On Sundays between 12:30 and 1:15 I was forced by my parents to listen to a freak in black garb. Later in life that freak in black garb was replaced by Robert Smith of The Cure, but I shouldn't get off on that tangent. For years I didn't really pay attention to the monotone ramblings and chanting in the church (again, not referring to Robert Smith). At some point I starting paying attention to the rediculous crap spewing from altar and the subsequent regurgitation from the (aptly named) pews. Ah, good times!

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