Mortal sin

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Yeah, dat's me, Fadda Murphy. Check out my prince duds and jew cap. Looka' my bling and da Pollock behind me. Now touch the frame. Touch it, damnit! Made from the finest wood, smooth as a baby's bottom. Where'dya think we get the cash for all dis stuff? Fallin' from da sky? Break ya balls as much as look at ya, now move along.

Welcome everyone. Mortal Sin is the topic at this evening's Knights of Columbus monthly meeting, and we give a guarded "hip-hip-horray!" welcome to Father John Murphy. Father Murphy, as you've all been made aware, is one of the Pope's most loyal and trusted advisors and his chief spokesperson. A combined Curia/Swiss Guard inquiry has been taking testimony all month to try to find out why. So before they report back in the next week or two, find a seat, take our your video phone because people are now putting this guy on YouTube, and listen to Father Murphy. He came to us direct from Roma, and he is always ready to lay it on the line so he must be nuts, put your hands together and welcome John back. Father Murphy, would you like to begin. . .

Yeah, thanks. Get me a glass of water will ya. No, no, not dat bottle. Da brown one, over dere in my jacket. Yeah, dats it. About three fingers, and put a little ice in it to cool off an old man's throat. OK, listen up.

A Quick Introduction to Mortal Sin

Ya all know dat Mortal Sin puts ya ghost up shit creek without a paddle, right? And dat it follows ya from the moment ya commit it to the end of eternity. At least dats what da holy mudda church hires da priests and da publishers to tell ya. So Catholics have been soiling their dockers about dis Mortal Sin malarkey ever since da first churchman extorted da first silver from da pocket of the first parishioner - and wasn't dat jamoke in for a freakin' surprise when da guy kept comin' back for his take for the rest of his life. Yeah, the con game started early, and da hustle has filled da treasury of all but the lamest of the lame-duck popes ever since.

Have you ever committed a Mortal Sin?

Have ya ever killed a guy with your bare hands? Sacrificed a baby to that broad Buffy Summers? (Don't ask. Hey wiseguy, I said don't ask.) Pocketed a quarter from a blind man's cup? Once missed goin' on over to attend to da church on Sunday? Ya, once is all ya need for dat one. Well, if you answered "yes" to any of dose, and we got about a thousand more, then bucko, bend over and kiss it goodbye. Because when you "die" (yeah, right, like that's ever gonna happen) your immortal' soul is goin' straight to da big volcano. You'll be burnin' up like an oily soaked witch, or dat hippie chick Jeanne D'Arc, every day of ya life. Scared yet? Then fork over some dough, maybe ya can buy your way out of it. Capice?

There's one born every minute


One's born every minute? Ha. More like a dozen. We Catholics push 'em out like larvae. Keeps the pews warm. Alright, picture this. A guy about 1,600 years ago, dis dago Emperor, figures dat to keep da people in line ya gotta scramble their brains up just enough to lead them around by da nose. So he lays down all dese rules, "ya gotta do dis, ya gotta do that", dat kind of fairy dust. And eventually his boys take over. They start in on doing tings like stealing all the pagan holidays and renaming 'dem for guys we control; kicking some jew ass on da ground and in da propaganda wars - ya know, rough 'em up a bit and toss em outta da con; and from time to time lighting up a few "unbelievers" to keep da crowd buzzin'.

Then there was da 'sins'. Fuckin' greedy genius first thought dat up, guys, we oughtta put up a statue for dat gumba in da middle of St. Peder's plaza so we can rub its iron ass for luck.

Da minor sins, we can get dose out of da way right now. They are the short-term griffs, da pea-under-the-cup games of da Catholic church. You lie, you gotta pay a fine, and dat gets you off da hook. Ya steal, fuck ya, get in that little booth, confess, and give us our ten-percent. Same with looking at someone's body walkin' down da street like ya wanna fuck 'em. Like dat's not everyone's daily bread! But, well, ya do dat enough, ya just gotta put some more money in the meter and you're good to go.

Da guy who thought dem up named dem Venial sins, after his favorite mistress, and from den on in dese things have taken care of da light bills, da salaries, an keep grub on da table. How abut Original sin? Forgettabouit. Everybody has dat, and it's good-to-go anytime da rectory needs a new roof, ya have a cravin' for dat new car, or ya just want an influx of walkin' around coin.

