September 23, 2008

My Cat Wants To Be A FreeMason

I was driving into town one recent afternoon, a hot and sticky day in Taylor. My tires would surely melt into the asphalt if they stopped spinning long enough. At the first red light in town, I pulled up behind a maroon Buick Roadmaster. A stately car, really. Nothing says “we couldn’t quite afford the Lincoln Continental” like a Buick Roadmaster.

I was dazed from the solar heat, making light use of the tint on my car windows. Three country music radio stations in town and every one of them has a Kenny Chesney song on. What a coincidence. Where are my CDs?

“Daddy?”

The voice came from Briskette, my year-and-a-half-old cat, strapped into the passenger seat by a specially-fitted seat belt I designed from some old power cords. She can barely see out the front window.

“I want to be one.”

At this point, I turned from the window to see what the crap she was talking about. “Probably another hair-brained idea on how to sell her poop sculptures,” I thought.

Her gaze was fixed on the rear bumper of the Roadmaster ahead of us. A bright blue bumper sticker was affixed. I spent the first few seconds trying to decide if it was the sticker, bumper, or me that was crooked. The bumper sticker read, “2B1, ASK1.”

“Oh,” I said. “It’s the Shriners. Those people… um… help… burn victims. And they visit St. Jude’s. The kiddie cancer hospital.”

A long pause. I turned and looked at Briskette, her neck craned up as far as she could get it. Her gaze had now shifted to the nearly-bald head of the man in the driver seat. The light turned green. The Roadmaster did not move. I tapped on the steering wheel, and raised my eyebrows in expectation. No movement from the Roadmaster.

I hit the horn, a short beep. I saw the balding head look up, check the light, and check his rear view mirror. I raised my eyebrows again, this time with a tilt of the head.

Not much was said the rest of the trip. I picked up my usual Fillet-O-Fish sandwich from McDonald’s. The Coke tasted like nitrate. The burning through my nostrils was too much, and I tossed it out the window before I got back home.

After downing the fishwich and fries while watching the latest installment of The Maury Povich Show, I headed into the computer room. Briskette was leaning over the keyboard, her nose about two inches away from the computer screen. I could clearly see the title of the web page, “First Masonic District, Grand Lodge of New Jersey.” There was a crudely constructed graphic of two men dressed in biblical attire, standing on a giant dirt spade, with a pile of mud between them. They were shaking hands, and one appeared to be touching his groin area.

I looked at the address bar.

www.2be1ask1.com

Among the broken images and links were random graphics so poorly designed, I couldn’t tell what half of them were. Next to these images were text links that did little to decipher the meaning of the graphics. Sections like “The Vestibule,” and “Carry Messages Elsewhere” were paired with what seemed like pictures of some sort of meat product, and a boy flying a kite. Except the kite was a giant rock.

At this point an odd musical composition started playing. I could pick out a xylophone, trumpet, and piano. They were all obviously originating from a cheap keyboard. A xylophone solo. More trumpet. A wrong note. Briskette hit the button to silence it.

“Its not the Shriners, Dad. Its the FreeMasons.”

“I see…”

I moved her paw from the mouse and closed the web page. During the next 20 minutes, I explained much to Briskette. I told her how the FreeMasons were a secret society bent on destroying all we hold precious. I told her about the links between FreeMasonry and Satanism, Jack the Ripper, and the September 11 attacks. (Just for added measure, I mentioned they were also the reason her litter box was not cleaned out last week.)

I explained that, while on the surface FreeMasons just seem like mildly-obese 60-year-old men wearing fringed aprons around their waists, the society was actually something much different. Something much worse.

With that, I turned the computer off. I tucked her in for her afternoon nap and promised to take her water skiing tomorrow.

© July 11, 2006

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