madness. As always, to understand, we must start at the beginning.

Catholic mass can be broken down into 5 segments.
1) Intro
2) Damnation
3) Fire and Brimstone
4) Feast
5) Outro

The Intro, or introduction of the mass, is a very important part. This part determines the length of the mass by what priest is running the show. A Parrish usually has 2-3 priests in the collective and each one has their own style and pace to say mass. Depending on your luck of the draw, you could be in for a 20 minute, 45 minute, or 75 minute or more service. (No matter the length, at this point everyone is standing.)

How the priest begins mass tells you everything you need to know how long the mass will be. The long version introduction begins with the priest, altar boys, deacon, and a member of the congregation carrying the good book. They all gather at the back of the church and make a grand entrance with organs blazing. It's sort of like a parade, just one you don't want to go to.

The cross bearer altar boy leads the way, followed closely by the good book carrier, then a short distance behind are the altar boy servers, then the deacon, usually in a beard and robe, and lastly, the priest slowly walking up the center church aisle taking his place on the altar facing the congregation as we belt out one of the classics.

The medium version is less drawn out. There is no book hauler, no deacon, no cross bearer, just two altar boys and the priest. The medium mass has the procession coming from the side entrance, a much shorter distance, hence, a much shorter hymn. The altar boys walk in front of the priest and all three walk immediately up to the altar.

The short version is quicker yet. There is no procession and no hymn. Just a short blast from the organ and as if by magic, the priest and altar boys seem to appear on the altar and the mass begins straight away. (Usually, there is an entrance behind the altar that the priest and altar boys come out from. No trap doors or smoke screens like magicians use)

Each priest would then stay in long, medium, or short mode for the rest of the mass meaning each segment would either be long and drawn out or fly like shit through a goose.

It was obvious the priest saying the short mass was the most popular and best attended services. Parishioners knew that speedy Father Flanigan always did the 10 am service and the church would be packed. Twenty minutes to save your soul on a Sunday morning was far better than the 75 minutes of hell at the 11:30 service. Us Catholics ain't no dummies. We're damned to hell, but ain't no dummies.

However, the church countered with a revised schedule and rotated the priests for different mass times not letting the congregation know in advance who would be saying what mass. (Bastards!)

The intro is over. We now move forward to the second segment of a Catholic mass, The Damnation. (Consisting of standing then sitting several times with a few Amens tossed in.)

The Damnation covers several rituals of the mass. The first being the evil look of the priest upon late comers attempting to sneak into the back of the church after mass had started. Usually these late comers would try to quickly blend in. Some would take the first available pew and stare straight ahead. Some would walk to the back of the church in the dimly lit part and stand. And some would walk in and immediately stop at random, and stay in that exact spot for the duration. Much like a deer being caught in the headlights of a pickup truck full of rednecks hunting for Thanksgiving Day dinner.

The second part of the damnation comes during the prayer and hymn sessions. (During this part, there are some rapid standing and sitting protocols.) You must learn to follow along. Otherwise, you are hopelessly lost. (Like Born Again Christians)

The priest would scan the congregation searching for parishioners not participating. When he spotted one not singing or saying the prayer loud enough, he would zero in on him/her, maintain eye contact until the entire congregation was looking at this poor soul, and then slowly but deliberately, shake his head back and forth in disgust. The unlucky soul would then be the talk of the morning during coffee and dough nuts after mass. You could bet he or she would be singing loud and proud next week damn it.

After Damnation, we move into the third segment, Fire And Brimstone. (Also known as the Gospel reading and sermon) Each Sunday, the priest would take to his pulpit and read aloud from the Gospel. He would pick a passage meant to inspire the congregation to be generous, forgiving, and to love God. (But mostly to be generous, especially during the collection plate pass around) (This segment involved only sitting for fear the priests words would make people pass out in fright and fall down.)

After the Gospel reading, the priest would offer his sermon to us all. (I would describe us as lambs being led to slaughter) The sermon was supposed to touch on the Gospel passage and how we in modern times, abide or deny the teachings of Christ.

Instead, we usually got the priest yelling at the congregation about the pitiful collection from last weeks masses. He would stress that the church needs even more money from us to continue doing God's work. (Didn't Jesus give away all his possessions) He would say those of us not giving at least 10% of our income should be ashamed to be Catholic and we better make it up in this week's collection lest the Lord look poorly upon us. (Apparently, the priest had a hot tip for the football game later that day)

The priest would then shift gears and drop it down into overdrive. His eyes would turn a golden brown and fire would come out of his mouth. (No, not really! But it sounded like it) At this point, the priest would rant and rave about how we, the congregation, need to help the church with more than just money donations. He would preach that there was plenty of work to be done around the school and church. He needed parents to volunteer for coaching, CCD class, hot lunch program, maintenance and repair of the church, rectory, and school. And the priests car.

