The Monk on the Bus

I saw a Brahman, a monk or something, riding the bus; he was chewing, chewing gum and listening to a Walkman or an I-Pod or something. He was in the customary orange thing, a smock I think it’s called, and wearing a woollen toque. I figured monks, Buddhist one’s at least, aren’t allowed to read on the bus, but are allowed to listen to inspirational tapes, maybe music, but it was hard to tell on account of it was too low or my hearing’s getting worse. Orange is an odd colour for someone like a monk, figuring that they don’t want to draw attention to themselves, cause they’re always meditating or praying or something, and orange is a pretty really bright colour. He was really quite small, almost like a dwarf, but not quite that small; maybe a premmy or one of those people whose bodies don’t grow according to plan, like they’re bones are too little or the muscles don’t form properly. As I haven’t seen too many monks up close, far away even, I could be mixed up.

So I’ve been wondering lately what all the fuss is about the Catholics and Protestants and the like. Not that I know much about religion, nothing actually, but people tell me that the Catholics and the Protestants don’t get along, see eye to eye, so to speak. I never seen them fighting, or throwing fits, but then again I’m not round churches and places like that very much, not at all actually. This one kid I knew who lived on our street, before our house burned, was one of those altar boys, the guys who carry the Bible and hand out leaflets and prayer books. He said that one day the priest asked him to go get the sacrament stuff, the wafers or biscuits or whatever there called, from the refrigerator in the rectory. When he opened the fridge door he found bags and bags of these wafer things, the body of Christ I guess is what they’re called, with numbers printed on them. When he looked closer he saw that the numbers were dates, like February or June or something, with those lines what’re suppose to be codes or something. When he brought the sacraments back to the priest and asked him what the numbers were for, the priest said, ‘they’re expiry dates, my son, so we can know if the Host is still good and fresh’.