(as seen in this week's edition of
www.AmericanSideshow.org)




The Preacher was wearing a white Stetson when he called me up to the alter. His eyes were a swarming mass of fire and his hands, covered in snake bites, dripped blood down his wrists like streams feeding into a swamp.

'Come on up here sister, come up and tell us how you've sinned! The Lord sees all and He knows you're a sinner! Get up here girl and take this snake to your breast. Repent now and drink from the blessed wounds of Jesus Christ!'�

I was dreaming again, that much was clear. What wasn't clear was how a cowboy preacher with a thirsty snake was going to get an unbeliever like me to straighten my ways and get right with God. I couldn't get the man's face out of my mind: the burning eyes, the quivering tongue'�the John Wayne headgear. I tossed and turned all night worrying about what lay ahead.

I had already decided I was going to the Church on Fire the next morning, no matter what. I had been driving by the place for two years wondering what on earth it was. Revivalist churches are common in rural Florida, but what kind of church sets itself up in a mini mall, and in what way was it on fire?

Did they have snake charming and animal sacrifice? Did they dance around with their eyes rolled up in their heads? Did they get discount coupons at Manny's drycleaners next door?

The curiosity was weighing heavy on me. I knew I had to go to find out for myself. But I hadn't shaken off the dream yet; the preacher's eyes kept burning into me. As I lay in bed wringing my hands, I knew in my heart I was a sinner. I thought about all the evil things I'd done over the years, things like:

- Taken the Lord's name in vain. (Jesus fucking Christ
had I ever!)

- Had lust in my heart. (And in other places, too.)

- Consumed alcohol. (Not just alcohol'�tequila.)

- Fornicated in the back seats of Oldsmobiles.
(I recommend it. Especially if you're wearing a cheerleading skirt.)

- Killed innocent life with the grill of my car.
(Woodchucks aren't as fast as you think.)

- And just last night I called George W. Bush an 'encephalitic
trust fund Cracker'� without guilt or remorse.

It was pretty clear ' I was a sinner, maybe not of epic proportions, but a sinner nonetheless.

I approached the bland-looking strip mall door clutching my purse and my nervous stomach.

I expected to see snakes slithering over stacks of bibles and small farm animals tied to flaming alters ready for sacrifice. The last thing I expected was the Jesus and Mary welcome wagon. A group of women clustered around me. And not just any kind of women either, they were hard-core Pentecostals. I could tell because of all of the hairspray and tambourines.

'Well goodness sake, look what we have here ' a visitor!'� One of the women said. 'I'm Miss Rhonda'�what's your name darlin'? How did y'all find us? Do you worship Pentecostal regular?'�

Not having been to church since I was ten, and it being a Methodist one at that, I stalled for an answer and nervously scanned the room for reptiles.

Disappointed in its snakelessness, I continued eyeballing the carpet for strays. It was a rather bland space really, with white, windowless walls and about sixty folding chairs carefully arranged in a semi-circle. Up front near the altar sat a sizeable stage with a drum set and double Peavy amps. A hand-made wooden cross was affixed to the wall, draped in a purple scarf. I didn't see any caged beasts, but that doesn't mean there wasn't a special room in back filled with baby lambs that had just eaten their last meal. An old woman with no teeth sat in the corner. She kicked off her shoes and balanced a tambourine on top of her scriptures.

Miss Rhonda smiled, waited, then gave me a puzzled look. 'Well'�what's your name sweetheart, where ya'll from?'�

I was still pretty nervous. For all I knew she had a black mambo tucked in her girdle. (It's not that I don't like snakes, I just don't like them biting me in the name of the Lord.)

'Uh, uh'�I'm Dee. Dee from Wisconsin!'�

Dee from Wisconsin? I was so nervous I didn't know what I was saying. I was from Illinois and only my closest friends called me Dee, and then only if they wanted something more than a slap and tickle.

The ladies slowly swarmed around me, trying to get a closer look.

'Well, well. Hey everybody, this here's Dee from Wisconsin!'� Miss Rhonda announced. 'Yep, that's right Wis-con-sin.'�

Every church member got the chance to personally introduce themselves. After the last handshake, an immense presence in an orange plaid suit waltzed up beside me. I wasn't sure if he was a car salesman or the head of a balloon sculpting squad. Turns out it was Reverend Rob ' founder and head spiritual advisor to The Church on Fire.

The parishioners flocked around him reverentially, like his very touch may strike them down in a siege of holiness. He was part Fatty Arbuckle and part Emmet Kelly with a red pug face and brush cut. I counted the number of buttons on his bewildering tent of a suit'�not surprisingly, there were seven.

'Well praise the Lord and pass the peas, what have we here? A little lost sheep that's come to join the flock.'� He shook my hand slowly, grinning ear to ear. 'It's good to meet you Dee'�I do hope you fill out a visitor's card and sit good and close, 'cause I feel a powerful sermon comin' on. Oh yes, the spirit of the Lord is with me today, amen.'� He reached behind a flower arrangement to hand me a little ribbon-tied bag of miniature Butterfingers that sat in a bowl next to the empty guest book.

