A Right Royal Event

Motes of dust glittered in Brownian motion as if heaven-sent confetti caught in the broad shaft of light that beamed its presence from above the alter and fanned-out among the chattering hum of the excited congregation and co-mingled with the gently churning organ as it piped out psalmic hymns. And then their notionally appointed spiritual leader of ceremonies sprang forth from a hydraulic plinth within a candy-rock swirl of white and purple vestments, jogging up the semi-spiral of steps to attain his singular elevation above the sea of upturned faces. Pausing only for composure, he tugged on the silvery bramble of his beard, raised the thatched arches of his brows; eyes searching out a higher power as if to re-invest himself with the pre-ordained righteousness of entitlement. Silence fell with axe drop of his outstretch arm thwacking the rim of the pulpit; the sound ricocheting between the walls of surrounding public amplifiers. He cleared his throat manfully, but was suddenly caught off-guard with the wailing of orgasmic frenzy emanating from a barrel-shaped woman, housed in a marquee of a Sunday-best dress, clutching at her air pipe between gulps, as waves of ecstasy ravaged her body and soul. Her husband, or at least an individual standing next to her willing to do what was necessary to maintain the sacred probity of the occasion, cupped her mouth and nose with one hand; then reached-round to clamp the other atop, till her eyes bulged like billiard balls and face turned from red to purple to royal blue and her flaccid body slumped down, smacking pews and proximal congregants along the way. The front-row celebrities wrenched their necks to fire stabbing glares.

Now that I have your full attention, I would like to say some prefatory words regarding the role of faith in these increasingly secular and, no doubt consequentially related, hostile times. I say unto those nay-sayers - the heathen party-poopers - those that turn their cheek to the institutions of God - Satan is waiting to score their flesh with his talons, rub salt upon the racks of their ribs, and crisp their flesh to crackling, whereupon his minions shall feast in the sans-implement gobbling of their God-less table manners.

Moving on.

Lest we forget, we are joined here today to celebrate before God's witness the holy union of this smiling harpy of a social climber and this very definition of male mediocrity - if it weren't for the archaic coincidence of genetics and tired traditions.

Let the world-wide television rights bring bounty upon this great nation and fill the Lord's coffers so His work may continue through His officially appointed channels.