The Flying Buttress: What Inquisitors' Minds Want to Know

An archive for issues of The Flying Buttress newswire, whose purpose is to comment satirically on dissent within and relating to the Roman Catholic Archdiocese of Cincinnati. Disclaimer: These publications are works of satirical fiction. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, but it all depends on what you mean by the word "is." May the Lord bless you and keep you!

Sunday, December 10, 2006

Clement Moore Revisited

+’Twas the night before CRYSM-mas/ When all through the house/ Not a catechism was open/ From the Bride and Her Spouse./ The handouts were stacked on the table with care/ For a speaker from PFLAG/ Who soon would be there./

The students were seated on couches and chairs/ To hear of a lifestyle that soon would be theirs./ And Sean in his kerchief/ And Carl in his cap/ Were all set to spring their immoral trap,/

When out on the porch there arose such a howling/ I sprang from my chair, unmistakably scowling./ Away to the entrance I marched in a rage/ Unlocked the deadbolt and prepared to engage./

The moon, hung above like a ghastly marquee,/ Cast cadaverous hues on what stood before me./ For this was no sleigh, no eight tiny reindeer,/ But a chorus of bishops, in appearance quite queer.

With a stooping conductor fast waving his stick/ I knew in a moment it must be Pilar-czyk./ Like cacaphonous loons his chorus they bellowed,/ As he pointed and gestured and called to each fellow./

Now Rembert! Now Timlin!/ Now Roger Mahony!/ On Harry! On Donald! On Gumbleton, Teddy!/ To the top of the scale, every hearer enthrall,/ Now harmonize, vocalize, serenade all!/

As a chronic dry hacking from second-hand smoke,/ That billows about while it makes a man choke,/ To the end of the carol the chorus they flew,/ Without phrasing, dynamics, or even a tune./

Then, mercifully finished, Maestro Pilar-czyk/ Turned to face me with a movement so quick./ He picked up his briefcase and pushed me aside,/ And stepped through the door with a perceptible glide./

He was dressed all in lavender, from his head to his boot,/ And he cut a strange figure in his Armani suit./ A thick stack of papers were stuffed in his sack/ And he stopped, took a bow, and began to unpack./

His eyes were quite soulless, his demeanor so dour!/ His cheeks had no color, his nose caked with flour!/ His sardonic expression soon gave me to know/ He was up to no good, not just here for a show./

His horn-rimmed glasses were pushed up on his head,/
As about on the floor several pages he spread./
My eye caught a logo: "USCCB,"/ And references to "homosexuality."/

He finished collating it all with a flourish,/ Then handed each student a copy, to nourish/ Their gay self-esteem, for this new "feed my sheep"/ Was expressly designed to put conscience to sleep./

He gave each his blessing, then discoursed on the text,/ After which I lost hope as to what would come next./ When he finished conveying his gay repartee - / Whose foundation was laid by the bishops' decree - /

Then he strode out the door, gave his chorus a sign,/ And away they all filed in a very straight line./ But I heard them exclaim, for their new ministry,/ "Happy CRYSM-mas to all, if you're GLBT!"


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