I'm frittering along Pine in my Corvair the other eve when I spot the license-plate holder of my lifetime: "I Love Jesus. I Just Hate


Honor thy chalupa salesman

Church vs. State in Scottsburg and Seattle.

I'm frittering along Pine in my Corvair the other eve when I spot the license-plate holder of my lifetime: "I Love Jesus. I Just Hate His Fan Club." Right next to a bumper sticker that read "Sinner."

My sentiments exactly.

All right, Christians (as if any of you actually read this rag, much less this obscure back page column), y'all think I lack cred with this flip, anti-theologic comment? Not. Guess who was raised Catholic and attended church every waking moment of his first 18 years? Yours truly—that's who. What's funny is I loved growing up Catholic. Check that—I think I loved growing up Irish Catholic more than just goin' to them tired ol' masses. "Saucy" would be the adjective to describe it.

But I will give Catholicism some props. It does indeed, as they say, foster "a great sense of community." Unless, of course, that community is Scottsburg, Indiana, where the predominantly Christian, lily-white school board recently decided it wouldn't be a breach of the increasingly tenuous line between church and state to post their "Common Precepts to Promote a Virtuous and Civil School Community."

A cheap knockoff of the real Ten Commandments, a sampling of these zingers yields: "Trust in God," "Tell the truth," "Save sex for marriage," "Stay drug and alcohol free," and "Avoid being jealous of what others have."

I thought the Scottsburg saga was all Pat Robertson-driven shite 'til I realized what great sense it would make to come up with Ten Commandments to be posted in every public facility in Seattle, especially as our city reels from WTO residue and cancellation of a Y2K bonfire that would have made that Texas A&M deathfest seem like small potatoes:

Thou shalt not pretend to masquerade as a Democrat if thou art really a Republican with a severe case of Kirkland envy. Even as he sinks to the lowest depths of his human existence, Schell's still done a far better job then I ever expected. From the get-go, I saw Paul for what he really is, a French, Republican developer who ran for mayor because Mindy Cameron wouldn't stop blowing sunshine up his ass in her Sunday column. Paul's loose lips and international aspirations have actually brought this city back to earth. For that, he deserves our gratitude—and a one-way ticket back to France after his first term.

Thou shalt not use cellular phones while riding thy Metro bus or eating in greasy spoons. Some venues should be held sacrosanct when it comes to the invasion of modern devices. Hop on Joe Metro after a hard day's night or waltz into Hattie's for a Bloody Mary 'n' bacon and you should be able to enjoy endearingly weathered people and ambiance without hearing Chaz talk to his best bud Trajan one table over about the horrifying dip in the science and technology sector.

Thou shalt not check public opinion polls before deciding between white or wheat for breakfast in the Guv's mansion. Am I the only one who feels like Gary and Mona Locke will somehow squeeze out one-third of another kid so they can pull dead even with the national average and therefore appease everyone and their mother, regardless of political stripes? As Bradley succeeds in moving Tron (Gore) to the liberal left, centrist, pussy pacifists like Locke look more stale every day. Fuck pecking order, Gregoire—jump in the primary.

Thou shalt not attempt to climb through the drive-through window of the Aurora Taco Bell at three in the morning to beat the shit out of the employee because he shorted you one chalupa. No, no—not me, but rather the true story of a roid-raged defensive lineman who actually got stuck in the window while attempting this deranged ploy. On second thought, I guess if you tip the scales under 220, you could probably pull this one off.

Thy authentic Fremont residents shalt not let the "Center of the Universe" become another Queen Anne. The Triangle used to be a dark, funky, dingy bar full of shady hipsters. Now it's so yupped out that I feel I have to chop out a rail of blow for the bouncer just to gain admission. And, to top it off, I thought I saw Shadoe Stevens in there last year trying to work a girl half his age. Youch.

Thou shalt not underestimate the power of the P.I. Blethen wore that sickening shirt with the Times' eagle eating the P.I. globe, but little does Frank know what stalwarts like Horsey, Paynter, and Thiel mean to the morning crowd.

Thou shalt not schedule Y2K bonfires at Seattle Center right after after a bunch of drunk Texas college students get killed by a berserk burn-off. OK, so we scheduled our bonfire before the Texas A&M tragedy—but since when were bonfires the bee's knees outside of a kegger at Golden Gardens? Never, that's when. Lame idea—great cancellation.

Thou shalt not piss and moan about an amazing police chief in favor of promoting a rank-and-file-friendly cop to the top post. Y'all thought Stamper was bad? Hope you like getting sodomized with broomsticks for a burnt-out left blinker.

Thou shalt not belt down three Dick's burgers and fries after drinking eight double bourbons and singing Hall & Oates' "Maneater" at the Peking Palace. I learned this the hard way. Thou shalt all learn from my mistake.

Thou shalt not blaspheme mighty Catholicism (even in jest). I'm going to hell for this one, folks. Anyone with me?

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