All this time his hands would be very mobile waving them up and down and back and forth. Reminded me of a pizza maker, the way he would throw the dough in the air and spin it around. (If this priest thing didn't work out, Cornersburg Pizza shop could certainly use him)

It was now time for the Feast, segment 4, also known as communion time. (This segment involves standing, walking, kneeling, sitting, more standing, kneeling, and finally sitting.)

But first, we had to pay for the feast. The ushers would appear carrying felt covered baskets with very long handles and place it right under your nose and wait for you to open your wallet or purse and dump your cash into the basket. The ushers were very skilled at handling the baskets as never a dollar bill hit the floor. Once the baskets were full, the feast would begin.

Next, the priest and altar boys would huddle together with some secret handshakes and whispered incantations on the altar as gifts were exchanged and promises made. (I will explain all in a future update, I promise) A few bells rings signified that the feast was ready to be served. The ushers quickly came to the front of the church to prevent a stampede to the altar. (The food must really be good.) As the congregation filed up to the altar in perfect straight lines, hands folded, and without talking, it dawned on me why the Catholic nuns made us school kids practice forming lines every day. For the feast!

Finally, the Outro is upon us. (This segment involves sitting, then standing, and finally, walking or running out of the church to your car.)

The Outro is signaled by the lurkers in the back of the church edging towards the exit doors. Beating the traffic is a big part of Catholic mass. With only one road leaving the church, traffic backs up quickly. The priest asks the congregation to please rise, (Please, so now he's fucking polite, where was the politeness when he told us we were all going to hell for not putting enough money in the collection basket.) (I must confess, once I put an empty envelope in the collection basket and signed someone else's name to it. I am sure that family got the full frontal fire and brimstone from the happy betting priest)

Once the congregation were standing, the priest would say a quick prayer, make the sign of the cross and announce, "The mass is ended, you may go in peace." By the time the word peace was uttered, more than half the people were already battling each other in the parking lot.

There you have it. A typical Catholic mass explained. I know after you read this, you will all want to convert to Catholicism. Who would want to miss out on this action.

BTW, this was the 11:30 am mass. Next time, maybe you will get lucky and get the short version.

Short Version: Stand, Amen, sit, stand, Amen, sit, sit, stand, Amen, kneel, stand, form a line, walk, knell, sit, stand, leave. Salvation!

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My First Holy Communion

I had just endured and survived my first holy Confession on Saturday: (Walk in single line into church on Saturday, sit in pews, wait for red light to go out, watch kid with freshly cleansed soul walk out, walk in confessional box, sit down, wait for priest, tell your sins, lie about a few of them, wait for absolution, get lecture, get absolution, finally, get penance, leave confessional, kneel in pews, say penance, leave church.) leaving me with a clean slate on my soul but not on My Permanent Record. Dare I say I was ready for the next phase of my catholic faith, my first holy communion.

Damn, (Say two Our Fathers and two Hail Mary's) I thought I was ready, but I found out there was actually a class for holy communion. And I had to study and there would be tests. Jesus Christ! (Say another 5 Our fathers and Five Hail Mary's for taking the Lord's name in vain) Seriously, how hard could it be. I have been dragged to church for several years and I did watch what the adults did when it was time for holy communion.

Stand up when it was your row's turn, fold your hands in prayer, get in line, walk up to the priest at the altar, open your mouth, stick your tongue out at the priest, (That was the great part) exchange some secret words, take the host on your tongue, close your mouth, say Amen, turn and walk back in line to your pew, kneel, and say a prayer. I had this down, I didn't need to take any stinking tests or read any books on first communion. I was ready dammit. (Close profanity word, just in case, say three Our Fathers and a sincere Act of Contrition)

Alas, the Nuns had other plans for us. For weeks, we practiced the above ritual. Getting in line, (Like we never had to get in line at school before, lines were our goddamn lives, (Yes, more Hail Mary's) we knew how to get in a line) walking up to the altar, simulating taking the host, and returning to our pews. We practiced day in and day out, took test after written test until we were ready. We even learned new church songs for this festive occasion. Let There Be Peace On Earth is the only song I can remember. Even back then, in second grade, the Nuns told me to sing the hymns very quietly so as to not take the rest of the class out of tune. (Fucking bitch nuns!) (Ten Hail Mary's, Ten Our Fathers)

That Sunday morning, I prepared for church, and being that it was my first communion, I wasn't allowed to eat anything an hour before church. Damn, (Two Hail Mary's, Two Our Fathers) I was screwed. I didn't have time to get dressed and eat breakfast. I went hungry. Instead of eating, I had to put on my new shoes, new dark blue navy pants, white shirt, and clip on blur navy tie. Even for church, I had to wear a goddamn uniform. (Just keep saying the Rosary for penance)

When we arrived at church, the nuns herded all the first communion kids into the back hall of the church. We were ready to demonstrate that after two months of practice, we could walk down the aisle in a single file line. (Very impressive. But you are not a Jedi Knight yet!)

