Sex (on the alter) Before Marriage
A couple of years ago my girlfriends Nan had a birthday party at one of these hotels that does functions such as birthday parties and marriages. After way too many drinks me and the misses decided that a little drunken sex was required and not having a room at the hotel we had to find somewhere else suitable to get it on.

We went for a little wonder around the back corridors of the hotel and stumbled on a nice quite function room with a nice big table at one end. That will do very nicely, we thought. I'll spare you the details but its safe to say we succeeded in what we set out to do.

A few years later her mum was getting married in the same hotel, we thought nothing of our drunken shenanigans until we were all summoned to the room where the marriage was to be performed. As we walked down the corridor I had a sneaking suspicion I'd been there before. On entering the room it hit me straight away, this was the room we got busy in. Not only that, the nice big sturdy table that we used was in fact the alter and was now the nicely decorated centre piece of the marriage.

My misses was a bridesmaid and had to stand at the front and face the fact that she had defiled her own mothers wedding alter while I was sat on the front row sniggering.

Whilst not a church so technically not a proper alter I still got it on on the table where her mother swore her undying love to someone.
(tedalaki - Like Purple Aki but better, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 16:10, Reply)

The Monkey Temple
I was dragged up what felt like a thousand steps to see the Monkey Temple in Kathmandu, Nepal. I was suffering from the shits but my Dad encouraged me all the way up to the top for the experience of seeing Monkeys. In a temple. I struggled up to the top with my arse clenching and my stomach cramping.

When I got to the top, on the opposite side of the temple there was a taxi rank.
( Weejock, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 16:09, Reply)

Me and a friend were both computer mad as kids, both getting Amiga A500's when they came out
Age around 13, I frequently went round to his place for all night 2 player games (Great Giana Sisters, Populous 2, Cannon Fodder, and the mighty Turrican 2).

His parents were regular church goers, my family not so much. After spending the night there, high as kites off the riduculous amount of sweets and pop we'd consumed, we both crashed out around 5 or 6. An hour or so later his mum and woke him up - Church time! I was excused as a visiting heathen, and went back to sleep.

Woke up again a few hours laters when the family were back, his mum furious, dad in giggles, and my friend red faced. Getting to church a bit early, his family sat on the front pew. part way into the service, my friend, somewhat sleep deprived, fell asleep. And started snoring. Luckily someone noticed, unfortunately it was the vicar, who apparently looked none-too pleased.

I was very sympathetic when he told me, and fell of my chair laughing
( LemonEntryMyDearWatson This time, Moriarty, the hand is on the other foot, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 16:04, 2 replies)

Another religious boss
My ex-boss was an extremely religious man. But although he never missed an opportunity to inform us that he was a devout and committed christian, he didn't seem to look down on us filthy heathens, nor try to ram his dogma down our throats. He was very up front that it was a fundamental part life for him and his family, but that it was - and should be - a personal choice. Respect to that.

Of course, my respect for him went down a couple of notches when, at the rather drunken pub session on the day I left the company, his extremely young secretary revealed that he'd tried to fuck her when she first joined the company...

Compartmentalisation is a wonderful skill.
(moon monkey is busy making memories worth repressing, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 15:18, Reply)

Hymns after sunday school
We're not a religious family, so I've no idea how it was that aged about 3yrs old I used to get taken along to Sunday school, while the parents were presumeably in church.

After some naff storytime or similar we'd be reunited in the church with family just in time for hymns etc.

As a 3yr old of course I couldn't read, I didn't know the songs so why on earth did the sunday school teacher issue me with a hymn book and assume I'd understand???

So I did what any future b3ta member would have done.... In time to the music I sang the most appropriate words I could think of... "poo poo, wee wee, poo poo, damn and hell".

I've broken out into a cold sweat anytime I've gone in a church since.
(golddust QOTW now revolves around being a cunt, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 15:09, 1 reply)

Church band
My ultra-religious ex boss (lovely chap tho) had 4 kids. Between them, they had formed a happy clappy band, and played together every sunday at church. It was, apparently, amazing.

I know this because he told me all the time and endlessly tried to cajole me into coming. I ran out of excuses and agreed to go on a particular sunday when i would be nearby.

I turned up and met him and his family outside. I wore a suit, I didnt want to be dis-respectful. All his family seemed lovely, kids a bit creepy but I plastered on a smile and told them I was really looking forward to hearing them.

