This is another deleted scene that was actually an entire chapter. It was originally Footchapter Nine-B in "How to Fail" but in late edits it got completely 86ed. I didn't need to bring God into the mix. Unedited and unadulterated from when it got nixed, this scene is particularly ribald and transgressive. Caveat fucking emptor.
"God will not forgive us if we fail." --Leonid Brezhnev
On the Lord's Day?! No, surely not on the Lord's Day.
God created the heavens and the earth in six days. On the seventh he rested.
Humans created a lot of paper work and junk mail, unread inbox messages, memos, billable hours, and invoices in five days. On the sixth day they watched college football, gorged themselves on highly-caloric fried, salted, and battered foods, drunk cheap American macro beer, and maybe got "lucky" with their own wives.
On the seventh day they put on business casual clothes and "rested" by going to listen to some virgin tell them why they should be so thankful for the previous six days.
(Despite the amount of accountants in their general population, Jews apparently can't count because they spend day six glorifying God. This deficiency in counting might also explain why Jews typically prefer pro football to the college game.)
I've already extensively cataloged what I do on my first five days of the week up here on the UWS. The sixth day, Saturday, is always an interesting day for me because I no longer feel...special. Hey, there's not supposed to be so many people out and about! Why is it taking me so long to get a sandwich at the deli?! Why is this coffee shop packed?! Get back to work people! Return the UWS to me and me only!
I hate the sixth day. Detest it. Mainly because it makes me feel bad. Everyone trying to show me up.
Have you seen how successful people spend their Saturdays?
How they get "everything out of" them? These motherfuckers even seize the so-called day on the weekend.
When you don't have to!
Up early, as early as they get up for work because, of course, the single unfinished glass of Malbec they had last night doesn't make them too hungover too function.
They actually shower!
Who showers on the weekend?!
(Again) you don't have to!
And they have so many plans!
Danny and ME have a couples' shower to go to.
(Yeah, that's not what I thought it was either. I envisioned some steamy wifeswapping key-party orgy, all taking place is some giant showerroom like professional sports teams have, but apparently a couples shower is just a boring and dry party to fete a expectant mother and give her a lot of tiny clothes.)
Jack and Kirsten need to go car shopping, finally making the upgrade to a van.
And Keith and Erin are at the cutesy quaint Sarabeth's for brunch with other successful couples (and their children) that also aren't hungover (and are waaa-waaaing).
Greasy bacon and eggs to sop up the excess stomach booze from Friday night? A Bloody Mary hair of the dog? 'course not. Unnecessary. Fresh fruit, a popover, and perhaps a single Bellini. Can't get too tuckered out this early.
From there, who knows...
I'm still asleep at this hour, unless I'm on a walk of great shame...
Window shopping in Soho, picnic on the Great Lawn, bike rentals on the Hudson piers, maybe hit the new Inca exhibit at the Museum of Natural History, the special miniatures at the Guggenheim, rush home for a(nother) shower, put on evening gowns, a snazzy sports coat that makes you look ten years older than you should...
The night you actually tell people, brag to people, that you're going on a date with your own wife, and an expensive dinner, another glass of wine, he'll try a Scotch cause he's trying to get into that kinda thing to impress the muckety-mucks at his office, car service home to pay the sitter and prepare for the least sexy sex ever.
He walks to his closet, she walks to hers, they slowly, but not sensually mind you, remove their clothes, neatly folding up this, carefully hanging up that, delicately placing that delicate there, and the shoes in a tree, and they're recounting their day, and now he's in his boxer shorts with the lobsters on them, and she's in her best Victoria's Secret bra (and she even wore the panties that match) and he said, "You really want to do this?" like he's about to remove a splinter from her thumb, and she says, "Yes, but first I want to remove my makeup," and while she's taking forever in their giant two-sink bathroom, he's catching up on the highlights from the day's earlier SEC matchups that he wasn't allowed to watch live, and he's yawning, and she returns, and turns off the lights, and he hears her remove her clothes, the thick underwire of her bra clanking on the hardwood as she calculatedly casually tosses it to the ground, and she gets into bed and, "Oh your breath stinks, I brushed my teeth, honey, can you brush yours?" and he grumbles but gets up any ways ("Oh and gargle too!") because he wants sex and doesn't want a fight and also he needs to piss because even though he's only 30 he's been seeing those Flomax commercials and wondering if his body is betraying him too.
He brushes, he flosses, he gargles, real thorough. When he returns, the TV is showing highlights of Miami romping the Jesuits from BC, and the glow of the screen is showing his wife asleep.
