Word Up, Sister!

 

This morning there was a knock at my door. When I answered the door I found a well groomed, nicely dressed couple. The man spoke first.

John: Hi! I’m John, and this is Mary.

Mary: Hi! We’re here to invite you to come kiss Hank’s ass with us.

Me: Pardon me?! What are you talking about? Who’s Hank, and why would I want to kiss his ass?

John: If you kiss Hank’s ass, he’ll give you a million dollars; and if you don’t, he’ll kick the shit out of you.

Me: What? Is this some sort of bizarre mob shake-down?

John: Hank is a billionaire philanthropist. Hank built this town. Hank owns this town. He can do whatever he wants, and what he wants is to give you a million dollars, but he can’t until you kiss his ass.

Me: That doesn’t make any sense. Why…

Mary: Who are you to question Hank’s gift? Don’t you want a million dollars? Isn’t it worth a little kiss on the ass?

Me: Well maybe, if it’s legit, but…

John: Then come kiss Hank’s ass with us!

Me: Do you kiss Hank’s ass often?

Mary: Oh yes, all the time…

Me: And has he given you a million dollars?

John: Well… no, you don’t actually get the money until you leave town.

Me: So why don’t you just leave town now?

Mary: You can’t leave until Hank tells you to, or you don’t get the money, and he kicks the shit out of you.

Me: Do you know anyone who kissed Hank’s ass, left town, and got the million dollars?

John: My mother kissed Hank’s ass for years. She left town last year, and I’m sure she got the money.

Me: Haven’t you talked to her since then?

John: Of course not! Hank doesn’t allow it.

Me: So what makes you think he’ll actually give you the money if you’ve never talked to anyone who got the money?

Mary: Well, he gives you a little bit before you leave. Maybe you’ll get a raise, maybe you’ll win a small lotto, maybe you’ll just find a twenty dollar bill on the street.

Me: What’s that got to do with Hank?

John: Hank has certain ‘connections.’

Me: I’m sorry, but this sounds like some sort of bizarre con game.

John: But it’s a million dollars, can you really take the chance? And remember, if you don’t kiss Hank’s ass he’ll kick the shit of you.

Me: Maybe if I could see Hank, talk to Him, get the details straight from him…

Mary: No one sees Hank, no one talks to Hank.

Me: Then how do you kiss his ass?

John: Sometimes we just blow Him a kiss, and think of his ass. Other times we kiss Karl’s ass, and he passes it on.

Me: Who’s Karl?

Mary: A friend of ours. He’s the one who taught us all about kissing Hank’s ass. All we had to do was take him out to dinner a few times.

Me: And you just took his word for it when he said there was a Hank, that Hank wanted you to kiss his ass, and that Hank would reward you?

John: Oh no! Do you think we’re fools? Karl has a letter he got from Hank years ago explaining the whole thing. Here’s a copy; see for yourself.

 

From The Desk of…Karl

*****

 

1. Kiss Hank’s ass and he’ll give you a million dollars when you leave town.

2. Drink alcohol only in moderation.

3. Kick the shit out of people who aren’t like you.

4.  Eat right.

5.  Hank dictated this list himself.

6. The moon is made of green cheese.

7.  Everything Hank says is right.

8.  Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.

9.  Don’t drink alcohol.

10.  Eat your wieners on buns, no condiments.

11.  Kiss Hank’s ass or he’ll kick the shit out of you.

Me: This appears to be written on Karl’s letterhead, not Hank’s.

Mary: Hank didn’t have any paper.

Me: I have a hunch that if we checked we’d find this is Karl’s handwriting too.

John: Of course! Hank dictated it.

Me: I thought you said no one gets to see Hank?

Mary: Not now, but years ago he would talk to some people.

Me: I thought you said he was a philanthropist. What sort of philanthropist kicks the shit out of people just because they’re different?

Mary: It’s what Hank wants, and Hank’s always right.

Me: How do you figure that?

Mary: Item 7 says ‘Everything Hank says is right.’ That’s good enough for me!

Me: Maybe your friend Karl just made the whole thing up.

John: No way! Item 5 says ‘Hank dictated this list himself.’ Besides, item 2 says ‘Use alcohol in moderation,’ Item 4 says ‘Eat right,’ and item 8 says ‘Wash your hands after going to the bathroom.’ Everyone knows those things are right, so the rest must be true, too.

Me: But 9 says ‘Don’t use alcohol.’ which doesn’t quite go with item 2, and 6 says ‘The moon is made of green cheese,’ which is just plain wrong.

John: There’s no contradiction between 9 and 2, 9 just clarifies 2. As far as 6 goes, you’ve never been to the moon, so you can’t say for sure.

