Religion and weed Pt. 1

I think that religion is the mostest funniest topic on the face of the earth. (mostest funniest=the highest level of funny that one subject can attain.) I have a wide range of religious influences myself. Anything that can make the masses uncomfortable is worth joking about. Let me say before I go on ranting that I do believe in God. I don’t believe in Religion. Too many people have died at the hands of the religious.
I was raised in a home where I attended Sunday school and church on a regular basis. (not with my parents, they were all too eager to put us on that raggedy old church bus and go inside and bump uglies) After my brother got kicked off the bus for mooning the preacher, we stopped going to church.
When I was 10 my father ran away with the catholic, whore-bag, slut-faced, tramp that used to live across the street from us. (that’s what my mother called her, anyway) Shortly after that, my father and his trick took my brother and I on vacation to the slums of Fort Worth Texas, and he didn’t clear it with my mother, who had custody of us. We realized that we wouldn’t see mom again for a while as soon as we moved into the Roach Motel and had a gourmet dinner of hot dogs and egg noodles. (which was Slut Face’s own recipe in which she brilliantly combined sliced fried hot dogs with egg noodles). Long story short-Mom found us, begged us to come home, but Dickhead Dad already had us believing that she was a two-bit tramp. So we moved to the greatest city on earth, Philadelphia. My brother, however, knew that the big city life was not for him, called Mom, and headed back home to the Jersey shore.
Slut Face tried immediately to turn me into a good little Catholic. That didn’t last long, I guess the priests didn’t find me to be very sexy. Actually, I went back to live with my mom. (I was a very sexy young lad, just so you know.) Big city life was not for me either, No sir!
The moment that I walked through the door at my mom’s, I knew I was home. But, what the fuck was that strange smell? I dunno. I didn’t smell it for long, because out of his bedroom came my brother, Jethro (and not just for the purpose of this story either. Jethro was his nickname. He absolutely hated it. So, “Fuck you, Jethro!!!) Man, were his eyes red. He must have allergies. “What the fuck are you laughing at?” I asked Jethro. “I don’t know. Hahahahahaha. Wanna come jam to some tunes?” he slurred. “Sure!!!” said I. “Go ahead Chuckie, you two have a bit of catching up to do,” said Mom, as she donned her apron(My mother never wore an apron, in fact she always wore next to nothing, that’s why I need therapy) and began preparing a home cooked feast. (if you call frozen meatloaf heated in the microwave Home-cooked. )
When I entered Jethro’s room, a wave of pungent smoke hit me in the face. I was also greeted by some friends that I had not seen for quite some time. When they asked, “Did you ever smoke weed in the big city, Slick?” I quickly retorted, “Fuck yeah, I’ll smoke all day, bitch!!” I had never once in my entire life even seen weed, let alone smoke it. But I couldn't let them know that. I sold them on the lie that I once smoked with George Thorogood. Then Jethro passed the joint to me. I took it, and puffed away, then blew out a mouthful of smoke. “No, fag. You gotta inhale, just breathe it in.” So I did. My first toke. I would never be the same again.