He shakes her. "Honey, honey. I thought you wanted to have sex...?"
She's not budging. Did he use the wrong key word?
"Aren't we gonna make love? We always do that on date night."
Shake, shake. He's getting frustrated.
"It's very important that we fuck!"
He shakes her and she angrily moans, sleeptalking. "Tomorrow. Too...tired now."
But he knows it won't happen tomorrow. They got church at 9.
So he goes to the bathroom and jerks off using her fancy goat's milk lotion. Failures aren't the only ones that have to pull their pud.
Eight hours later, Keith and Erin sit in the elegant Church of Notre Dame on West 114th Street. Keith noticed that his dick seemed to still smell like fragrant goat's milk, despite his morning shower. Their newborn Bree, apparently not named after the cheese, Keith and Erin were more of smoked gouda or aged mimolette people, sat in a basinet on the pew beside them clad in her tiny white christening gown.
I sat one row back staring at a stained glass window of, I reckon it was Jesus, though all those old time Christian folks seem to look alike. Similar fashion sense. There must have been a lot of embarrassment at award ceremonies. Who wore it better?
In the same row sat Danny & ME, and Jack & Kirsten and little Anna. It was the first I'd seen them in at least a month.
"After the baptism, I want to show you the van we got. Pretty sweet."
"You're saying a van is pretty sweet?"
"Does your car have a TV screen it in?"
"I don't have a car. I ride the subway."
"You see those protestors outside?
"Yeah, what was that about?"
"Apparently the priest had no problem with homosexual parishioners, tsk tsk."
I was already zoning out. In fact, I think I was still drunk. I'd savvily decided to wear my church clothes out drinking the night before, just in case, and, wouldn't you know it, it was a great idea for reasons two fold:
1. Dressed more high-brow than other drinkers at the Wee, I caught the eye of a drunk gal who had a fetish for CPAs (she thought I was one and wanted to be sexually audited.)
2. I woke up late and would have had no time to rush home to My Lesbian Wingman's pad to chance into my church clothes.
Priest Raines came out and took the...stage.
"Baptism is the beginning of the story of Jesus. Baptism is the context of the life of Jesus as the rest of his days on earth are the working out of his baptism..."
I recalled around the time of Keith and Erin's wedding at this very same church when Keith told me about the procedure he and Erin had to go through.
"Yeah, every couple has to go to ten sessions of marriage counseling with Father Raines before they're allowed to get married at Notre Dame."
"Let me get this straight. A sixty-one-year-old virgin is giving you advice on how to please a woman?"
"Uh...yeah. I guess. Technically. But it's not so bad."
"'Not so bad?!' I can only imagine:
"'Hello, Keith and Erin, I like to open my first session with newly engaged couples by allowing them to ask me questions. So if you have one, please feel free to shoot. Uh, yes, Keith?'
'You've never been married, correct?'
'By the law of clerical celibacy I, of course, can't be married, with rare exception. I've been a clergyman my entire adult life.'
'And you've never had sex?'
'Nope, can't say I have. Entered an all-boys youth seminary at the age of ten. Well before my hormones had kicked in, though men of God likes yours truly certainly do not have the same puerile urges as most youngsters.'
'So never married, never dated any one, never had sex...uh, have you ever even kissed a girl? Hugged one? Watched a Nora Ephron movie?!'
'No, no, and an emphatic "yes!" I found "Sleepless in Seattle" absolutely delightful. Though a tad ribald at times for my tastes.'
'Yeah, I'm still disturbed by those scenes depicting Rosie O'Donnell as a straight women.'
'We don't discriminate here.'
'Maybe you should.'
'Very well. Good. Any more question? Questions more about your guys' relationship?'
'Yes, Father, I do have one. It's something we're always fighting over lately. You see, I just don't feel like Erin gives me enough...ahem...blow jobs. Nearly every time we...make love, within seconds I'm between her legs. But, she never returns the favor.'
'You know I find the idea of a dick in my mouth disgusting!'
'But it's the dick connected to me! The man you love!'
'Marriage is all about compromise, Keith and Erin. As Exodus 12:4 says: "If any household is too small for a whole lamb, they must share one with their nearest neighbor."'
'Yeah, we're talking about oral sex, not ewes.'
'Believe me, Father, you might feel different if you'd ever had a dick in your mouth. And though I love all of my future husband, I do not love his dick. In my mouth. At the moment. You see, I have the decency to go to a professional and get my lady parts waxed. A nice Ukrainian on E. 31st Street named Svetna or something does it for me. But Keith is a huge mess down there.'
