FIRESTAIRS TO HEAVEN

Oh, sure--NOW you tell me...



Or, "ARE WE ALL DONE BEING STUPID NOW?"

I try to post twice weekly, maybe more. Admittedly, I’ve gotten slack of late. Sad, too—I’ve suddenly been blessed with traffic, new eyes and minds to sicken and repulse.

I’ll make it up tonight. This post is long, swollen, and unwieldy, like a big black, greased-up porno cock. But Introspection’s greedy phallus shall only jack into its own flaps for a bit, until the hairy, throbbing rod of this bastard’s weary Worldview points toward you. It doesn’t spurt the Gooey Truth, but its smells and stains are close enough for porn. So stay with me, dear readers, as I rake the muck, then rate my luck, and rape the sordid past…


I was 14, and so much afraid: I’d discovered girls quite early on, but now I was obsessed. Puberty hit me hard, and made its mark—the Hand of Gland—upon my cracking voice and fuzzy chin. It was the Mark Of The Beast, as befalls a cub…a rite of passage into manhood, to the snide delights and chortles of womanhood all around. The Wages Of Sin were Death, and I was finally on the clock.
But I was not a normal youth. I was Pentecostal; and the onset of such interests were the very Mark Of Cain. I was taunted and tormented by bullies and stuck-up girls before—but now I was tortured nightly by my own wants, needs, and urges. What sort of God gives man a need he can’t fulfill, lest he fall deeply into sin? It was contradiction; and it made me miserable.

Boo Hoo. You’ve heard this all before. But wait—there’s something more.

We used to dream, you see—we horny Christian Youth. Sexual repression makes exquisite nightmare fodder for the righteously oppressed. You see, Jesus hated T & A; worst yet, he might return at any hour. What awkward teenage boy wants to be caught beating meat during the Rapture? ‘Cause if you’re polishing the bishop when the Good Lord comes, you’re left to face the Antichrist alone. And if you’re 14 years old and “left behind,” ol’ Splitfoot is the least of your concerns—what if Jesus takes your parents, whose roof you’re staying under…your family, friends…everyone you loved has disappeared. And there you are, alone and playing whack-a-mole—all for scattered signals, Skinamax, and unrealistic airbrushed Playboy pics.

Nah…that’s not gonna fuck anybody up, right?

One night I had The Dream. I was watching Lady Chatterly, or some such softcore drivel, when the Great Trump sounded, blasting forth for all with ears to hear—but mine were deathly silent. I knew something was up; I ran outside. Above me, I could see it: A gathering of souls, dead, undead, and the righteously alive, transforming before my teenage eyes, as they all cluttered the sky. They filled the air like human smog. The clouds rolled back like blobs of greasy dishwater when you add drops of detergent to the sink. In the center, I could see Him—our righteous, holy Icon—the Dashboard Christ, the Iron Fist Of Love’s Perfection, the Governor of Grace, ol’ JC in the Godly, glowing flesh. He beckoned all to come. I fixed my eyes upon the heaving mass that dwarfed the sun—all of this occurring in the twinkling of an eye—and I began to slowly rise toward the sky.
But the images of bouncing, bulbous tits kept bleeding through the membranes of my mind. I felt the weight of guilt, because I was not holy, nor covered under grace almighty—I hadn’t had the time, you see, to ask forgiveness before this Blessed Advent had begun. (If I’d died right then, I’d surely greet the Devil in his flaming Sodom underground abode). I was the Unforgiven, and out of grace—and now, it seemed, I was likely out of time. With each glimpse of a forbidden nipple, each shimmer of a thigh—every trace of flesh that slithered through my fevered teenage mind—I sank lower to the ground.

Before “Jesus Wept” could leave my lips, they all were gone. The sky was gray and empty. Silence roared like white noise all around. It was over; I was lost. I was Unraptured, left behind—all for a glimpse of Nekkid Boobs, and the pale blood on my hands—a residue of lost souls, each sperm a human life I murdered, to which I’d be accountable in the end. I was a masturbating Hitler, alone in the world, without a God, a parent or a friend…just me and the Great Beast—locusts and the Tribulation. I would have to give my life now, if I wished to be redeemed.

