The sexton was focused:
— One liter of water. One liter of ethyl alcohol. Half vanilla bean. Five eggs. A little glue. One lemon cut in half, seeded. A teaspoon of kerosene …
— Where did you learn to do so good things? —asked the priest.
— In Cuba, years ago —said the “expert”—. A degenerate Galician taught me how, saying the grog has to be strong so if one falls into the ocean would be able to swim across the entire English Channel. With slack grog one would drown as a puppy.
— After drinking this slipslop I’d enjoy celebrating the mass —noted the priest chuffed.
Indeed. With the first glass he felt so good that he might even cross the Atlantic in the middle of a gale.
— A damn good grog my dear, isn’t it?
— I see you blaspheme —the sexton observed amused.
— Mass is not a joke. In a case like this one has to proceed with finesse, and totally relaxed.
With the second grog he felt his feet cold and moist. The sexton, not without some mockery, pointed him to put the open end of the glass upwards. With the third he felt warm and damped feet, and then the floor started to move. The sexton was lugging him to the toilet to change cassock, drawers and shoes. Painfully he finally dragged himself to the altar, which seemed as a miniature with the urn below the tabernacle. He knelt on one prie-dieu and prayed for ten seconds, which seemed forever, with great devotion and praising God, and decided his condition should be a heaven’s sign. The altar was composed of three parts richly decorated with fake gliding, as all the glory of the Holy Church. He concentrated on the Son of God, and thought he seemed a cheerful young man with a beautiful little belly covered with what could be a swimsuit. He seemed as a sportsman. In his hands he held a cross with such elegance as a tennis racket. With a titanic effort he got up and began pacing around the pulpit as a cat around the milk. To the parishioners should have been something like when pagans worshiped sacrifices.
The priest was still sleeping. A noise woke him up. Then he began to renege as in his somnolence thought someone had to be given sacrament. A huge light bulb blinded him.
— Who has installed such a lamp inside the sacristy? —growled sullenly—. I need to get outside; tonight I have a great headache.
— You are in the orchard, lying, and it’s noon —said the sexton laughing—. Solution: Coffee and a good nap.
He was dirty, unwashed, as the same cat, but now in love, and back from its excursions to the roofs.
Back in the sacristy, God’s representative found a note from the Bishop that read:
No need to put a slice of lemon on the edge of the Chalice.
That booth next the altar is the confessional, not the toilet.
Avoid leaning on the image of the Virgin, much less hugging and kissing her.
There are 10 commandments, not 12.
The apostles were 12, not 7, and none was a dwarf.
David defeated Goliath with a sling and a stone, never “fucked” him.
We do not refer to Judas as “fucking bastard scumbag.”
Do not call the Pope “The Godfather.”
Bin Laden had nothing to do with the death of Jesus.
The Holy Water is to bless, not to cool the neck.
Never pray the Mass sitting on the altar steps, much less with one foot on the Bible.
The Hosts are for distribution among parishioners, and shouldn’t be used as snacks to accompany the wine.
Sinners go to hell and not “go fuck off.”
The Lord’s Prayer could be prayed raising the hands to heaven, but not doing the wave.
IMPORTANT: The one sitting on the corner of the altar, to whom you referred as “fagot” and “drag queen with skirt,” was me!
I hope all these errors corrected in the future.
The priest – Dugutigui
In the “Diula” language in Mali, the term « dugutigui » (chief of the village), literally translated, means: «owner of the village»; «dugu» means village and «tigui», owner. Probably the term is the result of the contraction of «dugu kuntigui» (literally: chief of the village).