Life of Riley: Prayer of the Foetus Worshippers

November 30, 1994

Prayer of the Foetus Worshippers

By Dave Riley

Every time I open my wallet an avalanche of lubricated prophylactic extra sensitive thingdimmanies tumble right out. I must find a better spot for them. If nothing "happens" soon, I'll just have to tear them open and shove them on my fingers every time I do the dishes.

Be prepared. That's the point. Dib. Dib. Be a bit of a boy scout.

What do I keep in my Glomesh bag? Rough Rider. Ecstasy. Stimula ... Such words are at my fingertips.

You can get them with or without spermicide. The withouts are the ones the pope uses. Imprimatur Est — as worn by the Bishop of Rome when doing the dishes.

And Jesus said: "You wash, I dry."

Long before the present pope, all those biblical boys got together down behind the burning bush to create a new gynaecology. Without the benefit of womankind, they begat one another.

Irad begat Mehujael; and Mehujael begat Methusael; and Methusael begat Lamuech ... and so it went: the begat of the beguine.

Between begats they got to know their wives: "G'day dear", they said. "How's it going?" Adam knew Eve and she conceived. Cain knew his wife and she conceived. And Adam knew Eve again and she bare him a son.

Those in the know had a way with sex. This was the very beginning of social intercourse and mathematics too — because how many knows make up a begat?

God, always first in the virility stakes, was so popular he was all knowing. The Great One had arithmetic on his side. Sons of Adam or daughters of Eve God always knew.

This is how God the father, God the son, and God the Wire-Haired Fox Terrier came to be.

This reminds me of my local chemist. Ralph McTell — the friendly family pharmacist — refuses to sell condoms. Any other item of personal hygiene is yours for the asking. You can, with a good conscience, purge your lower bowel or deforest your armpit with Ralph's blessing, but no snug plastics are to go anywhere near an erected penis. Regardless of the armoury of pharmacopoeia Ralph dispenses from his shop, he prescribes an organic sex life for all.

"Keep it natural", he insists, "just like my compost heap".

So I walk into his establishment and say: "I'd like a toothbrush please; and have you any freds? I'd like a gumboot or two — any frogs or frangers? I seek some protection — rubbers, raincoats, frenchies — singles or in sets. I'm after a sheaf for the penis."

This is too much for Ralph, and he collapses to his knees over by the mouthwashes as he recites the prayer for the unborn. This pharmacist is a Foetus Worshipper. He keeps bottles of them in the back room — a whole wall of foeti — and acts as casting agent for Right to Life pictorials. Selections from his collection are often featured in their Embryo of the Month Club.

Kneeling in prayer Ralph sends up another missive:
Soul of the foetus glorify me.
Body of the foetus nourish me.
Blood of the foetus intoxicate me.
Tears of the foetus wash me.
Fruit of thy womb —
So long as it's not mine!
In saecula saeculorum. Amen.

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