I should probably mention they were baptists, ie humourless nutjobs.

We were milling about outside, people were chatting with the minister and doing a bit of village networking, all very lovely. Eventually it was time to go in. I was ushered forward toward the door, and suddenly, I had an idea for a little joke.

As I arrived at the door, right at the threshold, I hurled myself backward, trying to look as if I had walked into some sort of invisible barrier and had been repelled. I stumbled and fell on my arse, with mock amazement and surprise. Everyone stared.

My boss came over immediately, genuinely concerned and asked what happened. I said I didnt know - and repeated the entire stunt. I stood up and said, I dont think god wants me inside.

My boss took me to one side and told me to go home. I have never seen anyone quite so unimpressed and I think there was a crying child.

I have never actually felt so bad before. The walk to the car with half the congregation watching me leave was pretty bad.

Monday morning wasnt funny though. We never really had a good relationship from that point on. So the moral is, church can ruin your friendships, dont go kids.
( I have run out of coke is a little sweaty, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 14:00, 6 replies)

"A playground cock-punch is the worst kind of cock-punch"
Apologies up front for the length, but that's what all the best priests say:

As a kid, my parents used to pack me off to Sunday School for a bit of churching up.

Toward the end of the day’s indoctrination, the local vicar would arrive, cheeks still bulging from communion wafers, and let us have both barrels of a kiddified version of the day’s sermon.

However, he didn’t just stop there. The good Reverend was a God-botherer of many talents. He wrote his own hymns. Influenced by Weird Al Yankovic, he was under the impression that changing the words to established tunes was something "fun". So, he took the theme tune to Match of the Day - surely the greatest piece of music ever written - and turned it holy. Spurred [geddit?] by this relative success, he added new words to a whole arsenal [eh? eh?] of football chants and made us, The Kids, sing them. Every bloody Sunday.

Rabid self-publicist that he was, he was granted a nutter-of-the-day spot on the BBC's Nationwide programme, and come Sunday morning, cameras turned up at the Church Hall and filmed us singing a badly rehearsed version of Match of the Day, whilst waving football scarves over our heads in a manner that only exists in the minds of TV producers who have never been to a football match in their lives.

As one of the mad old bats hammered away on the piano, we sung from our hastily-prepared song-sheets while the vicar stood at the front looking smug:

"We are all the friends of Jesus
We're all the friends of God
He sends all his love to please us
He rules with his loving rod"

And several verses that I can, thankfully, no longer remember. However, the implication of rhyming "God" with "His loving rod" was entirely lost on the vicar, but not on the young teens in the choir, who sung it with gusto.

I felt a certain amount of celebrity over the whole getting-on-national-television business, and hoped to be feted like some sort of cherubic superstar once our moment of glory finally hit the small screen.

My reward was this: a playground cock-punch for being a "smarmy God-bothering swot" - and a playground cock-punch is the worst kind of cock-punch - followed by head-shaking pity from our teachers.

Proof indeed that the Devil has all the best tunes.

Hey! I'm a rampant self-publicist as well! Full version of this story HERE
( Scaryduck LIKES EGG, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 13:56, 1 reply)

Gone with the wind
Fat little boys can fart really loudly. I was 7 or 8, School trip to St Pauls Cathedral and had this great idea in the whispering gallery, I strained till I ripped one off. it was a multimedia experience, more than I expected. Teacher couldn`t finish the lecture on respect and manners she was trying to give me due to inability to keep a straight face.

II.....
My Gran was youngest of 14, so from 8 till I was 20-odd one or more distant great aunts or uncles or cousins multiply removed who I had never met would do the parrot sketch every year. Some of the funerals I was dragged to and it was all mindyermanners stress as a kid. The horde of aged relatives 70+ was astonishing in the earlier years.

During one of these funerals minute of silent prayer, a member of club 70-90 produced a window rattler fart that started from a squeaky pinched atonal overture before they couldn`t hold it any more, the following airhorn morphed into the sound of wet things being dropped from height several times a second. Kid-like it broke the tension and I started giggling, trouble was it was infectious, fortunately mum was a victim so I was spared any punishment (in this life).
(tootired Is searching for a funny sig, nothing good so far, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 13:54, Reply)

Armistice Day
Every year on Armistice Day, as members of the Boys' Brigade (the Christian equivalent of the Hitler Youth) we'd have to attend the local church service of remembrance. One year, in order to spice up the minute's silence, I thought it would be a good idea to take the pin from my poppy and jag my best mate firmly in the arse. The comedy gold would be derived from the fact that he'd be unable to make a sound despite the sharp pain.

