Luxury. One of the voices in my head is a raving Phred Phelps type. Do you know how hard it is to keep it up doing 69 with that in your head?
Well, one of my personalities is a total raving fundie male minister, and another is a two dollar cheap female whore. I don’t know what’s worse–having the whore come out while the minister is prostilatizing, or having the minister come out when the whore is prostituting.
On V-8 juice: I buy the big jugs of calcium-enriched V-8, pour off the top, and add Worchestershire sauce, lemon juice, hot sauce, and garlic and onion powders. Makes a kick-ass bloody mary mix, and I get to prevent osteoperosis by drinking a cocktail every night!
On religious experiences in 7-11s: in high school, my friend’s boyfriend worked the evening shift at a 7-11. She’d often go over there to hang out with him until he got off work. The woman who worked the night shift was very religious, and would show up 15 minutes early so she could pray in the back room before starting work. So my friend and her BF used to fill up a page with little satanic doodles and leave it at the counter for her.
On being forced to deal with fundies: I’m a fundie. I can’t stand me.
You know, the mark of the Beast is not 666. It’s V-8.
Well to make matters worse on top of my mother being the fundie, my Dad is freakin JESUS! I mean…do you know how annoying it is to hear every day “I love you son. Don’t you love me? You do know I DIED for you right?”
Sounds like a compliment to me. So, how you doin’? 
My sweet-looking Irish Catholic mom was once told she was deluded and going to hell by a even sweeter-looking Mennonite lady, in a calico dress, white net cap, the works.
God Bless America!
I **knew ** my Oldsmobile was possessed, but nobody would believe me!
ooh, that would be fun. evil cackle. Five hours with me and the guy would be a rabid atheist Darwinist, or his brain would explode.
Fundies and JWs who come to my door never come back. I’m on the avoid list, just like as if I had ram’s blood on my door. Pity.
“Hi, Danny…I’m Hal. Have you accepted me as your personal ass-kicker?”
Okay, so what is a pink wife beater? I assume it is an article of clothing as carrying a sunburned redneck would have probably changed the direction of the conversation.
One day when I was 6 years old, I was taking a bath. First to set up: Mom always kept the door ajar to listen in. And the bathroom was diagonal from the front door (small-ass apartment).
Well, Mom opens the front door and these two Jehovah’s witnesses start preaching to her. She explains that she doesn’t want any and attempts to close the door. One sticks his foot in the doorjamb! to continue talking.
I hear the conversation and start getting mad that my religion was being bashed, good little Catholic school girl that I was. I get out, with shampoo still in my hair, Strawberry Shortcake terry cloth robe wrapped around me and proceed to counter the Witnesses’ arguments to the shock and awe of both the univited guests and my mother (argued with scripture! no less. Mom does not know where I learned them. She was NOT a holy roller).
After 10 minutes my mom had to pull me away from the door to finish the bath. The Witnesses came back another day but Mom did not let them finish the conversation.
And now, I am a retired Catholic and don’t remember much past the Our Father.
Shout out to Pope Benedict! Yo!
What you describe is related to a “Bloody Mary”… Its a “Bloody Shame” 
A wifebeater is a sleeveless vest type shirt, usually worn by those on Cops who’re known for doing what that article of clothing is named for.
Funny, I thought it was 7-11.
And you know that Mennonite lady was told later by a snake handler that she was going to hell.
The Circle of Liiiife
I’ve gotten that quite a lot in all my years working in retail. I just tell them that I feel it is unprofessional to discuss religion (or politics) at my place of employment. Then I just ask if they need any assistance with merchandise. They will usually shut up about it then.
You know, if the war had lasted only a few more years, Hitler would eventually have brought England to its knees with his V-8 rockets.
I’m spiritual, not religious, and I wear a good sized Celtic cross necklace. I’ve gotten a few comments on it, one from a guy who asumed that my “strange symbol” meant I was not just a foreigner but also Pagan. The best encounter, though, was with some Crazy Lady in a store who saw my cross.
Crazy Lady: Is that a cross on your neck?
Me: Why yes, it is.
CL: It looks strange. What kind of cross is it?
Me; It’s a Celtic cross ma’am.
CL: What’s Celtic?
Me: (Oh boy… we have a live one) It’s an Irish Cross, ma’am. (Ok, I’m abbreviating, but as you can see, I need to keep this simple)
CL: What’s an Irish cross?
Me: (Not simple enough, apparantly.) Its the cross they use in Ireland.
CL: Does it mean Jesus?
Me: (Finally! We have comprehension… sort of) Yes. It means Jesus.
CL: What do you believe about Jesus?
Me: What I believe about Jesus, ma’am, is my business.
CL: Oh, OK.
And just like that, the conversation was over. A number of people gave me approving looks for that. I’m guessing they plan on using a similar tactic the next time some CL wants to talk to them about Jesus.
Now you tell me! 