Sunday Sunday part 1....

The smell of the bean bag ash tray my Grandmother used to keep on the dashboard of her light green 71 Chevy Nova just passed through my smell bank. Lipstick ended butts of the Marlboro 100 variety overstuffed the tin topped hacky sack.

We drove to church in that car every sunday, picking up all the other old whining widows on the block. By the time we got to the stop light at the end of our street, the car would be full of cankles covered with thick brown panty hose, stuffed into what I know now to be orthopedic nursing shoes. Back then they just looked like weird clogs that the hipsters all wear nowadays. My Grandmother put a plant in one, she kept it on the top of her television. The aqua net hunger force was so heavy that I can't believe the car didn't explode every time my Grandmother lit up a cigarette. Even with the windows rolled all the way down, no ones hair moved a fucking centimeter out of place, except the hair above their lips of course.

The church was in a nicer part of the ghetto in Passaic NJ. A predominantly black area, but the church was mixed pretty much evenly with big greasy buckets of fried chicken, and bread so white you could sog it in milk and make meatballs. With a chainsmoking, perverted priest spouting out lies from the book I played tic tac toe in, while pouring cheap wine and shitty crackers down everyone's throats. I would sit with a girl I would kind of want to fuck a few years later, even though she had developed a mustache like my Grandmothers friends.

Aunt Mary sounded just like Patsy Cline, the man at her karaoke bar used to tell her that. I never knew the words to any of those fucking church songs, I just couldn't wait for cake and milk after the sermon in the big room. I would play hide and seek with the mustache girl, laying low under the marine layer of smoke that filled the room. All the old pigeons pecked away at whoever wasn't there that week. While the men in maze colored turtle necks with big sideburns pervily stared at the young daughters in their sunday best, hoping to get a quick peek of the 9 year olds bloomers, and have a quick wank in the car before the afternoon football events commenced... all n all they were pretty good sundays, I got to dress up in corduroy and hush puppies, junk out on cake, and learn how to kiss girls. All while getting to chug a glass of wine at the ripe old age of eight. I loved the smell of the red juice that came out of that gold lamp looking thing. The chainsmoking perv would tilt my head back and pour it into my mouth, the whole time wishing it was his balls.