But if you are also anything like me, you have parents who want you to go to church Christmas Eve. My dad is super religious and pleads with me every time I am in town to go to church. (In fact, when I was moving, he said I should go to church to say bye to … all the people I don't care to interact with… I guess).
I don't get where the disposition comes from. Some misguided belief, maybe, that I'll wind up in hell while he is agonizingly forced from heaven to watch me suffer, which sort of negates the whole concept of eternal bliss. Paradoxes. Christianity's get 'em.
That's neither here nor there. Since you are a good child, you will wind up at church on Christmas Eve. Good GOD is it going to be boring. Two hours of hymns, perpetual alternating between sitting and standing, awkward conversations after with people about that one time you spent five days in rural North Carolina “making a difference” in the lives of people suffering from mild poverty.
Don't fret. I used to go to church all the time and have put together a handy Q&A to get through this merry fucking night
What should I do beforehand? Get drunk. You are mostly likely going to Midnight Mass, which means you'll have a gigantic dinner to booze at. You have two options here. One is to get so drunk you are slurring and stumbling and your parents become too ashamed to take you out of the house, lest you puke in a pew and they lose their good standing in the Church. They will be disappointed, but let's be serious. You are you. They are already disappointed. The other option is to get a happy, healthy buzz, to the point where when your Dad says it's time to go, you respond “Fuck yea,” like it's Friday night and your buddy suggested a tit club. Either way, don't go sober.
What should I wear? A gray suit with a red tie. Anything with more flair is an affront to the Lord. He will smite you for that paisley fucking tie.
Where should I sit? My dad insists on the first few rows. More religion for your money. It's a little intense, but I like it because you can lurk back while the congregation exits and avoid to talking to anyone.
What are all these books in front of me? The one with the cross is called a prayer book. It's for flipping through to pass the time. The one that says “Hymnal” is a hymnal. It's for the Christianikaraoke that's about to start.
Wait, what? Jesus sing-a-long. Did you get the piece of paper they handed out when you entered? It's got page numbers on it. Open your hymn to one of those pages and use your buzz to belt out some praise. “Oh come let us adore him, par rum pu pum pum.”
That's two different songs. So? You're just stoked Jesus is now alive.
He is? Well… no. He was alive. Now he's … existing in some ethereal state. Or dead. I'm not really sure. The important thing is to praise him, as his birth gave us an excuse to murder billions of people we didn't have beef with the day before he was born.
That's a good thing? I guess not. But a pint glass he owned was the basis for Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade. That was a cool movie. Toast to that.
Toast? Yea. They are about to serve booze. Follow the person behind you to altar. Eat your Carr's Table Water Cracker. Wash it down with tasty port. God crushed the grapes with his own holy feet.
Why do we all drinking from the same cup? Microbiology didn't exist in ancient times and fuck you for thinking we're gonna start believing in it now.
I don't want to get sick. God will protect you.
Communion means it's almost over, right? Fuck yea. Time for painfully boring small talk as you shuffle out the door.
What am I supposed to say? Everyone will ask what you do for a living. Answer that question again and again and again. Lord, it's gonna be awful.
“And what do you do now?”
“I get paid to write defamatory things about Jesus.”
Ohhh. I'm kinda excited now.