'I'm not going to a waxer, no way.'
'Then do it yourself. Use that beard trimmer I got you as a stocking stuffer. I thought you'd catch the drift considering you've never had a beard in your life.'
'I did catch the drift and it stunk.'
'Then that drift must have been coming from your sweaty, hairy balls.'
'And another thing, I hate swallowing your load. It's just gross. Texturally. Worse than clams.'
'It's just part of the act. Father, I think it's ridiculous that she won't swallow. She either jerks me off onto my stomach or sprints to the bathroom to spit it into the toilet. Talk about killing the romance. How do you think I feel, honey, to see you so disgusted by my spunk? The spunk that is going to one day produce our children?'
'And swallowing a thick gob of salty hot fluid is romantic? Huh? You agree with that, Father?'
'It's not about romance completely, it's also about good old fashioned cleanliness. Which is next to Godliness, you know.'
'Not "officially," guys. Nothing in the bible technically.'
'Don't you love this, Father? All of the sudden my messy hubby is all OCD about messes and cleanliness.'
'Uh, as Leviticus 10:10 says: "You must distinguish between the holy and the common, between the unclean and the clean."'
'Well, jizz is simply not clean in this fiancee's opinion.'
'Whoa! Looks like we have only got time for one final question for today's session. Something from you, Erin?'
'Yes, I do have something. OK, you see, it's like this. Keith can only...finish..when I'm lying flat on my stomach. It's insulting to not have your future husband looking at you in the eyes when he ejaculates. Like I'm some common whore. Why do you think it is, Father, that he only wants to come in this manner?'
'I'll have to interrupt, Father, and tell you why that is. It's because she still makes me use condoms.'
'I told you I won't switch to birth control until we're married. Just how I was raised.'
'You can't tell the Father we use birth control! It's against the church's teachings!'
'He's not dumb, Keith. He obviously knows we fuck.'
'Not as much as I'd like, that's for sure. But fair enough. I have to put you on your stomach when we fuck because wearing a condom is like having a protective bubble suit around your dick. You can't feel any sensation. It's like wearing an airbag. Why, you could probably have an enormous car wreck and if your whole body was wrapped in the rubbers I wear, it'd feel like nothing more than a fender bender. Thus, I need you on your stomach and me on top of you to make your vagina a tighter fit around my protected shaft.'
'You're seriously going to tell the Father that your soon-to-be-new-wife has a loose pussy?'
'If I may, Keith and Erin...I think Keith, you might just be masturbating far too much and desensitizing your penis...'"
Keith mockingly laughed at me.
"You really envision our meetings with a priest going like that? You really think Erin talks in that manner? Like some frat boy sailor?! You know that even I don't talk in that manner!"
"It's just my fantasy."
It was just my fantasy.
It smelled like goat's milk or cheese...or maybe even lotion in the church. Hmmm...would there be appetizers afterwards? I sure hoped so, I hadn't had time to grab breakfast and the remnant booze was starting to hit my empty stomach hard.
Keith now stood near the front of the church with Erin holding Bree aside Father Raines who spoke.
Keith's mind drifted as he tried to count the number of times he had masturbated since he last had sex. He had thought that Erin would want sex around the clock after giving birth, but that wasn't the case at all. Her vaginal walls were still strained and healing, her hormones were wacky, and she "Just [didn't] feel sexy right now." Her words.
They had last had sex one night off the cuff back late in Erin's second trimester. Keith had been surprised by his wife's friskiness because, believe you me, it's hard to get pregnant chicks to fuck since they're never wasted.
They'd had it doggy style that night with Bree inside of Erin resting on a specially made pregnant love-making pillow they had purchased. He liked how her contracted vagina felt on his dick that night. That night some 110 days ago. Keith figured he'd masturbated some seventy-five times since that night, nearly around the clock for the few days Erin was in the hospital and he had their pad to himself.
He worried now that his dick would be desensitized to vaginal touch. Stretched-out vaginal touch. He worried most of all that it didn't matter because his days of having sex were over.
Father Raines continued sermonizing: "God sees our darkness and says, 'Let there be light.' This is his poem about baptism, about the God who baptizes us, who makes new life possible in the midst of darkness and hopelessness. That is our God: a God who baptizes, always making new beginnings, new chances for life."
I thought about Bree's life, the chances she would have in life. Would her life be good? Would she be a success? Hopefully not a failure. Would her life be interesting? I hoped it would be interesting. Certainly more interesting than her parents'.
