There are a lot of stereotypes about the Irish. That you drink, that you’re all Catholic,
that you carouse and carry on at all hours, and that you’ll fuck anything that
isn’t running away. We’d normally say “nailed
down” there, but nailing something down actually makes it easier to fuck so…
We digress. All of
these stereotypes are actually embodied in you.
You’re a Catholic Parishioner named Pauly and you love three things:
booze, whores and other people’s wives.
You’re also lazy, love corned beef, and constantly criticize others
without ever turning the lens upon yourself.
And you’re a coward: while you love helping lonely, bored wives cheat,
you almost always do so in the most surreptitious fashion possible, so as to
avoid any kind of violet blowup or fallout from your actions.
Today you’re going to be given an exceptional opportunity to
change all that. Today, after you wake
up on a church pew from the previous night’s bender, mouth all full of cotton,
head pounding with blood, you’ll see a woman standing in the middle of the
aisle, tapping her foot and staring at you.
Her eyes will be puffy.
“Ach, ee, begorah lass.
Wassapassfayatuday?” you’ll slur at her, quite stereotypically.
She’ll look at you for a moment, processing your
incoherently speech, before shaking her head and looking you in the eye.
“I discovered my husband, drunk as he’s ever been, in bed
with our next door neighbor’s daughter last night.”
“Acha, lass, ess fah fram the wahstathings.”
“The girl’s thirteen,” she’ll murmur. “Same age as my daughter.”
You’ll be speechless there for a moment. This woman came to you in her weakest hour
for solace and guidance. You’ll wonder,
for a moment, if you should do what you plan to do to this woman: take her to
your chambers to console her and then get her a little drunk and just rail on
her until you come inside her. She’ll
start weeping, fall to her knees in the aisle and look up at the ceiling,
apparently beseeching it for answers.
You’ll walk over to her and place your hand on her
shoulder. She’ll look up at you, eyes
welling with tears. She’ll look away,
unable to hold your vision for more than a few seconds. You’ll drop to her level, on your knees as
well, looking deep into her eyes.
“S’not much awe cando, y’see, luv. Ha’ ya talked to th’thorities regardin’ such
– “ you’ll begin entreating her interests, marking the first time, in your
career as a parishioner that you’ve actually done anything that even vaguely
resembles a parishioner’s duty. But before
you can finish your sentence, she’ll have leaned in to kiss you.
“I didn’t come here for your words. I need a man inside me. A worthless man, a man who will cuckhold my
husband, take away his hold on me,” she’ll whisper into your ear. Then she’ll kiss you again and push you on
your back with one hand while unbuttoning your pants with the other.
As she climbs on top of you you’ll consider protesting. But as her hand finds your penis and reminds
it of its function coarsely, you’ll realize that this is another way to serve
your parish. You’ll lay back and let it
happen and, in that moment, avoid changing who you are to make the world a
better place, insuring that things won’t change, at least not too much.
Congratulations Parishioner Pauly!
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