A few minutes before the show got on the road, the nuns opened a small canister that contained the thin white wafer hosts. The nuns said these were un-blessed and were to be used as practice hosts. WTF! (A solid Act of Contrition please) Apparently, as the story went from the nuns, several years back, a first holy communion kid almost choked to death when he received his host from the priest because it stuck to the roof of his mouth and he panicked causing him to spit the body of Christ out of his mouth. Luckily, the altar boy caught the host with his paten (Plate) before the blessed host hit the ground.

Anyway, the nuns said we were to practice with these ones before we went live. Of course mine got caught on the roof of my mouth. I didn't spit it out though. I used my tongue to slowly move it and un-stick it from the roof of my mouth. (All you Catholics know exactly what I mean.)

A minute later, the main event was on. All of us slowly began our march up the church aisle hands folded in (Steeple prayer mode) and promptly took our place at the front of the church.

Thirty minutes later, it was our time. Ready to accept the body and blood of Christ for the first time. As I approached the altar and kneeled I made sure I didn't stumble or fall off the kneeler as I stayed perfectly still. The priest made his way down the altar like an assembly line worker. I could hear him saying over and over again, "The body of Christ," as if he were asking us a question not making a statement.

About two kids away, I thought about the body and blood of Christ and a moment of terror filled my mind. I forgot all about the "Blood" part. The bible story about Jesus changing water into wine popped into my head and I wondered if the practice water based host I had earlier would taste the same as the blood version. I was about to find out.

My turn was here. The priest approached me, whispered, "The body of Christ" and I correctly answered "Amen," opened my mouth, stuck out my tongue and received the host. I got up, returned to my pew, kneeled and said said my communion prayer.

I was now a full fledged Catholic. A member of the gang. I was wondering if I got to vote now on church hymns and Gospel passages. (I wasn't) Instead, I was treated to a first communion breakfast and afterward, I had a small family party, sort of like my birthday.

The next week, when communion time came, I strolled up with the rest of the adults, kneeled down and waited for the priest to come my way. Being the old pro I performed the ritual without a glitch. However, I was stuck at the kneeler. My right knee had slipped between the dividers and I was stuck. Damn! (Three Hail Mary's and three Our Fathers)

Using the railing I pushed with all my might and in doing so lost my balance and although I didn't hit the ground I looked like I was drunk doing the humpty dance trying to regain my balance. I got several snickers from the congregation and a death stare from my mother. Several nuns on the side also gave me the evil eye. Even out of school I was getting in trouble with the god damn nuns. (Five Hail Marys)

Next Sunday would be better. I swear!

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On The Run From Nuns

Nuns Are Following Me

Catholic Nuns In Gatlinburg

I think my identity has been found out by the Catholic Nun order. Spying several nuns in Gatlinburg, Tennessee, I boarded the Ski Lift on the Parkway to the top of the Smoky Mountains to avoid detection.

Assuming I was safe I glanced back to see if I was followed....

Out of reflex, I immediately said 10 Hail Marys and 10 Our Fathers and one really good Act Of Contrition.

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First Confession

I have been asked by many non-Catholic friends just what goes on inside the wooden stalls (Confessionals) in the back of the church. Breaking Vatican II protocol rules and regulations, (Section 3:13, Verse 8, line 5 that clearly state all Catholics must never reveal the ritual of one on one confession to non believers) I am here to expose the exact secret ritual of confession and what a Catholic child went through in those torture chambers (Confessionals) in the 1960's.

On the first day of second grade, 1966, the Nuns gleefully announced that this year would be an exciting year for all us Catholic school kids for we were all going to be introduced to the holy sacraments of confession and holy communion. of course, there would be plenty of studying, quizzes, tests, and eraser zingers (Nuns zipping hidden erasers at children who were talking or being bad) before we would realize these goals.

Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months as our First Confession lessons dragged on. We learned about the different levels of sin, (Venial and Mortal) and how sin affected our souls and the ability to enter the kingdom of heaven when we died. However, these lessons were redundant for all Catholics, for since birth, we are taught in tedious repetition on all aspects of the Catholic faith. We know what sins we can safely commit to keep us out of Hell. We've all been around the block.

