The Smell of a *ussy

I have the unlikely misfortune to walk past Brigit Tofolucci's home each Sunday on my pilgrimage to Mass, a Holy Traditional Walk of mine since childhood.  I was taught to honor the Sunday Sabbath much like our Jewish friends do with Saturdays, and if I don’t have to get into my car to drive, well then, I won’t!  Back in the day, the entire Katsellas Clan would set out for Sunday mass on foot, prancing down the street to alert spectators of our perfect attendance and family devotion to the Lord.  These days, I am the only one left.  Kudos to my kneecaps, which haven't failed me yet!  Although without proper precaution, the  humidity will often test my blackened Wyoming Valley lungs in the tense summer months.

With her house on a corner lot, I pass Bridget's no matter which route I travel. Despite the substantial hedge cover that her home enjoys, it fails to block the monstrous droning and ominous moaning we passersby are confronted with at certain hours.  It sounds like someone is being worked over the fiery Black Coals of Hell.   Now beings as though she's situated on a corner, I encounter plenty of natural opportunities to look into her windows as I pass, without any real grounds to be considered a nosey snooper.  Especially today, for what would any logically curious pedestrian do when they hear such awful gnashing of teeth? Investigate, of course.  If you see something, say something, and there were plenty of opportunities that I ignored the wretched cries. No more.

Now nevermind what I've seen Brigit Tofolucci dressed in over the years, because she usually has good taste on account of her mother from up Endicott is a real snazzy dresser.  But today, Bridget was in a khaftan, a head band and a toe ring. And there were two others with her, a man and a woman dressed similiarly with dark skin as if from another continent.  The male had dark smooth skin that looked so soft, and velvety, and his counterpart had cocoa eyes with a lovely mystique.  But there were clouds of incense puffing out from the  large front windows and coming to rest at the hedges, much like a nocturnal mist rises from a pond in a vampire movie. I was walking home from  a potato peeling session for the Bazzaar after the 12:15 mass when Bridget's permeating remnants had begun to reflect poorly on the entire neighborhood.   

Was I finally catching a glimpse of a private and immoral Bridget that she seldom shares with the world?   Did I burst into a love triangle?   Is this why her dear mother Pia fled to Upstate New York?  My goodness, she seemed very angry at me for disrupting her noisy trance.  What were those other two people doing on the floor and why were they all making those moaning noises?  The two beautiful exotics really clammed up at my cross examination, so perhaps they were foreigners? 

I had another one of my moments.  I decided to push past my humility to once again become a vaunted moral compass on behalf of these lesser qualified souls, who were languishing all around me. After all, if I am occasionally gifted with visions of Heaven and Hell, who else is suitable for keeping the neigbhors in line?  I try to snuff out anything unsavory.   

Brigit's behavior is especially disrespectful, because not 4 doors down from this Tofolucci  house of ill-repute is my church where my newborn babies were baptized so many years ago.  Why must she carry on so loudly with her friends?!  Bridget was full of the devil, yelling back at me, trying to talk louder!  The nerve of her to insult the sounds produced during a Catholic liturgy.  I hardly think   sanctified organ music that spills from our Catholic Sanctuary causes anyone  distress, as organ music is soothing and lovely.  Something which does not sound like the horrific scream of a blazing soul.

“I’m a Buddhist.  Now get off of my property you idiot!”   Bridget yelled in her own defense, after I called her a *ussy and threw several dirty tissues and a Pinwheel Mint at her (because that was all I had in my purse.)  She’s lucky I didn’t hit her with my cane, because I came close.  Buddhist Schumddhist.  Noise pollution hurts us all and it is my right to complain.   I was completely justified.
Certainly, God does not want us to disturb neighbors with our worship. 

Yours in the Love of Christ,

Mrs. Walter J. Katsellas, Jr.