Or so I thought.

In complete reverential silence he let rip with the loudest "FUUUUCK" you've ever heard. EVERY head in the church turns our way. So I quickly close my eyes pretending I'm in deep contemplative prayer. In retrospect this made me look suspiciously guilty - being the only person not curious to see the source of the noise. My guilt was further exposed 2 seconds later when my mate gives me, a not undeserved, peach of a dead-arm. The two of us were suspended from the Boys' Brigade for a fortnight.
(kb3d, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 13:41, 2 replies)

Church roof vandalism
When I was younger one night out on the lash on the way home a friend and I took a short cut through the local baptist church that was being re built.
We climbed up onto the roof and using the roofing tiles spelt out LEG on the roof. The police were called and we were escorted down and given a telling off and sent on our way. The LEG stayed on the roof for a week or so.
( M o D, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 13:41, 2 replies)

Being a rather rude and sweary atheist
I feel that it is most unfair that one cannot become a vicar, however our glorious friends on the other side of the pond have the answer to this.

For a mere $35, one can be ordained over the internet. Once paid up, your Vicar ID card and Ordination certificate arrives in the post a couple of weeks later.

A friend was also ordained in this manner, I call him Padre and he calls me Sister Sweary. Oh how we laugh. If God were to Exist, I am sure that it would see the funny side.

(On a serious note for other atheists here, do please check out The British Humanist Society. They are currently campaigning to get religion out of schools. It is a hard fight and will take many years, but knowing that some schools still want to teach intelligent design and creationism makes my blood boil! www.humanism.org.uk/home )
( Rev. Jayneflakes Buy my book, I need the cash for drugs and hookers, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 13:14, 1 reply)

Sneaky sneaky sibling
The church in the village where I was spawned and raised is very old. As in 12th century old. There's an underground passageway from the vestry to the equally old pub about 200 metres away, suggesting that those Anglo-Saxons had their priorities right.

It's a beautiful little building, all white walls and ancient wooden beams, that has lots of happy memories (perhaps unusual this week) from my brother's christening when he set fire to my mum's hair, to that Christingle thing where you get free dolly mixtures, to various other primary school shenanigans, and later, weddings of people I actually like. My dad's involved with the place in a practical fashion - he digs the graves and mows the churchyard. I know what you're thinking, but he is in fact a very cheery and non-morbid soul.

This story is about my brother, though. The only time we go to church is for midnight mass on Christmas Eve, as it's quite a social gathering with various aunties and uncles and those other few people our age who managed to escape the village coming back home for the holidays.

Over many years, a game has evolved in which participants - ie these returning prodigal children - all sit in one pew, and try to cause each other as much pain as possible during the service. This is to be done and received in silence. Tactics include - stepping heavily on people's feet, pinching, scratching, vicious poking, Chinese burning and so on all. All very Christian, and the rule is that the people sitting behind shouldn't be able to notice.

Hymn-singing provides some respite from having to suffer in complete silence. Participants should really take care to watch their timing, however, as last year, the sonorous organ chords of the end of 'Hark the Herald Angels Sing' cut short just as my brother let fly with a piercing 'OWW, FOR FUCKS' SAKE!', causing every single person in the church to turn and glare daggers at us.

And that's all for today.
(jennymnemonic, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 11:00, Reply)

I uploaded this image of our lord Jesus to the parish newsletter




I think I'm going to hell
.
( buffet_the_appetite_slayer ٩(●̮̃•)۶ jacked in to the ICE on, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 10:49, 11 replies)

What do you call a West-Indian priest with a knighthood?
Sir 'mon.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 10:48, Reply)