After months of intense study, I was ready for my first confession.
But certainly not my last...

The week before our first confession, we had several practices, (Simulations) to make sure we all had our opening line, prayer, and kneeling technique down. I was suspicious of this for the nuns played the part of the priest and there was no way in hell I was ever going to tell the nuns my sins. (Hell, they have been keeping a permanent record of all my sins since birth anyway, why give them any more ammo to use against me?)

It was now Saturday morning which I learned was confession day which really sucked for now I had to go to church two days out of the week. I wasn't liking that at all. I asked my older brother George for any tips or advice before I stepped into the confessional box "Live" for the first time. George told me to disguise my voice when I told him my sins so the priest wouldn't recognize it the next in class. He also said never to give the priest your name. If he asked, give him someone else's name.

I asked if that was a sin, lying to the priest while in the confessional wondering if perhaps the space time continuum vortex would somehow converse at my exact coordinates but i was put at ease when George said the priest would rarely ask a kids name. Only if you did something really bad like murder, rob a bank, or pull a nuns habit off.

We arrived at church and all the second graders filed into the back of the church, (Quietly of course) and took our assigned seats in the pews waiting our turn to confess our sins. I noticed we were sitting alphabetically. Damn, the nuns had set us all up. All the priest would have to do to find the identity of a particular bad kid is ask the nuns who was 8th in line and the nuns cold match it up with their seating chart.

The priests on call for the day walked into the back of the church, told us all good morning, said a little prayer, and with bible in hand proceeded to their side of the confessional. The priests opened the confessional doors and a little white light turned on signaling to all us sinners that he was ready. I noticed that the priest was in the middle and could take two sinners at a time, one on each side. The 1960's was certainly showing signs of progress.

A moment later, a nod from the nuns signaled the first sinner, (Second grader) to enter. Like lambs to a slaughter, the girl slowly moved toward the confessional, slowly opened it, walked in and closed the door behind her. A few seconds later, a little red light appeared on the confessional door. That signaled that the sinner had activated the kneeler and was occupied.

The sinner was only in there for a few minutes, and I timed her by repeating the Act of Contrition (A prayer to be said after the priest heard your sins) in my head over and over. Saying it slowly, the average time was 5 AOC's (Acts Of Contritions) per kid. Some kids took longer, and we all knew that meant they had plenty of sins to confess. And so did the anxious parents watching their children.

At last, it was my turn. Remembering my lessons drilled into me for 8 months I was confident as I walked toward the confessional. I opened the door and sat down activating the red light. (It was dark in the confessional as the only light source was from the screen where the priest talked to you from) A minute or two passed by as the priest was finishing up with the other sinner on the left and then I heard the screen slide open and I was up.

Every Catholic knows what comes next, the BMF prayer. (Bless Me Father prayer) It is the prayer the sinner begins every confession with. For you non-Catholics, here is the prayer. Bless me father for I have sinned, this is my first confession. (The next time you went to confession, you would simply change up this line to, Bless me Father for I have sinned, it has been one week since my last confession)

At this time, you were required to confess your sins. I remembered to speak in a whisper so as not to announce to those outside my sins. However, I forgot to disguise my voice as my brother George told me to. For my sins, I started with, I lied to my parents. I lied to my brothers and sisters. I was mean to people. I skipped church. I threw some dinner food away. i swore. I used the Lord's name in vain. I looked at smut. (Playboy Magazines) Then I fell silent as I awaited for the priest to deliver my penance.

Being it my first confession, I believe the priest went easy on me. He told me that I should reflect on my sins and avoid them by praying more and helping out more at the church. He then told me to say 3 Our Fathers and 3 Hail Mary's for penance. He finished with Go in peace.

It was time for my very first "Live" Act Of Contrition. The prayer we practiced all year just for this day.

Act Of Contrition (1966 Version)
O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee.
And I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven,
and the pains of hell;
But most of all because they offend Thee, my God,
Who are all good and deserving of all my love.
I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace,
to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life.
Amen.

I had done it. Survived my first confession. The walls of the church did not crack as my parents had told me they would. Nor did the priest gasp with hearing hearing me confess such hideous sins. I walked out of the confessional all smug, with a clean slate, no sins on my soul. If I were to die that exact instant, I would go straight to Heaven. I admit, it was a good feeling. However, a feeling that wouldn't last long. I walked back to my assigned seat, kneeled, and said my penance and then sat down.

