The scrubbing of the feet, the rubbing of the bum
As I Understand It™, today is Holy Thursday — a Holy Day of Obfuscation™, as the Catholicists would have it — a day that memorializes the washing of the feet prior to the Last Supper of fishes, loaves and watery Traitor Joe™ wine. The New Testamental Washman was none other than Citizen Savior Jesus of Nazarene™ and the hygenic offering was indeed a humbling gesture for the King of the Pews™, down on his knees giving the Gangster Disciples a cake-soaped scrubbing about their calloused, knobby extenditures, which went a long way to impressing them before they turned him over to “Punch Us” Pilate who nailed the poor bugger to a cross. In any event, the washing of the feet continues to symbolize servanthood and commitment to this day, as evidenced by the legion of jarheaded males who've taken to warshing the feet of their virgin-esque brides prior to carrying them 'cross the threshold for the ceremonial dropping of the trousers, rubbing of the bum and so forth and so on, or rather in. As I think of it, a hot soaking of this Internet patrolman’s bi-pedals would be just what the doctor ordered, assuming he or she is a podiatryst, the only doctors worth their Epsom salt on this blessed day. Feet don’t fail me now!
As I Understand It™, today is Holy Thursday — a Holy Day of Obfuscation™, as the Catholicists would have it — a day that memorializes the washing of the feet prior to the Last Supper of fishes, loaves and watery Traitor Joe™ wine. The New Testamental Washman was none other than Citizen Savior Jesus of Nazarene™ and the hygenic offering was indeed a humbling gesture for the King of the Pews™, down on his knees giving the Gangster Disciples a cake-soaped scrubbing about their calloused, knobby extenditures, which went a long way to impressing them before they turned him over to “Punch Us” Pilate who nailed the poor bugger to a cross. In any event, the washing of the feet continues to symbolize servanthood and commitment to this day, as evidenced by the legion of jarheaded males who've taken to warshing the feet of their virgin-esque brides prior to carrying them 'cross the threshold for the ceremonial dropping of the trousers, rubbing of the bum and so forth and so on, or rather in. As I think of it, a hot soaking of this Internet patrolman’s bi-pedals would be just what the doctor ordered, assuming he or she is a podiatryst, the only doctors worth their Epsom salt on this blessed day. Feet don’t fail me now!