I can't remember what I had for breakfast yesterday...
Background first:
I went to an all-boys private Anglican boarding school. Every Sunday night we had chapel. If you didn't go to chapel (where they took a rollcall) you wouldn't be allowed into the dining hall straight afterwards - so no dinner for you!
We had those books of Common Prayer for following the liturgy & after 3 years of doing the responses (so I didn't have to have 2 minute noodles for Sunday dinner) I reckoned I could do it in my sleep. At this point I should emphasize that I don't believe in the flying spaghetti monster in the sky and his Jeebus H. Christ sidekick & never will.
FFWD Many, many years.
My best friend topped himself/committed sewerage pipes etc. about 16 years ago. In an effort to find some solace (on the day that I had been to see his body @ the morgue) I went to St. Georges Cathedral, spoke to the priest who then took me thru the service to acknowledge them.
I could remember the sequence word for fucking word...
Peace Be With you.
(Misery McUglywife an attention seeking sociopathic fuckstain., Fri 2 Sep 2011, 10:40, 2 replies)

Too late...
When I was a wee nipper, my family made futile efforts to be religious around Christmas time. Foolish behaviour in hindsight. So off we'd trot to the church for Mass on Xmas eve. Being around 5 years old, I found the idea of sitting on cold, hard benches in the middle of the night as a little unnecessary, especially when Santa was due to drop by any second, so my Mum bribed me with lots and lots of sweets which I yummed up.

After what felt like an eternity of droning by the vicar, the service finally finished and there was a general stampede for the exit. It was at this point that I, following 3 packets of wine gums hoovered down in quick succession, proudly declared to my parents that I was going to be sick. I had turned a funny shade of green to back up this exclamation, and I prepared to blow... (fnaar!)

Dad immediately hoisted me onto his shoulders and did his best to push and shove through the congregation of God botherers amassing at the exit with limited success. All he succeeded in doing was getting me right into the middle of the group where I passed the point of no return.

VOMCANO!!!

I projectiled over at least 20 people from my elevated perch. Multicoloured, half-digested chews scattered in a wide arc, accompanied by what can only be described as a wave of pink milk. It was like a camp version of the Exorcist.

I wasn't invited back. Forgive thy neighbour my arse.
(Mr Fudge It shouldn't be illegal to have sex with an eagle, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 10:28, 1 reply)

St Paul's, child with tourettes, predictable consequences...
One of the staff on a school trip to London. The High point was a visit to the top of St Paul's. I was the rearguard as we went up. With me a child with coprolalic tourettes who was reasonable at keeping this to the sort of sub vocal mutter you expect from a drunken tramp.

Today was the day the he discovered that he is seriously afraid of heights. The first part of the ascent involves a gently climb up a wide gently sloping staircase. This turns into some narrow corridors before popping out in the whispering gallery at the bottom of the dome. You then have to shuffle around a thin walkway with the dome above and a substantial drop below.

So we get to the point where the corridors meet the dome and the poor kid is unwilling to come out as he has spotted a bit of void. To demonstrate how safe it is I flop onto the substantial railings designed to stop the suicidal from getting closer to their maker than necessary.

As I look down I just have time to get a bird's eye view of the dress rehearsal of Handel's Messiah spread out below me, before the child leaps forward, bounces off the rail, screaming obscenities at the top of his voice and springs back through the door out of sight. Everything stutters to a halt as every eye in St Paul's turns to the sight of me spread-eagled alone on the suicide fencing.

Apparently this a funny story, although I have never seen the humour in it personally.
(KittenTester, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 10:27, Reply)

As I have allergies to religion here's a pea;
A friend of mine's grandad reached the age of 84, and rather peacefully passed away in his sleep. Twas a nice man, as I'd spoken to him a few times on the way to a few pissups and he'd always made his upmost to speak decently and as politely as possible to me.

I found out the funeral details and promptly attended quietly at the back of the church, right by the aisle. After a few hymns the vicar gives a speach about how well the turnout was for him, and also about his heroic deeds in the 2nd World War. Apparently this guy used to be a member of the Unexploded Bomb division in Swansea during the blitz, and single-handedly saved hundreds of lives during his time in service. An army representative was called up to give a brief speach about his career record and thus did so. At the end of his speach he closed it by announcing for everyone to stand and that the Royal Military Brass Band Representative will now play a song in rememberance. I'm looking down the front, stretching into the aisle to see this, and I can't see this rep nowehere.

The cunt was standing just behind me in the aisle, bugle in hand and lined up about a foot from my right ear.

I fucking shit myself as he started playing, hymn book flying gracefully two rows ahead of me, aptly striking another mourner. The utter bastard.

