Last night, as I cuddled into my dreamy angel, extra-pillowtop mattress, I had no idea that the Lord or someone would unveil a vision of horror to me. As it was February 28th, I must have known in-spirit a precipice to hell would be opening soon in that culturally-endorsed Bacchanalia known as spring break.
The vision began softly and pleasantly. I found myself in a rhinestone palace. Gold leaf wrapped every conceivable curve of ornately carved wood. I was waltzing with Liberace, and as we spun around the ballroom, we giggled with delight. When the dance concluded, a liveried waiter led us to a dainty Louise, the XIV settee.
As we sipped champagne from pink diamond flutes, the waiter started a movie on a flat-screen T.V. It showed a parade of lithe, tanned, blond college coeds in string bikinis. I turned to Liberace and whispered conspiratorially, “Nymphomaniacs in training, no doubt.”
He tittered behind his lacy sleeve. “No doubt, indeed. Disgusting!”
“Well, they’re certainly not your type, anyway,” I said. We toasted to this truth. Then we returned our attention to the screen.
The lascivious lemmings were hurling themselves off a cliff, but instead of diving into a pool of icy water, they were leaping into a lake of fire. They sizzled like filets and were no more, burned to death by the wrath of God for their immodest bathing attire.
“Praise the Lord!” we cheered as each harlot incinerated.
“Gladys, wake up! It’s me, the Lord.”
I rose to consciousness in my dark bedroom. I took the sleep mask from my eyes and fumbled for the bedside light.
“We need to talk,” the Lord said and handed me a cup of tea.
I sat up in bed. He was wearing his very traditional light-blue robe and sandals. He looked great.
I sipped from the gold-rimmed tea cup. “What’s up? I was just having the most delicious vision. Thanks for that, by the way.” I smiled appreciatively.
“Jesus Christ!” the Lord threw his hands into the air, exasperated. “That vision was not from me. I do not endorse burning people in fires forever and ever. Okay?
”
I stood up and donned my pink robe. “Let’s go to the kitchen. This tea would be better with a touch of medicinal whiskey,” I said.
We sat down at the kitchen table and over our toddies, the Lord told me that he did not like the glee I was exhibiting at those poor girls’ demise, and he said he knew for a fact that Liberace did not like it either.
“Really?” I questioned. “I thought you loved casting sinners into lake of fire.” I flicked my hand as if batting away a fly.
The Lord stood up and placed his hands on the back of the chair. “No, I don’t like that. Don’t believe everything you hear about me.”
“Well, I know that you prefer women to wear one-piece bathing suits. I mean, everyone knows that.” I shook my head and laughed.
The Lord vanished in into a puff of powdery blue and as he did, I heard him say, “Whatever, Gladys.”
I took this as a certain confirmation that the Lord does not approve of two-piece bathing suits.
Dearest Snowy-White Slippers from Liberace’s Wardrobe, clearly the bikini is not appropriate for swimming, and it will only lead to eternal regret, and if not regret, skin cancer. All the leading medical experts agree that there is a clear correlation between skin cancer and bikinis. As the Lord’s appointed mouthpiece for all things ladylike and Christian, I can assure you that the one-piece suit is what the Lord likes, so it is what you must wear.
May this month of March find you modest and demure.
Comentarios