Born on Good Friday I skipped the noontime mass on Ash Wednesday, my forehead unblemished by the priest’s thumbprint. I ate seven meatball subs for each day of Holy Week while any good Catholic would’ve been fasting, snuggling up with their hunger pains, constipated. Instead, I held The Last Supper in my own kitchen. Judas was drinking my beer and belching his prayers while Paul lost at solitaire, aching for a corndog. A commercial for Catholics Come Home came on the television between innings of the Sox game. A clean-cut Christian guy, sober and fat, attested to reconnecting with Christ, like a Facebook friend, and it changed his life. Meanwhile, in a still-frame beside him, there was a picture of a slovenly man, thinner with mustard on his shirt—the former heathen with bloodshot eyes and hair like weeds around a crucifix. “There he is,” I said to Peter, who was strictly a pothead. “He’s our thirteenth apostle, and he...
Like the title says.