I try to avoid military funerals from now on.
( Jeccius Steam Borderlands 2 junkie, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 10:27, 2 replies)

THE SABBATH
Being a child in the late 70’s in the Outer Hebrides on a Sunday has scarred me for life. The island’s Protestant Taliban were still in full force and held the whole island in their iron grip. What they did on THE SABBATH was, in effect, turn the whole island into a church. Here’s a list of some of the things that weren’t allowed on a Sunday.

Talking loudly or in a frivolous manner.
Watching telly.
Listening to the radio.
Any other form of audio visual entertainment.
Reading a book that is not the bible.
Singing (including hymns)
Running
Whistling
Wearing scruffy (work) clothes, Wellington boots etc.
Leaving the house – apart for the purpose of travelling to and from church.
Playing board games, cards, reading comics.
Drinking alcohol.
Shaving.
Washing, ironing, or drying clothes.
Any form of housework apart from that related to preparation and consumption of food for the Sunday in question.
Laughing.

Now day’s the ferry sales (sails for AB) on a Sunday and there’s couple of shops open. We even go fishing on a Sunday, though when we were on the way to the boat and passed one of the old guard on the way to church, she did tell her grand daughter “God is going to kill them”. Nice.
( Ring Of Fire A petty, drooling belming butthurt retard., Fri 2 Sep 2011, 10:08, 11 replies)

An unexpected addition
When you first approach the Sagrada Familia in Barcelona, it looks like a gnarled fairytale castle, hewn out of roots and spires. It’s only as you get closer that you see the incredible detail, the thousands of intricate carvings charting the course of biblical history. Truly incredible. And the inside is even better – Gaudi was obsessed with nature, from the structure of cells to the whorls of a shell and the symmetry of a pine cone. His columns are grooved so as to resemble the helicoidal twists of a sweet chestnut tree. The arches of the vault are like a giant ribcage.

Amidst this grandeur and genius, I sat waiting for the lift to the top of the tower, basking in the interplays of greens reds and blues from the stained glassed window. Our turn came, and up we went.

It’s amazing up there. Amazing. You look down on the massive decorative clusters emerging from the roof of the cathedral like wild arum, the enormous metal sculpture of Christ suspended from the bridge, and the city itself stretches away into the distant haze. “He built this for a god I don’t even believe in,” I thought. Am I wrong? How could such a thing be inspired by an error? Have I been missing the point all along?

These mixed feelings of doubt and wonder stayed with me as I descended the long, tightly-wound spiral stairs. Peering over the rail and looking down, it’s exactly like the spirals of an ammonite. Yet more genius and wonder, only seen if you change your perspective. My fingers brushed along the wall as I walked and pondered. And then out of the corner of my eye, I glimpsed the piece de resistance, the final embellishment that made this the greatest building I’d ever walked in:



“Ah, Mahoney,” I chuckled.

Best day ever.
( Wet-chinned bag shanker Cannot parse Wogan, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 9:53, 5 replies)

Bought Mass Effect for the xbox the other day
Totally not what I was expecting.
(TheManWithThePlan cussed your mum on, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 9:49, 2 replies)

I often wonder what kind of mental damage
- I'm assuming mental damage as a given here, never met anyone who got off scot-free, whether they know it or not - I'd still be working through if I'd been more heavily exposed to religion than the occasional brush with Sunday school when I was little. I'd hate to think what would have happened to me if I'd actually had people trying to convince me at an impressionable age that all this stuff was true, rather than the focus on papercrafts and biscuits that I got from my CofS Sunday mornings.
It occurred to me fairly recently that I'd never actually believed that anything I was told about the Bible was supposed to be more than just stories, but then I didn't have it jammed down my throat with fervent conviction 24/7.
As a result, ardent atheist though I am, I feel my freedom is somewhat lightly-won. More importantly, this doesn't stop me thinking that churches, temples and cathedrals are gorgeous, wonderful, amazing places.