But the real money? Now dats in Mortal sin. Let me fill ya in on the con.

Well, building on da inspiration of Venial and Original sins, dat same egghead, or maybe another slick, came up with da concep' of "Mortal sin". He says "Ya do dis, ya know what? You gonna roast in dat goat guy's eternal fire forever. . .all da time ...unless" - and here's da hook - "unless ya come to me, cry like a baby, beg forgiveness, and empty ya pockets".

Pure genius! Forchristsake, we'll gonna forgive da suckers anything if the price is right?! Whack a few guys for all we care, jus' fill up the coffers and back outta dere with ya tail between ya legs? Inspired fluggin' genius. Presto chango, we take ya average human beings, jus' happy pleasure lovin' chimpanzees, and we make wimps and monkeys outtaf 'em. Dat's the con! Get it? Ya scare 'em, wimp 'em up, take their loot, and get'em outta da door until dey file right back in again da next week. Sweet.

Purgatory and Government control

Da things we had to do to pull dis off, we had to control da governments and the Kings and all dat whatnot. These are da guys who write da 'tax laws' - talk 'bout a scam, we're minor league compared to dose jamokes - so we had to own 'em. Ya wanna know how we did it? Purgatory! Let me tell ya, some Italian must have been smokin' some really good shit da day he thought dat one up. Put his statue right up der with dat Mortal Sin guy and you've got Lennon and McCartney.

See, this Purgatory place was like hell, only ya could cut outta der by payin' us even more loot. It was like, you sin, bam!, ya spend 10,000 years in purgatory. It's gonna hurt da fuck outta ya, it's gonna make you miserable and moanin' every second for 10,000 years. Only ya know what? We can shave dat down to a day or two if ya ante up so-and-so.

It turned out dat da people were even more afraid of goin' to dis purgatory than dey were of dere Kings and ministers and da other swells. So dat was dat. Ya promise 'em a little purgatory parole, mumbo-jumbo it up with "holy" water and "holy" bread, throw in a few candles, and ya own 'em! Then ya charge 'em for da candles.

Hey, how about we give the Father a little break here, and then come back for some Q and A. Is that OK, Father?

Yeah, I gotta pee like a racehorse.

Questions and answers

Everyone settle down, quit yappin' like magpies. Hey, ya think ya can freshen dis up a little? Yeah...yeah, keep pouring. Dere ya go. Alright, toss some questions at me. You, da broad with da ponytail.


Father Murphy, my boyfriend says I'm committing a mortal sin if I don't give him oral sex after he goes down on me. Is he right?

Yeah. Look, any broad who won't give her man a little throat didn't go to no Catholic school, I can tellz ya dat. So because you're practically a heathen in da eyes of God, ya gotta do some penance. I know this isn't any confessional here, but you're da one who asked da question sweetie, so here's my advice. Say three Hail Marys and one Our Fadda. We gotta tell everyone dat. Then toss 20 bucks in my pocket here. Yeah, stuff it in dere, not quite, move your hand around a little to settle it in. Dats right. Hey, hey, don't look so surprised, it's an old Catholic school trick, girly. You'd have learned it if you'd ever gone there. OK, so, where were we. . .den da last thing ya gotta do is ta go home and blow him. Make da boy moan like a ghost. Like dat friggin' pretty-boy Casper. There, ya got your advice. Now go, and sin no more. Alright, da jew lookin' guy, right up front dere. Ya, you, spit it out.

Father, I am honored to meet you. About the mortal sin of killing Jesus, do all Jewish people have to carry that burden around forever?

Ya killed da lord, mudda fucker. So shut da fuck up! Nah, nah, nah, just kiddin', gotta have a sense of humour in this biz, keeps ya ticker pumpin'. So ya, youz wanna know how much play we got outta dat one? It kept ya jewboys tied up in knots for at least 1500 years. How'd ya like it? "Oooohh, dey killed da lord", we'd point our fingers at ya and you'd cry crocodile tears, and all dat time we got da chunk of da action youse guys used to get and atta same time we kept ya complaining like mudder Mary at da cross. And da holocaust? Forgetaboutit. Alright next. Over there, the freeloading hippie hoggin' all da donuts and coffee.