The entire process took about two hours. After the last child finished his penance, the nuns gave us the signal to stand, and we filed out single file and joined up with our parents.

In the car ride home, I had questions as my paranoia set in. What if I forgot to confess a sin or not explain my sins correctly to the priest? Would I still go to hell because of a technicality? Or would my permanent record simply add this omission as another sin, the sin of lying, and to a priest to boot? The good feeling I had leaving the confessional had now turned sour as I hoped that Dad wouldn't crash the car on the way home and kill me and with a sin on my soul. Damn, I was damned. And damn, I just sinned by thinking damn. I started seeing a pattern here.

Once in confession, after a pretty good week, I told the priest that
I had been pretty good and didn't have any sins to confess. The priest said, Vanity was my sin for believing I was good. My penance was to say 10 Our Fathers and 1o Hail Marys and of course a sincere Act Of Contrition.

After that, I felt I had to make some sins up, to insure the priest didn't think I was to vain. But of course, that was the sin of lying, in a confessional no less, and had no way of breaking this vicious cycle because we had to go to confession every Saturday whether we needed to or not.

Hence, since we had to go to confession on Saturday, all us smart Catholic kids would do our sinning on Friday so we would only carry the sins for one day. It was the risk we dared to take.

And now that the sacrament of confession was completed, First Holy Communion was next. I was ready!

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Nun Punishment

Gemma Massey - Sexy Catholic Nun Punishment

Sister Gemma Massey, disciplining a careless student caught passing notes in second period religion class. The penalty, of course was immense torture followed by death by belt hanging.Perhaps nun punishment wasn't quite so harsh as depicted above, but to be fair, the nuns didn't look anything like the sexy Gemma Massey, the international model portraying the maniacal Catholic nun at the Chicago Halloween trade show.

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Catholic School Uniforms

Sexy Catholic School Girl Uniform

School uniforms in the 1960’s never looked like this. And what a shame for more kids would have signed up for Catholic grade school. At least more boys would have.
In the 1960’s and early 70’s, school uniforms were a dress code requirement that had to be worn by both the girls and the boys. Come to think of it, the nuns and priests also had a dress code. Perhaps these unhappy souls forced us to wear a uniform since they had too.

Anyway, for the boys, the uniform consisted of the following.

Dress shoes. No tennis shoes allowed unless it was recess time. The shoes could be tied or the very popular ‘Penny Loafer” type. (You bought the loafers and wedged a penny into the slot at the top of the shoes) (You know, they also came from Penny's department store as well.) (Some rich kids would put dimes in the slots, but they were really rich)

Dress pants. No blue jeans or shorts allowed. The pants had to be either dark blue or black. No color variations permitted. (Made it easier to blend in when you did something wrong however)

White button down shirt. The only option permitted was short sleeve or long sleeve.

Sweaters were optional and had to coordinate with the uniform. Hence, a blue or a black sweater only. And you had to bring a note from home that you were wearing a sweater that day. (There were times a child received detention for wearing a sweater without a written signed note from home.)

Tie. A tie completed the ensemble. Most of the ties worn were the fake variety. (Clip on ties) Only the rich kids wore real ties. The big fad was the scarf tie, (A scarf with a gold ring inserted at both ends to secure it. Sort of made the boys look like catholic cowboys. Whatever the hell that looks like) (Come to think of it, these scarf ties with the gold rings could have been the prototype for the very first “Prince Albert.” Get it, dick head!)

There was also a ritual that went on during recess concerning the ties. For some reason, as soon as we got outside, we went for the throats of our fellow students ripping their ties off and throwing them hoping that the wind would somehow catch them and sail away. The kid would immediately scramble for his tie to secure it back in place. (God forbid a nun would see you out of uniform) No one was safe. Not even the rich kids with real ties. In fact, they paid a heavier price than the rest of us. When their ties were yanked from their neck, their heads came with them.

For the girls, the uniform consisted of the following.
Black shoes. Most were black patent leather. And every Catholic school boy from the 60’s knew that black patent leather shoes reflected up. (I won’t explain, either you know, or you don’t know)

White socks or stockings. Only the rich girls were stockings.
A dark blue or black plead skirt and suspenders. (Yes, these uniforms were uber sexy, left everything to the imagination) The skirt had to be touching below the knee for it to be within legal parameters. The Nuns would check the “Slutty” (Usually the rich girls) girls each day to make sure they were in compliance. If not, they had to wear the nun cape, (The nuns wrap, which was huge and wrapped around any kid like a blanket) until a parent or older sister or brother could bring the proper uniform for them to change in to.

A white button blouse. Again, the only option was long sleeve or short sleeve.

