Trashing the Host

Otherwise known as, "The day I dumped Jesus in the garbage and wound up on the hit list."

I'd say I was about 14 or so. Young catholic that I was, I always hated going to communion. Not because I didn't believe in magic or enjoy the after paste of those little hosts, but because of my own neurosis. Self-centered ego maniac that I am, I tend to believe everything's about Jenny. And this is not something new, it's probably been this way since God had my father hug my mother in that oh-so-special way. But it's not like I was or am a Paris Hilton (though, admittedly, I can be somewhat, just a smidgen, of a white cunt). But I digress, my Hiltonism is more the other extreme. Often as a child, not so much as an adult, I thought everybody was looking at me, judging me, seeing the inner workings of my soul and thinking, "What a butt fuck!"

So at age 14, when most girls (I can't speak for the dudes) aren't all that self-assured to begin with, I would DREAD communion time. A time when, row by row, you'd stand and stumble you way toward the aisle, past the knees and over the feet of the 3 different groups of people left sitting: the hell-bound uncatholics, the catholics who ate 30 seconds before mass, and the "fallen" catholics stuck doing hard time in the pews, denied the Christ because of some unforgivable act like DIVORCE.

During this death march, (yes, death march, 'cause if we're believing in the body and blood than we might as well call a spade a spade since we're gonna eat us some good J.C.), most penitent catholics are probably praying, thanking the Lord for their bounty and Jesus for dying for their sins, etc., etc. Not me. Nope, I was sweatin' whether or not people could see my panty lines, or whether the back of my hair looked smushed, or if anyone could see the runner in my panty hose that some sinful wanker back in the pew just snagged.

So on this particular Sunday, I plowed up the aisle dressed in pink pumps, nude panty hose, pink skirt and white shirt with some pilgrim-like collar (only the Lord our God knows why these details have stuck with me 20+ years later). As my turn approached, louder roared my weekly internal dialogue of "Mouth or hand? Mouth or hand? Mouth or hand?" See, if I let the priest put the host in my mouth, I don't have to worry about the sidestep pause before the altar, I can just bust it back to my seat. But if I let the priest do this, I must open my mouth and, ever so slightly, stick out my tongue. And how scary to stick your tongue out in front of a judgemental congregation of righteous catholics?

Especially my tongue. I wouldn't say my tongue is repulsive or yucko like the tongue of that poor, ailing triceratops in the first "Jurassic Park," mine has no scales to peel off or gunk to scrape. But rather than having a long, skinny, rather elegant tongue, mine is kinda short and stubby. Just too tongue-like for me to feel comfortable in showing to a church full of would-be tongue judgers.

On this Sunday, dressed in my pink and white, I opted for the hand. So, up I went, the altar boy stuck the little gold plate under my cupped palms, and the nasty priest placed the host in my hands. Good. No problem. Now side step right, pause before the altar while taking the host with my right hand, raising it to my mouth, almost there and AAAAAAAAAHHHH! I missed my mouth and dropped it, down my shirt. And I turned to see a classmate's jaw drop. Fuck!

Flustered, red and fumbling, I made it back to my pew and knelt, thinking of the host now stuck somewhere between my teen bosoms and belly button. My brain reeled. "What do I do? What do I do? What do I do?" I command the host to remain in my shirt. I worry. I fret. I sweat. "What if I stand and it slides past my waist band and falls out, onto the floor, between my feet?" Would on-lookers think I'd drop-birthed a host? My internal curse monger starts bitching about church being so full, and why the fuck we had to come to a Sunday morning mass when we were traditionally part of the lazy jeans wearing Saturday night crew? "Why, Father, have you forsaken me?!"

So I stammered and mumbled through the rest of the mass. "Shit! A closing hymn?! For fuck's sake! When's this going to end?!" And then it did, allowing me to hit the restroom. Finding it empty, I reached down into my shirt and pulled out the offending piece of Christ. Now, this is the exact moment when the sinnin' takes place. I'm alone in this restroom, no one's around to watch me take it or trash it. I paused, still feeling embarrassed and scorned . . . and I tossed it. I threw GOD into the trash can! I even looked at it, the tiny, pathetic little host laying feebly among wadded up brown paper towels in the garbage can.

I've done some sorry ass things in my life, but this is certainly one act for which I will burn in hell. Man, I feel yucky just remembering it. Like I kicked a kitten. Oh shit, I think I just heard a gun cock. Yup, Jesus is knockin'.