By Richard P. McBrien
Dick is a professor of Theology at Notre Dame and, according to the inside of the book cover, also a leading authority on Catholicism.
His picture alone, also on the inside cover, pompous, paternal and practically oozing with the cloying, sage-like smugness you would expect from an elderly expert in nonsense, is enough to hurl this volume in disgust at your terrified and unsuspecting cat.
I, however, am interested in this incredibly complex fantasy world that the Catholics have created. This elaborateness is a strength of the original church. Something this complicated must have some truth to it, or some such reasoning, seems to be the strategy here.
This is my bowel movement companion.
Every time I sit in that smallest and most comfortable of rooms, expelling last-night’s mixture of Haggis, Twinkies and filet of Nebraska wart hog, or whatever the content of my troth happened to be, I read about one Saint.
As if by miraculous design, the average amount of text allotted to each Saint takes roughly the same amount of time to read as it takes the average citizen to produce a perfectly shaped, all-American stool.
Of each Saint a special mention is made if the person was martyred, or, if female, never fucked.
It’s a really fun read.
The one Saint whom I mistrust, though, is St. Dominic Savio.
I think he’s a real slacker.
He, after all, is the patron Saint of choirboys.