Sweater. See above. Same rules applied for the girls on sweaters.

There we were, all dressed exactly like each other, with folded hands on our desks ready to learn about the wonders of the Catholic faith. Rich and poor kids alike. As if somehow this was important to Jesus, or to our faith. A man who wore a robe and sandals with a beard and long hair.

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What Lies Beneath A Nuns Robe

Father O'Malleys Prayers Have Been Answered

What really lies beneath a nuns black robe.And you thought I was crazy for pulling the habit off my first grade teacher, sister Ann Teresa.

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Catholic Nuns Plotting My Eternal Damnation

His Permanent Record Is Almost Full

Catholic nuns smirking and gloating over my permanent record. Damn bitches were plotting my demise and eternal damnation to hell.

The Grassy Knoll Institute can now confirm that Catholic nuns in the 1960's were cooking the books making Catholic kids appear more sinful than they really were. The nuns, A/K/A crafty demons from hell, realized that they would be out of business and obsolete if the children were well behaved and well mannered. Perhaps being reassigned to more private church activities such as decorating the church for Easter and Christmas seasons and cooking and serving the spaghetti dinners. Certainly a notch down from the power they wielded teaching the grade school children.

But the nuns had an ace in the hole. The Permanent Record. The permanent record was the ammunition and control for the nuns. By simply doctoring the books, adding a mortal sin and few venial sins to each child's record, all Catholics took a giant step towards damnation. Nobody questioned the Nun Mafia. If a nun called the parents of a child informing them that said child was behaving badly, there was no discussion between parents and child, it commenced right to the beatings. This was the type of power that nuns of the 1960's had.

This is one of the main reasons that I vowed to bring the nun mafia to their knee's. (A place they've never been before) One child's quest, against a formidable foe, a modern day David and Goliath. My battle lasted eight long years and some say the nuns won, but some notice that today, nuns are almost extinct and will soon be on the endangered species list. I leave that evidence as my testament that I had won the battle.

Take that bitches.

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The Catholic Spelling Bee

The Setting: A typical Catholic grade school spelling bee tournament.
40 Children lined up against the lockers shoulder to shoulder in firing squad fashion. (With these nuns, you never wanted to give them that opportunity)
One nun sat at her desk holding a list of words while another nun patrolled the firing squad line making sure no student talked or attempted to cheat.
The nun at the desk would call out the next student in line: "David, spell the word 'Television'."
David speaks: "Television, T-E-L-E-V-I-S-I-O-N, television."
Nun at desk: "Correct David. Patrick, you are next. Spell the word "Antidisestablishmentarianism."
And that is how many spelling bee's I participated in went.

Except one. Every year, one student, a girl, named Maryellen, (A well known nun ass kisser) won the spelling Bee each year. The "Bee" was simply a formality as most students didn't even want to be in the police line up, (Bee line up) and it appeared that Maryellen got all the easy words to spell. If she would had graciously accepted the certificate without gloating, I wouldn't be writing this update. But she needed to be stopped.

Maryellen was rumored to prep for the spelling bee all year long and she would be hard to beat. I would need to be at the top of my game. I decided to actually study and rise to the occasion. I would defeat Maryellen and make her mad as hell. (Yea, that was my plan)

Next year's spelling bee came around and instead of getting purposely eliminated in round one, I actually tried for once. I got past round one, then round two, and finally it was just Maryellen and me. After several more tense rounds for Maryellen, she missed and went down. (Hey dirty minds, this was a Catholic school here) I was now the champion. I looked over at Maryellen and gave her a big "YEA!!" My mission was complete, and I proudly took my seat.

The next day sister Charlotte told me since I won the class spelling bee, I would be competing against the other class champions. And that winner would represent the school and compete in the district championship, and then to the state spelling bee. This sounded like a whole lot of work to me. All I wanted to do was smite Maryellen, (Which I did) and what do I get? I get nuns looking out for me, making sure I'm feeling OK and acting like they were now my personal body guards. I was in bizarro world.

I told sister Charlotte I didn't want to compete anymore. I just wanted to win my class. I told her to let Maryellen go instead. DENIED!!! She wouldn't have it.

After a week of being denied recess and instead having the nuns tutor me in spelling, I was ready for the school spelling bee. All 8 grades worth.....

After losing a week of recess, and knowing if I won this round, I would be practicing more and more with the nuns, I took action..... to save my soul and my sanity.

The day of the school Bee had come. All eight of us lined up in the church, from grade one through eight. We had a great turnout as the entire school was present to watch and listen to us spell words. (In reality, the students had no choice, we were more like inmates than students) When it was my turn, the nun gave me my word. I simply said I didn't know and then proceeded to sit down. I had taken about three steps when the nun stopped me.