Father Raines took Bree from Keith and Erin and held her above a tiny tub of water.
And so was about to begin her interesting or non-interesting life. It was beginning, though, in a most uninteresting way.
Church was so boring. So uninteresting.
There had to be a better way to do this. A more fun, interesting one:
The priest stood focused. Concentrating. His bible in one hand. He wound up with a high leg kick ala Bob Gibson and hurled his copy of "The Word" toward a circular red and white ring target.
King James smacked the bullseye right in the bullseye which connected to a dunk tank in which baby Bree sat on a hanging platform which swung open and dropped her into the bottom pool of holy water.
Now that would be more way more interesting.
People would love that shit!
You could even sell tickets to watch which could be used as you tithing for the week.
And wouldn't an interesting beginning to your life lead to an interesting life all around?
Yes, most certainly. But the church seemed to hate interesting people. The church wanted to suppress interesting people for the most part. Gays and drinkers and promiscuous heterosexuals and Jews and profligates and people like me.
I mean, wasn't that who the protesters were protesting? Interesting people?
I looked toward the Heavens and spoke to God. I'd never done this before. I didn't know how to do this. But I would try my damnedest.
Later, as we excited the church, baby Bree now a Catholic, ready to get on with her life, I bypassed speaking with my friends and walked over to the protesters.
"Don't punch me!"
"Oh, I thought you were going to punch one of us. Usually when someone comes over to us, they punch us."
"No, I'm not going to punch you, I'm going to commiserate with you."
"About what?" said a tiny geek in a "Jesus Freak" t-shirt.
"About the conversation I just had with God."
"You did not!"
"I most certainly did."
"You stink like booze."
"I took communion today."
"Communion with...*sniff sniff*...vodka?"
"Gin. Can't you smell the juniper?"
"This guy doesn't know what he's talking about."
"What? You guys have never talked with the G-O-D before?"
"I saw the Virgin Mary in a bowl of matzo ball soup once."
"It looked more like Cher."
"Did not! And that's blasphemy."
"So tell us, wiseguy, what did God say to you?"
"I was intrigued by your plight and I wanted to ask God about it. So I asked God. 'God, why do you hate gay people and preach to your followers to hate them too? Why do you hate all these other people too? Drinkers and drug users and Jews and the profane people in society. People that like to dance dirty and have lots of sex. People that like to use the words 'fuck,' 'piss,' and 'shit.' These people you created no less! That you let live on the same planet with your Christian followers.
"Why do you have such issues with the quote-unquote interesting people of society?
"And you know what he said...?"
The protesters now hung on my every word.
"He said, 'I don't. I have no problem with any of these people. I love them all.' 'Even me?!' I asked. 'Even me? A Jew, an atheist, a fuck-up, a fuck-around, a curser, an alcoholic, a masturbator, a promiscuous man-slut, a layabout, and a non-believer.'
"And he said, 'Yes, even you. I love you all. Even the protestors down below totally perverting my message for their own agenda.'"
I turned about face and left the protesters shocked and torn. Arguing with themselves. One yelled after me, "You made that up!"
Well of course I did. Why would God talk to me? There's no story in the Bible about God to success a loser like me.
Three days later, while out on a jog, finally burning off some of that gin weight, I ran by the church and not only were those same three protesters there but the group had ballooned to a baker's dozen.
I was sad. I guess my little made-up tale of a pow-wow with Chief Sitting God had not fooled them.
I glanced at their handmade posterboard signs, many of them with egregrious spelling errors.
"CHRISTIANS AGENST GOD"
"QUIT PRAYING TO A FONY!"
"GOD LIKES FAGS WHICH MEANS I HATE HIM"
I stopped my jog to talk to them again.
"What's going on, guys? I thought I had convinced you to quit what you're doing."
"We have quit what we were doing. We've just re-shifted our focus. We need something to protest. So we're protesting God now."
Oh man, protesting God? God was going to be pissed at me big time.
So what did you think? Should it have stayed in the book?
Check out these other Director's Commentary and Deleted Scenes:
#1 -- "FUCK YOUS" (dedication page)
#2 -- "QUOTING BIGGIE SMALLS" (including famous quotes)
#3 -- "BLURBS" (cover blurbs)
#4 -- "CHAPTER ONE" (genesis of HTF idea)
#5 -- "THE FAILURE INTERVENTION" (deleted scene)
#6 -- "I'VE NEVER BEEN HAPPIER" (deleted scene)
#7 -- "HOW TO FAIL ON A DATE" (deleted chapter)