Me: Scientists have pretty firmly established that the moon is made of rock…

Mary: But they don’t know if the rock came from the Earth, or from outer space, so it could just as easily be green cheese.

Me: Not knowing where the rock came from doesn’t make it cheese. And I’m not an expert, but I think the scientific theory that the Moon came from the Earth has been discounted.

John: Aha! You just admitted that scientists make mistakes, but we know Hank is always right!

Me: We do?

Mary: Of course we do, Item 5 says so.

Me: You’re saying Hank’s always right because in the list that Hank dictated Hank says Hank is always right. That’s circular reasoning!

John: Now you’re getting it! It’s so rewarding to see someone come around to Hank’s way of thinking.

Me: But…oh, never mind. What’s the deal with wieners?

(Mary blushes)

John: Wieners go in buns, with no condiments. It’s Hank’s way. Anything else is immoral.

Me: What if I don’t have a bun?

John: No bun, no wiener. A wiener without a bun is wrong.

Me: No relish? No Mustard?

(Mary looks positively stricken.)

John: (shouting) There’s no need for such language! Condiments of any kind are wrong!

Me: So a big pile of sauerkraut with some wieners chopped up in it would be out of the question?

Mary: (Sticking her fingers in her ears.) I am not listening to this. La la la la la la la la.

John: That’s disgusting. Only some sort of evil deviant would eat…

Me: It’s good! I eat it all the time.

(Mary faints.)

John: (Catching Mary.) Well, if I’d known you were one of those I wouldn’t have wasted my time. When Hank kicks the shit out of you I’ll be there, counting my money and laughing. I’ll kiss Hank’s ass for you, you bunless cut-wienered kraut-eater.

(With this, John drags Mary to their waiting car, and speeds off.)

 

 

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**************

Kissing Hank’s Ass: A parable by Rev. Jim Huber

Copyright © 1997 Jim Huber.

Email Jim at: james@jhuger.com

All rights reserved. Used with permission.

For more heresy, visit the good reverend’s web site:

http://jhuger.com/

One of my few certainties is that I will die.  It is a fact.  But how will it happen?  I feel cheated by death already, because I know that I won’t get to see the last scene of the movie that I am such a part of.  The packing up and moving on scene that wraps everything up and gives the viewer a sense of completion and closure.  I want my money back! Or at least a hand in the writing process. 

The idea of death has brought me to the thought of my funeral. Ugh!  That could go badly!  So badly.  You cannot fathom the bad.  First of all, the prep for the funeral. This is where my relatives go thru my house to “clean up” and fight over my meager possessions.  And they inevitably find instead my staggering collection of dildos and other sex related paraphernalia.   Whips and chains and candlewax, Oh MY!  ***If any of my dear friends are reading this … take note.  Should I kick the bucket.  Break into my house and grab my sex toys.  Distribute them amongst  yourselves, first cum first served rules apply.  Consider it a keepsake that could only come from the likes of me.  *smirk. 
But keep the naked pictures of me and post them on the bulletin board at the funeral when no one is looking.  I would really enjoy that!  Especially the ones of me spinning fire topless.  I am quite proud of those. If you can’t find them, I am sure that Brandon still has copies. 
Things I would like to see happen at my funeral…A bar fight…Should my family insist on a christian style funeral…I want the preacher to leave with a limp and a bloody lip, my friends and family exchanging blows and howling at the moon. “Where is the cooler?  I need a beer and some ice before I go back in there to kick some more ass.”  People are angry in general and never have the opportunity to express it!  Let this be that opportunity.  Take all the anger that you acquire on a daily basis, take that fuel, beat someone over the head with a hymnal and light a fucking match!
 I want people to show up naked.  I want my friends to get arrested at my funeral for indecent exposure and plead guilty proudly.  Cover yourselves in mud and wrestle, winner gets all of my worldly possessions (with the exception of the sex toys.  See above).  And some tricky bastard should tumble the coffin.  It’s just an empty, freshly embalmed shell with no further use anyway.  Give the folks in the back row a laugh, for Goddess sake. 
I want a drum circle at my grave, and some Irish bastard to holler drinking songs about booze and tits and blue ribbons, thru a keg.  And bagpipes!  I want some fucking bagpipes, played badly! 
I want blunt honesty…I was a shithead so don’t paint your face with regret and talk about how much of an “angel” I was.  The most flattery I could expect is for everyone at the “party” to share a moment when I made them laugh. That is something consistent about me.  I have made everyone I know laugh at some point or another. Sometimes it is laughter thru frustration, but it still counts as laughter, right?