She said for me to take a guess at the spelling of the word. I said no, I didn't know. The nun got angry and told me that I wasn't trying. I nodded and confirmed that she was correct for once. I wasn't trying, nor did I want to try. I had explained this to her a week earlier but sister Charlotte had selective hearing. So there we were....

The nun in charge gave me a disgusted glare, took a deep breath, and with a stern voice, commanded me to get back in line and spell the word given. So I simply said, "Apostle, (Which was the word, it was a Catholic school mind you) L-U-K-E, Apostle." The audience started laughing which infuriated the nuns.

The nun, following procedure to the letter, told me it was incorrect and then told me to sit down. I left the firing squad, err, police line up, err, spelling bee line and found a seat in the audience to cheers and clapping. No standing ovation as the nuns warned all of us that no one was to stand except for the eight kids in the contest. A dagger flying stare by the nuns silenced the crowd immediately.

Sometimes, the best laid plans for smiting goes terribly wrong. But what the hell, I kicked her ass in the bee and it was over now. Until I got home from school and my mother was waiting at the door. Yes, the son-of-a-bitch nuns had decided to make a call home to my mom to tell her how well I did at the spelling bee....

Can you spell spanking......

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A Gaggle Of Nuns

Nuns With Guns

Some loyal readers have emailed me asking if the Grassy Knoll Institute had any pictures of the nuns from my grade school. To appease you all, I went rummaging through the Grassy Knoll basement vault and stumbled upon this great photo of my Class of 1965 second grade teachers.
As the photo clearly shows, these nuns were loaded for bear and ready to teach each days lesson with an iron fist. No one dared speak out of turn lest they wanted to feel the sting of cold steel. Not from the guns, (The guns were mere intimidation props) but from the edges of the three foot yard sticks they carried. These nuns were deadly accurate when wielding their weapon of choice.

The nuns were Sisters Hannibal, Jesse, Wylene, Shiloh, and Cheyanne. Their motto was "We're always on target when it comes to learning".
I knew these nuns had to be stopped. And I was just the lad to do it. As you read future stories of the battles with the Catholic nuns, you will now have an inner perception of what I was up against in the early 1960's.

The battle was just beginning, and it was time to learn how to play the Flute-O-Fone, that quirky white plastic horn instrument that all us Catholic kids had to endure. I had decided to make a stand on this issue. No way were these nuns going to force me to play an instrument that I didn't want to.

But that is another story, another legend.

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Dare To Dream

Bullseye

For my entire 8 years of Catholic grade school I was hounded by Catholic nuns. When I came across this photo, I so wanted to do this many times as a student. Alas, I never had the chance or so help me, I would have loaded up.Please notice the accuracy of the snowballs being thrown. Its from all the practice the nuns have of hurling erasers at unsuspecting students sitting at their desks.....
These nuns had to be stopped and the Grassy Knoll Institute had just the plan to do it.

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My Catholic Permanent Record

The Grassy Knoll Institutes Permanent Record
The nuns had upped the ante and pulled a new term from their habits to combat us Catholic kids, especially me. After my run in with the "Noah's Ark" debacle I was informed that all my bad deeds were somehow being mysteriously recorded in my permanent record. The head nun, sister Charlotte, proceeded to tell me that I was in big trouble and that my permanent record was starting to fill up and that it was such a pity since I was so young.

What was this thing called My Permanent Record? I needed to know and needed to know quickly. This was a new wrinkle thrown at me by the nuns and I had to turn to my trusted sources to find a solution.

So, when I got home from school that day, I waited around until my older brother Jack came home. He would know the low down on the permanent record. I would have to pay the price however, but at this point, he was the lesser of the two evils.

My brother Jack did not disappoint. At first he looked bemused upon hearing my inquiry, sighed a moment or two, ran his hand through his hair, and then exhaled very slowly as if he was about to tell me the secrets of the universe. Jack lowered his voice to almost a whisper and said that the living room was not the place to discuss such topics as ones permanent record.

Of course the garage would be more appropriate. (What was I thinking?) Once in the garage, Jack began a ritual of looking under the cars, in the roof rafters, through the windows, and out the garage doors. Apparently spies were everywhere in 1967 and one couldn't be too careful discussing such topics as a Catholics permanent record.

Satisfied that no one was watching or listening, my brother Jack began spinning his tale as if he were rehearsing a work of literature. Homer, the author of "The Odyssey" had nothing on Jack. Jack began by saying that God created your permanent record and passed it down to the nuns to help keep track of all your sins. You see, God was really busy and only paid attention to the really bad people like bank robbers, murderers, and people that left church services before mass was over.

