About My Rescue Lobotomy
I keep him in a terrarium with a model of Golgotha
faithful right down to the wee Roman soldiers and
a tiny carpeted altar—based on the Church of the Revelation—
where he likes to cover himself in stage-blood and
tremble for forgiveness. What can I say? He lives
to reminisce on his childhood. There he is now
feeding in the dark, hiding under the shipwreck
I stole from the pet store to test if anyone was
watching. Look how he darts his eyes when he
chews, expecting the devil will snatch his kibble.
Isn’t that sweet? I’ll admit I have way too much
pride showing off my old ignorance to anyone
who stands still for half-a-minute. Eventually,
though, some asshole will tap the glass, or ask
when I plan to restore the creature to his natural
habitat. Then I’ll hide him again, let him rest until
the next time I know he’s awake, playing with his
miniature bible quiz machine that squawks like a
lie detector wired to an electric chair, one of the
many fine details that makes my terrarium nearly
indistinguishable from the real thing.
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2 comments:
How often do you have to change his (holy) water?
It's not holy until after he pisses.
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