O.P.R.A.H. Old priest rims a homo. Collin shook his head, disgusted at kids these days. What was the world coming to. They’d achieved nirvana with Kennedy’s election in ’60, but it’d all come crashing down in Dallas ’63. Then they’d had to deal with that hick Texan and his wife with her “shrubes” and bushes. Vietnam came and started taking the lives of parishioners he’d baptized in the ‘40s and (worse) early ‘50s – the children, no – the grandchildren of people he’d counseled nearly 60 years earlier. Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy got shot and killed just 62 days apart. But the worst of it, the worst of it, was the betrayal of the young generation – where Collin had always placed his hopes. They felt betrayed by Johnson and the warmongers, but Collin felt betrayed by them.
Old priest rims a homo. Did they really think that of him? Did they really think an 87-year old Catholic priest would have ever partaken? To be sure, Collin had appreciated the muscles and forms of young man – had all his life. But to break his vows, no, he’d never have done that. And, thank the Lord, he never had. But a day had never passed that he didn’t want a man. He still wanted a man – just not in a physical way, any longer.
Betrayal. These young people, they didn’t understand what that meant. His Agnes – his favorite niece. He’d thought she’d betrayed him, but in the long run, she hadn’t. She’d simply stayed true to her soul and her love for Mr. Balmoral. But these kids and their profanities, they didn’t understand the consequences of betrayal. Old priest rims a homo, indeed.
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