Dear St. Jorge,
When your Royal Enfield Bullet 350 noisily enters your quiet, sleepy little hometown and roars past your little church, your parish priest shivers in his shoes, buries his head in his hands, and groans. Whenever your parish priest, a gentle little man in his early forties, sees your huge body, your huge backpack, and your huge Bullet 350, he wishes he were dead.
Your ex-girlfriend, the one who broke up with you when she realized what a two-faced, two-timing cad you are, sees your Bullet 350 roaring past her house and contemplates suicide. She just cannot tolerate the idea of having to face you in church the next day. Tears roll down her cheeks whenever she remembers how you had spread false stories about her and the parish priest.
Shortly after she broke up with you, she had started visiting the parish priest for counseling and consolation. She was totally shattered by the mental and emotional harassment she had suffered at your hands and the lies you had told her. Since she felt better and less suicidal after visiting the parish priest, she visited him again and again and again. But you, out of spite, told the entire parish that the parish priest was sleeping with her. And people believed you and laughed at her and the parish priest.
Unfortunately, people believe all your lies, St. Jorge. Even the world’s most intelligent people believe you because you tell them exactly what they want to hear. You are least bothered about the truth. In fact, the word “truth” doesn’t exist in your dictionary. You know exactly how to fool women and lure them into a relationship with you. And when you get tired of them, you abuse, hurt, and harass them so much that they flee from you in tears, their spirit broken.
Yet people believe your lies, St. Jorge. When you tell them that women are after you for your money, they believe you. Only a few know the truth, and the truth is that women give a damn for you. Instead, it is you who run around like a cheap cur, sniffing at women’s butts and then snarling at them when you have had enough of the smell.
Even your mother believes all the lies you tell her, St. Jorge. When you get your ass off your Bullet 350 and wave at her, she smiles at you. She really believes that your long-suffering wife is a shameless gold digger. She weeps at night because she thinks that your wife has wrecked your life—your worthless life. She really and truly believes that your wife prevents you from seeing your children and deprives them of a father’s love.
Your innocent mother doesn’t know that you are a monster who used to turn on the music and beat your wife out of her senses. She has absolutely no idea that your first-born, a little boy of ten, hates you and doesn’t want to see your face because he actually saw you screwing the neighbor’s wife. Your mother will never believe that you are capable of such horrific deeds.
The following day is Sunday and you go for mass. Your ex-girlfriend has decided not to step out of her house as long as you are in town. But your parish priest is not that lucky. He has to say the mass and deliver the homily. When he sees you entering the little church, a scapular around your neck, a rosary twisted around your fingers, and a small Bible in your hand, he grits his teeth and feels sick.
He watches you as you park your ass on an empty bench and survey the women in the church. Your eyes linger on exposed skin, rounded bottoms, outlines of breasts, and belly buttons half hidden in the folds of saris. Your parish priest badly wants to boot you out of the church but knows he can’t. He sighs and starts saying the mass.
Never once taking your eyes off the attractive women in the church, you pray to that Lord who died for people’s sins slightly more than two thousand years back. Since he has paid for your sins with his blood, you are now free to sin as much as you like, St. Jorge.
Disclaimer: Dear Christians, St. Jorge has nothing to do with your St. George or any other saints you may be praying to. The above is a creative piece based on real life. If you see yourself or someone you know in the above piece, the writer is not responsible.