I don't go to church (obviously) as a rule, but I always go for the carol services at Christmas to bolster the feeling of happiness. Some of my favourite memories from childhood are of wandering around the ruins of famous cathedrals up and down Britain, admiring the architecture (what remains of it) plotting what must have been the outline of the building, gazing at the workmanship and trying to connect with what people must have felt there when the stones still stood on one another.
I've been to the burial mounds in Orkney, and, even though I know it must be entirely imagined, revelled in the connection these people had with their pre-Christian gods in such a place; run my hands over cases full of beautiful beautiful workmanship constructed solely for the dead.
And even the one time I was dragged to Catholic Mass by a girlfriend, one of the most embarrassing mornings of my entire life due to being completely at odds with the ritualistic machine composed of those who actually knew what they were doing and who, I have no doubt, were judging the everloving shit out of the tousled, unshowered heathen who was always slightly out of synch with the standing and sitting and boring, boring hymns - even then I couldn't help feeling like the decades of holy feeling had layered themselves into the walls of the gorgeously ornamented church, and that perhaps I could partake in a little of it while I was there.
So yeah; while intellectually I know that everything they're founded on is utter rubbish, there's a solemnity and a dignity to these places that it's hard to completely ignore.
I'm sure that's what they're designed for, painstakingly perfected to induce such feelings; I'm aware that it's just my cultural societal background kicking in and telling me how I'm supposed to feel; but in-the-moment there's a lot of peace and beauty to be found in places of worship, no matter what you think of the whole idea in the abstract.
(Falstaff's Spiritual Successor, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 9:34, 2 replies)

I was walking home one night, a bit pissed, and I saw that the convent down the road had a distinct lack of security. Being a bit mischievous I decided to help myself. No 'fence. Nun taken.
( enoughblueskyforsailorstrousers, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 9:31, 4 replies)

My brother
Both my older brother and I attended a Catholic primary school. There was no really major drama, we weren't beaten on a regular basis, the paedo priest never touched us up, nothing really headlineworthy.

What they did inflict on us, however, was regular trips to the attached church. And when i say "regular", I mean every damn day.

Now, my brother didn't like this. It was cold, it was boring and the seats were uncomfortable. So one autumn day, he decided to take matters into his own hand: he gather a load of dry leaves from the playground, stacked them up against a pew and used one of the tribute candles to set fire to them.

The fire was very shortlived because my mum thought he was up to something and so caught him in the act and put the fire out with the holy water.
(ScousersPet, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 9:29, Reply)

I got kicked out of the Sistine chapel
Your not supposed to take pictures in there. I presume this is partly to protect the paintings from endless flashguns going off, but also to boost profits in the gift shop from postcards, posters and books. Anyway, I was there on an a-level art trip with school, had my SLR around my neck, no flash, so decided to try to judge the correct set up and shoot from the hip. Unfortunately, the security guard heard the sound of the camera and came marching over. Realising it was too late and I was caught, I raised the camera to my eye and snapped a few pictures of the increasingly angry guard as he marched over to me before he grabbed my arm and marched me out. Those are still my favourite pictures from the trip - I just wish I could have let rip very loudly at the same time though for the added amusement of my fellow students!
( more balanced than jeremy beadle It wasn't me..., Fri 2 Sep 2011, 9:23, 5 replies)

1998 world cup
Remember the forore when Beckam got a red card for kicking the Argentinean. Of course he was entirely to blame for our subsequent departure from the World Cup and the English press & footy loving UK population HATED him with a intensity usually reserved for peados or them bloody immigrants TM

During this time a Church near me had a sign outside

"God even forgives David Beckham"
(sittingduck Attention seeking, bullshitting fuck-knuckle, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 9:02, Reply)

Piss on the Church
Up until a couple of years ago, the big cathedral in Bruges used to have a urinal built onto the outside wall.
It used to give me great pleasure coming back from the pub to my hotel to have a big slash on the House of God without getting done for it.
When we went last year, though, it'd been removed. Damn shame.
(greatoldone Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl f'tagn, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 8:54, Reply)

Not sexy or funny but awesome
I visited the cathedral in Florence a few years ago. If you google it you'll see a huge dome. The dome is painted inside with religious images, just as you'd expect.

At the highest level, should your attention drift during prayers, you will see God and all His angels.

A bit lower down the dome brings you repectively to Purgatory and Hell. Here there are massive, detailed paintings of men and women being tortured by devils. Flesh is ripped and burned, limbs torn off, red-hot pokers inserted graphically into bum-holes and so on.

My favourite scene was of a naked man being held up by one leg and penetrated with a poker while a woman crouches on the ground, staring wide-eyed in fear and biting her nails.

So if you didn't pay attention in church, you'd get a terrifying reminder of the consequences of sin and impiety.

One of the very best things I've ever seen. Well worth a visit!
(Juan Quar is clinging to her front teeth on, Fri 2 Sep 2011, 8:26, 1 reply)