I had to attend Catholic school from kindergarten through the eight grade. It was my punishment for foolishly allowing myself to be born into a Catholic family.
Despite the assortment of mixed nuts (misfit priests and nuns) who ran the school, the nine years spent in Catholic school provided me a surprisingly good education. Although it was surely unintentional, I credit those nuns and priests for opening my mind and leading me to reject religion in general and Catholicism in particular as just a lot of empty-headed, useless hooey.
One of my teachers was a nun who went by the name of “Sister John Anthony.”
Even as a child I thought there was something not quite right about a woman who picked such a masculine name for herself when she took her vows. Why “John Anthony?” Why not “Spike” or “Bullwinkle” or “Butch Cassidy?”
Sister John Anthony was a total nut case who often went on wild rants that could easily last an hour. I remember one of her rants that erupted just after the mid-day recess. As we filed back into her classroom, it was evident that she was very already angry about something. Her dour expression was laden with religious fervor, scorn and resentment.
No sooner than we had all taken our seats she cut loose.
“How can men be so incredibly stupid and vile that their minds melt into goo at the mere sight of this bump or that lump of flesh on a girl’s body?” She was practically screaming at us already.
We looked around at each other, wondering who the hell had provoked her this time.
Sister John Anthony went on to warn the girls in our class about how unremittingly disgusting their male classmates were going to soon become. The girls were warned to ensure that their clothing was suitably chaste and covered any lumps or bumps that might transform their male classmates into ravenous sexual predators.
I was personally offended by this rant. I recognized myself in Sister John Anthony’s frothing soliloquy and vitriolic accusations. Although I was still young and my feminine classmates were only beginning to grow any interesting lumps and bumps, I had certainly taken notice of these fleshy new embellishments that were slowly transforming my skirt-wearing schoolyard pals into something far more fascinating than I had imagined possible.
I felt no shame in this. It seemed to me that this male reaction to feminine bumps and lumps that so greatly offended Sister John Anthony was actually part of Almighty God’s Divine Plan. Even at my young age, I could see that this was God’s way of ensuring the human race did not go extinct due to a lack of babies.
But Sister John Anthony was evidently violently opposed to Almighty God’s Divine Plan. As far as Sister John Anthony was concerned, Almighty God had fucked up royally by creating males who were fascinated by fleshy feminine lumps and bumps.
It made me wonder why this part of the Divine Plan pissed her off so badly.
Then it dawned on me. Perhaps, in her youth, before she decided to become a nun, Sister John Anthony had taken a fancy to a young man but that young man broke her heart by telling her that her muchachas were uniquely uninspiring and then dumping her for another girl whose fleshy bumps and lumps were more to his liking.
As I watched this nutty nun, her face twitching and frothing in rage about the absurdity of male fascination with feminine bumps and lumps, I felt a twinge of pity for Sister John Anthony and her pathetic, uninspiring tits.
