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Billy-Bob Johnson got out of his 1990 red Subaru1, looking behind him to make sure that his parking was all right. Yes, he decided a moment later, he was more or less behind the lines (well, kind of straddling one of them, to tell the truth)2, and besides, he was at a church, where they preached forgiveness. Maybe they’d turn the other cheek and refrain from calling the towing agency.
He raised up his Dockers to keep from getting them wet in the puddles. Okie-dokie, it was time to enter the church and get this done once and for all. For the past winter, he’d been essentially avoiding confessing, and now he had to atone.
The church was essentially empty, but he knew that the priest was inside the confessional. He walked in and closed the door. The slide opened and there was a pause.
“Forgive me father, for I have sinned. It has been three months since my last confession.”
“Why, my son?”
Billy-Bob rocked back on his heels, contemplating. “I felt bad and feared coming back.”
“One should never fear penance, my son. It is the way to win back God’s forgiveness.”
“Yes, father. May I begin?”
“Well, you’re already in trouble for procrastination. Twenty hail-marys right there. But please do continue.”
“Twenty?” Billy-Bob balked. Usually he was a very religious man, understanding of the limits of the church. This seemed excessive.
“Would you like me to break out the rosaries? Don’t doubt my patience, child.”
Billy-Bob sighed. “Well, then I’m really going to get in trouble for this next thing. I’ve been smoking marijuana.”
“And?”
“I’ve... been smoking marijuana. Aren’t I going to get in trouble for that?”
“I can’t recall anything against that in the Bible. As long as the cops don’t catch you, it’s okay. God put cannabis on this planet for something. ‘Don’t panic, it’s organic,’ remember? Try to stay away from anything synthesized in a lab. The Devil lurks in laboratories.”
“Oh. Should I continue?”
“Sure. Go ahead. Unless you’d like us to sit here contemplating life in awkward silence.”
“No, that’s all right. The next thing I’ve been doing... well, father, this is shameful.”
“Isn’t everything you do? Let’s keep moving.”
“I’ve been mastubating.”
(At this point, the priest gently snickered.)
“Have you now?”
“Yes. Almost three times a day. I can’t stop, Father.”
(pause)
“... Very interesting.”
“Father?”
“I’d say eight rosaries for every infraction, but that would be a lot, wouldn’t it?”
Billy-Bob didn’t say anything.
“All right, you know what I want you to try doing?”
“What?”
“I’d like you to take a long hot shower tonight and start your ... process ... then I’d like you to stop halfway through.”
“WHAT?”
“That’s right, my son. I want you to blue-ball it.”
Billy-Bob looked fearfully around in the darkness. “Excuse me?”
“That’ll teach you a lesson. Your nads will be aching for a span of time in which you can think about spilling your seed of onan on next month’s harvest.”
Billy-Bob winced. “Eight rosaries for each time?”
“No. You’re going to have to learn that just because the machinery is well-oiled, this doesn’t mean you have to drive the car. Or speed on the freeway for that matter.”
“... All right.”
“Anything else?”
“I suppose no, not really.”
“You can start now, if you’d like.”
(Long, awkward pause.)
“No,” Billy-Bob replied, “I really would prefer to do this later, at my home.”
“Whatever makes you happy.”
“Father.... thank you.” Billy-Bob rose to leave.
“Oh, and son! Next time, learn to park.”
“Yes, father.”
Billy-Bob ran back to the car, which had been towed.
Back in the church, the priest’s nephew slid out of the confessional and slunk between the rows and out the back door. He adjusted his Marilyn Manson shirt and started walking towards the nearest bar.
1Ben's car (though this story isn't about Ben at all);
2my driving