There’s a church on University Street that I drive by all the time and the name has always intrigued me: Mt. Olive. It’s the only church I know of that’s named after a condiment. I always wonder if their communion consists of an olive and a martini? Anyway, the other day at the store, I happened to see a jar of pickles that are also named Mt. Olive. So I thought the only right thing to do is to take these pickles to the Mt. Olive church and get them blessed. So, let’s go.
Here's that jar of Mt. Olive pickles I was telling you about. Kind of a strange name for pickles. Kind of like calling a package of sliced ham, Mt. Bologna. But to each their own, I guess!
I've put the jar into this bag for traveling purposes...
And it's off we go, roaring into the heart of the deep blue yonder...or something like that.
There it is...
Mt. Olive Church, The Church of the Holy Condiment. That really has a nice ring to it, I may ask if they'll put it up on their sign. It might get them more followers. Their facecrack page is a little anemic and I think they need a little help on their PR front. Well, that's why I'm here!
Okay, we've parked and now let's go to the church and see if we can find a priest, or a minister, or an olive bar attendant.
There's the front doors, let's go check this place out.
Shit, the doors are locked.
There's another set of doors over there, let's go see what we can find over there.
Wow, that's a big mailbox. Are you like me and are you wondering if there's a huge jar of olives in there?
Church Offices...not a big fan of that type font, but that's just me...and probably everyone else out there.
Obligatory Church Office door unintentional mirror shot!
Shit, these doors are locked too. Some days you just can't win!
Okay, time to ring the bell. Anita Ward flashback!
Okay, the bell has been rung! You can cut this excitement with a knife...or a pickle...or something.
After I rang the bell, things got a little weird. A woman came out, stood at the top of the stairs and we had the following conversation through the closed doors.
Her (yelling from the top of the stairs): Can I help you?
Me (yelling back): Yeah, I’m here to see about getting a jar of pickles blessed. Can you open the doors so we can talk?
Her: We’ll talk like this, what do you want?
Me: I want to get a jar of pickles blessed. It’s for a blog I do called, Meanwhile Back In Peoria.
Her: There’s not a Pastor here right now.
Me: Well, is there someone I can call to talk to about this?
Her: That would be Pastor Mark and he’s not here right now.
Me: Can I call him later?
Her: Yeah, he should be back around three o’clock.
Me: What’s the phone number?
Her: 692-3311.
Me: Thanks, would you like a pickle?
Her: No thank you.
Me: Okay, goodbye.
At this point she walked back into an office and I drove home. I tried calling at three o’clock and the same woman answered. I told her my name and explained I wanted to get the pickles blessed for a post on my blog and she said Pastor Mark wasn’t there and she took my number and said he’d return my call. Well, he never called back. That’s the thing about doing this blog, sometimes things just don’t work out when you want them too. I’ll continue to try to make this work, but in the meantime I’m going to turn to my spiritual advisor I go to when religious things go awry here, my old friend, The Angriest Ice Machine In The World.
There he is, The Angriest Ice Machine in the World! And check it out...
He still is wearing the Jesus Fish I put on him a while back.
Hello there, Mr. Ice Machine, how are you today? Nice to see you still wearing your Jesus Fish!
Fuck you asshole! If I had a pair of arms, I'd rip that motherfucking Jesus Fish off of me and shove it right up your fucking ass! Why can't you just leave me alone you pathetic prick?
Hey, you want to watch that language? I've talked to you about that before! I'm trying to get a church to bless some pickles for me and you swearing like a drunken sailor with Tourette's Syndrome certainly isn't going to help anything here. In fact, I thought since you're adorned with the Jesus Fish and all, maybe you could bless the pickles for now? And maybe Gumby too, because it ain't easy for either one being green and all!
Die and go straight to hell, asshole! I'm sick of having to save every blog that goes bad for you! Maybe if you did normal shit on here things wouldn't be so up and down! Who the fuck takes a goddamn jar of pickles to a motherfucking church to get them blessed? You are a true asshole if ever there was one! Why don't you go get one of your fucking cheeseburgers and leave me the fuck alone!
Okay, you want to cop that kind of attitude, well you know what? I do have arms and they could easily unplug you and then, poof! The Angriest Ice Machine in the World ceases to exist. How would you like that? (Reaches for the cord.)
Wait! Don't unplug me goddammit! Okay, bless the pickles and motherfucking Gumby! Now just leave me the fuck alone you cold-hearted bastard!
I'm cold-hearted? You're the one who shits out ice cubes for a living! Thanks for the blessing Mr. Ice Machine and we'll see you all tomorrow.
Mt. Olive Missionary Church
5718 N. University Street
Peoria
309-692-3311
Further Reading: facecrack, Mt. Olive and Faith Family Jesus.