Will I really go to Hell if I die with unforgiven Mortal Sins?

Ah Jeez, we gotta smart aleck here. Haven't ya been listening? I'll spell it out fer ya Bozo, in letters ya can understand. S-C-A-M. No? How 'bout H-U-S-T-L-E. Wannanother one? E-A-T M-E. Hey, don't get ya diapers twisted sonny, I threw dat last one in dere to see if there's any fire in ya belly. So let me just tell ya dis: hell is for sissies. Dats right. Da only ones who get to go dere are da guys who don't know how to play a decent hand. Ya got ya 'believers', and ya got ya 'scammin' the believers', and if ya don't know what side of dat equation ya bread is buttering on den I can't learns ya, capiche? OK, you, the walkin' stick der. Jeeziz lady, don't ya eat?


Forgettaboutit! Ya crossin' a line here, missy. Look, we take care of ya nuns. We gives ya some food - eat it for Chrisake - and a place ta live. And all youse gotta do is indocrinate da kiddies all day long. You're happy, we're happy, one hand washes da udder, knowwhatImean? So whatareya saying, you want a piece of da action for real? You gotta be kiddin' me. Get a life. Next question.


Thank ya Fadda O'Malley, someone 'round here finally decided to ask a decent question. OK, pay-as-ya-go has dried up a little, gotta admit da facts. Goin' back a little, jus' imagine what it was like in da glory days. Da boys had da world eatin' outta dere hands. Then dat Martin Luther guy, nah, not da nigga commie for chistsake, da other guy, a couple hundred years ago, da smart alec who didn't like da Vatican sellin' get-outta-jail-free cards. Marty Luther started his wailing by nailin' up a bunch of sissified complaints on some church door, generally puttin' together a new scam where da money goes to his boyz instead of ours. We've had to fight and carve up da territories with his guys ever since.

But O'Malley, what ya tryin' to ask'd me about here, I'll give ya da low down. Startin' in da 1960s ya got ya hippies, all dose Hoffman's and Rubin's and da other longhairs, pryin' da kids away from da church. Before ya can turn aroun' and piss south ya gotta TV characters yappin' all dis anti-catholic crap, and den all a dis "in-da-know" stuff and truth-squad walkabouts kept showin' up on dose electronic boxes da kids carry around, you know, da innernests, YouseTube, an dose.

So yeah, da protection racket took a few hits. Didn't help a whole lot either dat most catholic broads bought into dis abortion craze, which carved away some of our future traffic. And about dose can't-keep-it-in-dere-pants faddas who got caught with da kids? Don't get me started!

But den, on top of all dis grief, dis Da Vinnie Code guy has to stick his two cents in. He starts flappin' his jaw about Mrs. Christ - ya, she was da missus, I've seen da paperwork - like she's God's gift ta man. Why'd ya think we had to trash her in da first place, ever since da marks started to read? Callin' her a whore and whatnot. Mary Magdelene waz no more of a whore than you dere, starvin' girl, but I'd pay to fuck either of ya. Now, now, jus' kiddin', simmer down missy, cool ya jets. Nuns! Well, da thing is dat Mrs. Christ never said nothin' to endorse da scams, so we couldn't have anyone throwin' sand in da works by spoutin' her gospel, seewhatImean? Ya, she wrote a gospel, quotin' her whipped husband on everything like forgivness and love and whatnot, writin' down all of his mushy pillow talk right after dey finished humpin' like rabbits. Gotta keep dat one buried in da vault, tells ya dat.

So all dese tings addin' up over time, and da scam "has suffer'd a setback" as dis smartiepants jew accountant at da Vatican keeps tellin' us. But whatyagonnadoboutit? Mortal Sin still pulls in da marks, and we pocket enough to keep us in-crowd mugs in da pink. So dere ya go.

I'm done here O'Malley. C'mon, let's get us a nightcap.

Thank you for your fascinating talk this evening, Father, we all enjoyed it. Would you bless us before we go?


More talks by da good Fadda Murphy linked here an dere

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