Thanks to Michael for inviting me to post some of my writing here.  I've certainly enjoyed checking out the site for the last few days and hope to become a regular visitor and contributor.

I wrote this several years back and although it seems I've missed National Blasphemy Rights Day by a few days, this seems like a good story to post in honor of it.

My boyfriend is obsessed with the car wreck news. The producers at all three news stations in San Antonio, Texas, are more than happy to oblige him. I’ve been in enough wrecks, I feel no urge to observe the carnage on television, so while he watches, I usually read a book.

His obsession did glean a small gem this morning. When I dragged my tired ass into the living room in search of a much needed cup of coffee, he grabbed me and informed me he had recorded something I had to watch.

I never mentally groan or beat around the bush with him, I feel comfortable informing him I have no interest in his interests.

He insisted that even though he’d only managed to record a few seconds of the story, he knew I’d love it.

For the first time in our three-year relationship, he was right about something.

There on my television screen, a man pointed out the bird poop on his windshield. It seemed to be your average splat of bird poop, not any larger or thicker than what I see on my very own white-trash Toyota all the time. Why in the hell would this be newsworthy? It turned out hell might actually have something to do with it. Half of the bird poop had formed the image of Jesus Christ!

I fell to my knees and started babbling in tongues. Goddamnittohellwhyin thefuckdoeseveryoneelsefindtheseimagesIcouldmakeakillingoneBaybutnoisit becauseimanatheiest? I then blew off work and raced to the local Catholic Church. After poking myself in the eye in an inept attempt to genuflect, I fell to my knees and gave thanks that the Savior had chosen this scatological method to give us all hope in these trying times. I then turned a few tricks outside the church for gas money, hopped in my car, filled up my tank, and raced to the man’s house to stand in line to see this miracle.

Okay, the preceding paragraph was a total lie. No matter how many tricks I turn, I’ll never make enough to pay for a tank of gas. Besides, after the last wedding reception I attended, I’ve been banned from the local Catholic Church.

In south Texas, Virgin Mary tortilla sightings are as common as losing lottery scratch-off tickets, carelessly tossed in the parking lots of convenience stores. Our Lady of Guadalupe apparently feels the need to appear on taco shells, window panes and tree trunks. The faithful flock to pray to Mexican food, but I’ve never been one of the faithful.

This particular sighting inspired me to again seek a goal I’d abandoned lately. Ever since that woman sold her grilled cheese sandwich on eBay to an online casino for $28,000.00, I’ve been looking for my very own sighting. At first I thought the secret must be in the cheese. I ate so many grilled cheese sandwiches I needed a forklift to get me out of bed in the morning. Then I switched to frozen enchiladas, topped with a tasteless, cheese-like substance. Nothing. Cheetos turned out to be a long shot, but they were certainly tasty. It had proven impossible for me to discern the Virgin Mary in food products.

While sitting on the toilet, I had no trouble seeing Elvis, Buddha, Cleopatra and Winston Churchill in my bathmat, but not so much as a Mother Teresa would ever appear. I once caught a glimpse of Mohammed, but I quickly rubbed him out with my big toe. That would just be asking for trouble. I couldn’t understand why I could see others, but never a hint of the ones who could make me a quick buck. I began to suspect it was a lack of faith.

Did the poop sighting today mean that to cash in, I would have to find God? Or would I just have to dig through my cat litter box with a fork? I suspect that even with the enormous amount of poop produced by Murray the Hut, who does nothing but eat, poop and sleep on top of her food bowl, I’ll never see the image of a blue-eyed, blonde Jew in her shit. Pity.

I hope the keeper of the holy windshield poop has a garage. It rained today.