All the rest of the people, especially the children were to be monitored by the nuns. I looked on in disbelief and waited for some sign that he was kidding but he pressed on. Every time you sinned he continued, the nuns would record the sin in your record book and keep a running total. Then, when you died and went to the pearly gates to face Saint Peter, he would have all the ammunition he needed to send you to hell. Damn those nuns I thought.

Jack continued explaining in more detail. He told me that the people that had to many hits (sins) on their record were not permitted to get into Heaven. Instead, they had to go to a waiting place, a way station so to speak and once there, had to work off their sins until they were pure enough to enter the kingdom of Heaven. He said this place was called Purgatory. Jack said not to confuse Purgatory with the other place called Limbo, where all the little babies that weren't properly baptized had to go and had to wait to get into Heaven until a certain amount of prayers were said for them.

Jack also said that some people who were bad people and knew they were going to Purgatory were able to go to the Parrish priest and set up an account and start paying off the time they would spend in there. He said it was called paying an indulgence. This sounded like paying off a mortgage. Jack said that maybe I should open my account and start paying off my time. Jack then added his famous disclaimer that I was to tell no one of this conversation and if I did, he would deny it all the way to his deathbed. This I believed. Everything else was a little shaky at best.

Sadly, much of what Jack told me was true and only later did the church begin to dismiss such beliefs.

Armed with this knowledge, I began formulating my game plan for revenge. To begin, I wondered how the nuns knew when I was committing a sin when I wasn't in school. Did they have some sort of nun radar or sonar that would pick up my sin signals? And, how were they able to filter out all the sins being committed by all the kids in the Parrish? How did they know it was me and not Tommy from the next street? I had to know.

I had to somehow test the nuns. Then it came to me. My logic was so flawless that it even scared me. Mr. Spock would be very proud if he were able to show emotions. My test would be to sin on Monday morning, maybe say a bad word or two but not loud enough for my mother or father to hear, but say them nonetheless. Then I would be as good as possible on Tuesday. At the end of the day, I would walk up to the nun after class and ask in a meek and frightened tone if she or the other nuns had written anything in my permanent record for today for I was a little worried about what I had done earlier in the morning.

The trap was set. The nun took the bait, and leaned close to me and said that not only did she write several sins down in my record for today, but had also told Jesus in a prayer what I had done today. She was trying to lay it on thick, making me feel guilty for what I allegedly did earlier that morning. She thought that for once she had the upper hand and would relish in her good luck. Being the good Catholic that I was, I took the sermon from her and tried to look as somber and guilty as possible knowing full well that this nun was lying through her teeth.

Several minutes later, after the nuns jaw got sore flapping it at me, she stopped and said that I hope that I learned a lesson from all this. Slowly, painstakingly, I turned towards her, and in a low voice I lowered the hammer on her. I simply asked who kept a tally of the permanent records of all the nuns lies and sins? It was out there. I implied it. She knew it. Knew that I was aware that she had lied to me right then and that of course I had regained the upper hand.

We'll take this up with the Pastor first thing tomorrow morning young man was all the nun could muster to say.

I couldn't wait to get home that day. I wanted to tell my brother Jack what had transpired. I knew he would be proud of me. When Jack walked in the front door, I asked him to come to the garage for a moment. He knew I meant business. Once in the garage, I spilled the beans and told him the whole story. Jack was laughing and said that I did good but he had one problem with my story. He asked how did I know the nun was lying when she said she wrote down several things in my record book that day? After all, he said I did sin by conspiring against the nuns in the morning and then again by going through with my plan. Two sins, two entries in the record book.

Tomorrow would be a bad day at school.

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LURKING ON THE GRASSY KNOLL

4th Grade Class Picture 1970

Class Picture - Pick Me Out

Catholic grade school. Where the grassy knoll conspiracy began. I knew the nuns were lying big time, not just to me, but to the entire class. I could see right through them. It was time to rebel, question everything, stop wearing clip on ties, and start eating meat on Fridays. This wise ass Irish kid had a plan, and it was a good one. I implemented phase one in first grade when I exposed the class nuns head by pulling off her habit. They knew at that moment that I meant business.
That led me to here. The Grassy Knoll Institute. Where everything is questioned. And I do still eat meat on Fridays. Not so much wear the clip on ties though.

As an added bonus, can anyone pick me out in the class picture? BTW, the nun pictured is Sister Eileen, the school principal. The FN bitch.

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LURKING ON THE GRASSY KNOLL