A feast fit for a Renaissance pope

Writing is first and foremost subversive. That means anti-authoritarian. Overthrowing, razing to the ground. And, nothing more subversive than a dictionary. There's something that suggests tabula rasa in the pure original meaning of any word. Chlorine bombs, machetes, religious texts, are all conventional weapons. The word is nuclear. The book burners all know that, ignorant bastards all, from the scurvy furrows of their cloistered minds they know a free man speaking his mind is their mortal enemy.

There is only one religion, the religion of the imbecile, kowtowing to the one and only apostolic conjuration of the fearful mind. Something in man is so desperate, that it can only accept as truth that which is death. The more desperate a man, the more religious. Let's face it, and let's turn our backs on martyrdom for anybody- martyrdom, even piety is a game for suckers. It takes guts to stay alive and run your own show.

Voltaire said astrology was born when the first charlatan met the first imbecile. Ditto for the religious freaks. But, still, these priests, imams and shamams, they could put a Fellini whore to shame when it comes to costume and ritual. Credit where it's due.

I'm a subutraquian myself, if I'm going to take communion, it has to be a retake on the Last Supper, a baguette and a bottle of red plonk from the Languedoc, or better yet, Gigondas, so you can taste the chalky dirt from the foot of the Dentelles du Montmirail, which I climbed one drunken morning after seven bottles of the best from the village the Romans called "Jocunditas" or Joie Allegresse, with the great Lovejoy, another white man who smartly kept his mouth shut when he was falsely accused in the national media of sins never committed.

Einstein's god was that of Spinoza, Mackinnon's god is the Catholic god of the Borgias, or of Baron Corvo, the renegage, or of the Gnostics, and MacKinnon's last supper will be the last supper of Francois Mitterand, consuming the warbling ortolan, or some other migratory wild bird, - caught in the wild - kept in the dark to fatten, drowned in Armagnac brandy and plucked. They are roasted and served whole, wings and legs tucked in, eyes open. Brought to the table straight from the fire, and one must consume the entire bird. I'll hire a monk to drape a large linen napkin draped over my head, so as to trap the aroma of the dish, and hide the shame of the feast from the eyes of God.

Nothing beats Catholicism for raw, carniverous rituals.