sardine -- post-9/26 -- My Disney Confession

“You’re going to HELL!” Sherry screeched at Sue on the playground. “You’re going to HELL, because you killed Jesus!”

“And you!” She pointed at me. “You’re going to HELL too, because you weren’t baptized!”

Years later, Sue is still Jewish, although she did find Prozac. Me… I got dunked. I found Jesus for a while. But I quit going to church after Mel Gibson’s Jesus movie came out. My Christianity hangs up in the closet like an embarrassing dress I once wore. I still have a few of the souvenirs, a couple crosses, and a rosary blessed by John Paul II.

Remember that flick, Mel’s Passion. I went with my mother. The theater was packed. A lady came in with her young children and sat down in front of us with a bucket of popcorn. I watched the movie. I cried at the flaying scene. However, I didn’t leave glazed eyed and weeping. I had just spent over two hours watching a Jew blaming pseudo snuff film. I felt sticky with popcorn and Mel’s ejaculate.

Victimization is our trump card. We are victims. And it gets us hot. We idealize the Rambos and the Road Warriors. They are tortured and martyred, and they strike back with lots of guns blazing. 9/11 happened. We stuck flag decals on our trucks and watched the sanitized towers fall again and again. Then we went out to blast Osama with our big guns. We torture in the name of Jesus, 9/11, Democracy, and American Patriotism. We stay the course.

Why am I thinking of religion, torture, and sadomasochism? Oh that’s right. I am feeling victimized. Eco has brought it back to me like a bad acid flashback.

I recently hemorrhaged money at my last pilgrimage to Disney. Those free tickets cost a lot. We got the park hoppers. And we hopped. We did the Stations of Disney. The crowd wasn’t so bad. We got to pass quickly through the herding ropes for queuing people like the slaughter house does cattle. We did a couple of the rides three times. I bought the T-shirts of Mickey and the ears. For over seventy bucks, I bought the pictures of my kids’ faces superimposed on a young Darth Vader to put on the wall next to the dusty cross. We saw the animatronic presidents say, “Stay the course.” I took pictures of my kids in front of Buzz Lightyear. My feet hurt. My kids’ feet hurt. I spent more money and more money, and we left after the orgasm of fireworks.

I actually almost considered getting the annual pass. We could go all the time. But I didn’t. I still remember that embarrassing Christianity dress hanging in my closet. I can’t do it again, not even restyled into the Disney fashion. At heart I am still the heathen of my childhood. I am more comfortable with the uncomforting empty space. And yes I know... I am going to HELL!