I awoke, trembling and wet with tears…and sadly still 14. As a viral, primal male in heat, I woke with wooden loins. I cursed my hellbound traitor cock. I prayed for hours; but it took God nearly a year to answer, and make me not 14. But then I was 15, and that was worse. Sixteen was even worse than that, if not the worst of all.

Nah…that’s not gonna mess with anyone.

I was taunted by these dreams for years. I had just turned 21 the year I lost my faith for good. Dark, lost, wandering years would follow…but I was never left Unraptured in a dream ever again. Better still, now I had real sex with real girls…and—eyes wide with amazement each every time—the ground routinely failed to open up and swallow me. It was a mystery, a miracle of life, like childbirth, farts, and German Beer, that I never took for granted; nay, I came to cherish it like life itself, or Family Guy, and European Death Metal CD’s. The afterglow is warm, my love—but it’s not always about you. It’s not about what happened, babe—but rather, what did not. Stomp the floor again, my dear—do you hear the whispers of the damned roll with the wind? Is their lightning in the sky, pointed like a bullet at our spines? No? God be praised; stay naked, girl—we’re doing it again.

Last night I had another dream; my first such dream in ten long years. But this dream, readers, was different. This time…the tide has turned.

We, as a culture, never learn. The same trends, the same scandals, the same old BULLSHIT—it all comes back around, like bellbottoms and syphilis.

In the late eighties, there was an Evangelical “Rapture Scandal” that nearly rocked the church—at least the Fundamentalist wing. There was an immensely popular book, you see, that predicted Christ’s return in 1988. Actually, there were several of them—prophecy teachers like Colin Deal, Charles Taylor, and Edgar C. Whisenant were all the rage back then. And on that Blessed Day, people shot their pets, quit their jobs, alienated friends and loved ones, and gave away their things en masse. People forget just how widespread this was. Time and gross embarrassment has minimized the scope of this event (or non-event, as such). But I remember. I, like all the others, watched the sky. We watched in vain.

American society is due for another such Rapture Scare—some have implied that our esteemed President may have already fallen for one. Why? Because people are stupid, and they don’t learn. The cycles just begin anew.

In my dream, this cycle had indeed begun afresh. A full-fledged Rapture Scare—no doubt inspired by those vicious Left Behind books—was in effect. I dismissed it with a wanking motion. I was rebuked. In fact, dare I say, my mailbox was just filled with froth and spittle, the weeping of pious loved ones, and the ravings of the White Christian Majority, who attacked me on the internet for “my arrogance in second-guessing ‘God’”.
At last that day—that Blessed Day!—was upon us. I was staying with my folks. My father slept, slumped over on the couch. He figured that if Christ could raise the dead, He could at least poke him awake to take him home. My mother dreamt of racing across the backs of those already in mid-air. She’d crawl past every rotten Calvinist, to poke her head in Glory’s Hole. Now my parents, above all people, would know that even Christ said that He “didn’t know the day.” But even they were caught up in the hype.
The minutes ticked. The hours melted into madness for the weeping, waiting throngs—heads bowed, hearts deep in prayer, and candles lifted to the sky, like lighters at a Lynyrd Skynyrd show. Some friends of mine, who knew the Scriptures stated that a “trump shall sound” at the appointed time, got an air raid siren. When the “Holy Hour” hit, they let the siren wail, and hundreds of eager glory-hounds leapt off their pious lawns, only to fall flat on their face. When the tears and laughter faded, only disappointment filled the day’s remaining moments. The time had passed, and none had cracked the sky.
It was just like a Carpenter God: Like any workman, he promises to return, but never shows… For “God” was a pilot that once flew over this island Earth…leaving followers, in child-like faith, praying daily to, and waiting for, the planes.

The last thing I remember in my dream was this: I was typing on my blog. The title of my post was, “ARE WE ALL DONE BEING STUPID NOW?”

But as I woke, the answer came: The answer, I’m afraid to say, is "No.”

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