I’m looking forward to our new church sanctuary because it will have pews. Right now we sit on folding chairs, which is part of the reason why I had to stare at the pimply ass-crack of the young woman in front of me, until I left to sit in the lobby, where the view was brighter and the sermon sounded kinder. She was a visitor, and some grace must be afforded, though the regular member who brought her treated everyone to more than we needed to see of her lime-green underwear.
At this point, please play in your head the voice of a nasally overindulged teenage girl, complaining that you just can’t buy pants any more that don’t sink low on the hips. Now, please slap this girl, as well as her mother and father. Cathartic, isn’t it? You certainly can buy pants that don’t expose your butt, and while you’re at it you can pick out some shirts that don’t expose your poochy belly and your brave little bellybutton hardware. On behalf of civilized society everywhere, I’d like to say that we are all tired of being the captive audience for your self-obsessed, half-naked prancing.
Oh, and wearing flip-flops at a funeral? If I child did that, I’d expect that I should be shot for failing to properly raise the child.