Turns out Charming Calvin had his own illuminating Road to Damascus epiphany on the way home. Hard not to receive such an eye-opener squashed between a good Catholic schoolgirl ( the ultimate oxymoron - a contradiction in terms? ) at the back and an irreligious heathen at the wheel.
Recently reinvigorated after an early morning mass this Palm Sunday, Shameless Shalom returned to us eager to spread the good word. Especially after the shameless talk of sexy apostles the night before with Slim Sandy, she must have felt at least some need to regain some moral rectitude by taking her bible study on the road.
Paul : How was church? Any cute parishioners?
Shalom : No, we can't talk about that! It's Palm Sunday so we need to clean up our act!
Paul : Cleaner? Kinda like hot mormon boys on bikes? Or bathing sexy priests in holy water?
Shalom : What the frock! That's not what I meant.
Unfortunately that only led the conversation into far shakier ground with talk of hot mormons and altar boy buggery. Never did decide who was the sexiest apostle - though if the folks at National Geographic were to be believed, Judas would be a deliciously deceptive dark-eyed hunk. No wonder Jesus didn't balk at getting a kiss from him.
A Judas kiss...
Though purists would claim he wasn't one of the original apostles ( joined a lil too late! ), out of pure sentiment of course I'd have to believe that the intrepid adventurer Paul would be the sexiest! Walking all about the Mediterranean preaching must have given the man a fit physique at the least. And since he managed to talk hundreds of disbelieving heathens into following his fledgling religion ( long before it became fashionable ), I should think he had to be a comely man at the least - if not gifted with a persuasive tongue.
You can imagine how Shalom shrieked in horror while repeatedly chanting her Hail Marys.
Obviously they both knew the fact that dirty sexy priests always get me hot under the collar! Just the thought of the thick starched-up black robes with the hint of white at the collar is enough to get me going. Something possibly indoctrinated in me ever since those halcyon days when I actually attended mass, watching those stern-eyed men at the pulpit preaching to the choir.
Otherwise I'd blame Madonna.
Despite the rumours of closeted homosexuals in the clergy, none of the elderly priests actually punished me with some good-old-fashioned buggery for my sins. As much as I might have wanted it.
Obviously I wasn't sinful enough back then.
Shalom and I drew the line at talking about sex with Jesus of course. Imagine what his sainted mama would say! So yes, surprisingly I do have boundaries.
Just amazed that the sheer blasphemy of our shocking conversation didn't get us all struck down by lightning. Then again it does explain the horrific near-apocalyptic thunderstorm tailing us all the way home.