Dear Amateur Brain Surgeon. Advice for the flummoxed Catholic. (1)

Uncountable * are the number of people who say to ABS; Amateur Brain Surgeon, you are a know-it-all who is unafraid to pester the public with your puissant opinions even when those opinions are completely devoid of substance and facts and which opinions are rapidly sinking down into the unfathomable depths of the unchartable seas of your ignorance; so, why don't you start an advice column for flummoxed Catholics?

That is a question worthy of a considered and serious response; so, sure, why not?

Our first question comes from a Mister Pat Pew Dweller who lives in Portland, Maine.

Dear ABS ** My name is Joe Pew Dweller and I live in the local Portland Franchise (entire state) of Dead Diocese Inc. America, and my wife says I must be patient and wait for the Lil' Licit Liturgy to slowly improve over time which she says is certainly going to happen now that we have this new Pope and all.

O, and last week, when we went to the Saturday afternoon service to get-it-over-with, when she asked me if her plaid pant suit made her ass look fat; I said, "Yes", and she started crying.

I thought women her age were over visits from their little friend but I guess not.

Signed, 

Feeling flummoxed in my local Franchise.

Dear Feeling flummoxed in your local Franchise.

You are screwed, dude.  

You live in a vast spiritual wasteland where the clergy is rapidly aging and vanishing and where your Parish has been "clustered" with the other former nineteen or twenty parishes previously existing in Cumberland County, all of which began to disappear when the Real Mass was tossed into the shit can and you had the Lil' Licit Liturgy crammed down your collective throats.

Dude, look around the next time you are in the local worship space of your clustered community and the hipster dufus clown in front of you, the one you refuse to make eye contact with, he is leaning back over two pews to glad hand you during the Kiss of Peace.

What do you see?

Women and children and a few shake-my-hand geezers who assist at Mass solely out of fear of violating their Sunday obligation and spending eternity in Hell.

O, and no matter what, never tell your wife her ass is fat. T'hell is wrong with you?


* One really can't count zero.

** Eerily reminiscent of Dear Abby, isn't it? There are no coincidences; well, ok, there are coincidences but that's just an example of the modern gnostic American idiom; relax.