'And please, take this little gift as an offering of good will from the parish. We're always happy to have new souls filling our seats, amen.'�

Knowing that nothing good would come of me eating candy in a room full of Pentecostals, I shoved the bag in my pocket as he disappeared behind a curtain.

Candy has always made me hyper and unpredictable. I once got so high off of a bag of peanut M&Ms, I cracked my skull on the ceiling from jumping too vigorously on a motel mattress. The last thing I needed was to slip into some kind of sugar-crazed frenzy and run amok with the bible folk. They might see it as a sign and send me out to a tent revival, barefoot and smeared in butterscotch.

So, not knowing what else to do other than look suspicious and shifty, I followed one of the church ladies up front to get a good seat next to the giant pine cross. I figured the animal sacrifice would begin soon and I didn't want to miss Reverend Rob's sacred goat de-earing or blessed chicken de-necking.

The room sat in silence for what seemed like an eternity.
'Come on,'� I thought, 'let's get this goddamn freak show moving. What does a girl have to do around here to see some foaming at the mouth for Christ's sake!'�

I planned ahead by wearing an old skirt, so I was fully prepared for bloodshed. But what I wasn't prepared for was a free concert.

A small group of teenagers filed their way up to the stage and solemnly picked up various instruments. A meek-looking blond girl kicked off her shoes and fingered a black, shiny Gibson. A hipped-up 16-year-old sat behind the drums, and what appeared to be the lead singer from The Back Street Boys began singing and playing keyboard. A few backup singers and a bass player joined in, but as things got moving, it was clear the Back Street Boy was the star.

The more he crooned, the more the crowd raised their arms and swayed to the music, weeping and clapping and praising the Lord.

Amazingly, they all seemed to know the words. And not only that, they could all carry a tune. In fact, it seemed like the entire place was suddenly filled with stars from The Grand Ol' Oprey circa 1974.

Conway Twitty was up front with his arm around a pregnant girl. Loretta Lynn was over by the water cooler raising up her bible and a can of Nee-Hi. George Jones was stroking his sideburns trying to steal the toothless lady's tambourine. Freddie Fender sat in back, picking his magnificent Mexican afro. Johnny Cash perched on a broken chair, clenching his fists like a mad man. And Tammy Wynette peered into my face, just two inches away, trying to detect even the slightest sign of divine intervention.

The more intensely the Back Street Boy sang, the more emotional the parishioners got. At one point, Loretta Lynn left her seat, grabbed a Kleenex from the alter and knelt down, quietly weeping and rocking and praying (I hoped) for God to forgive me all of my Oldsmobile transgressions. She wailed and beat her fists into the carpeting with such passion I was sure she might lose one of her wigs.

And this went on for quite some time.

My legs ached from swaying and my hands stung from trying to clap in unison with the crowd. I wondered how long it would take Loretta to win God over for me'�apparently it wasn't that easy. After a while, I was so exhausted I gave up clapping and dug into my pocket for the Butterfingers.

I new from the start it was a bad idea, maybe even a sin, but the flaky, brittle center was so sweet and delicious. I shoved one in my mouth, then another. I tried to synchronize the wrapper crinkling with all of the uproarious hand clapping. As some of the wrappers fell to the floor, I could feel my head start to sweat and my eyes blur. After the fourth Butterfinger Freddie Fender was beginning to look a lot more like Jimmi Hendrix and I think the toothless woman may have had gills.

When the music finally died down, Reverend Rob appeared out of nowhere, jumping up on stage with a microphone and a pair of shiny, black shoes that looked like indigo snakes.

He squinted out at the crowd. 'Wow, let's give those kids a big round of Christ-lovin' applause, what do y'all say!'� After the clapping subsided, he locked his hands around the microphone and paced the stage like a bloated, plaid lion.

'Now folks, we have a mission here today. Yes, praise the Lord, we do. We have a visitor here today and our job is to show the truth, the light and the way, amen. Yessir'�our mission is to strike down ungodly thoughts, amen, and raise up the holy ones, amen.'�

He continued to punctuate every other sentence with the word 'amen'� like it was a telegram sent straight from heaven.

'Brothers and sisters'�amen. Can you show Dee from Wisconsin the love for Jesus Christ that you hold in your hearts?'�

Everyone looked in my direction and clapped. Hiding my mouth with my hand, I shoved another Butterfinger in and waved, just to show I was still in the spirit of things.

'Now Brothers and Sisters,'� he said excitedly. 'Today we're gonna talk about self-control and alllllllll the temptations we must abstain from, amen. But first, I wanna make sure all of y'all come to tonight's sermon entitled 'Reverse the Curse.' It's gonna be a good one, so don't'�you'�miss it.'�

I was dying to know what kind of curse reversing was going to take place later on, but before I had time to ask Miss Rhonda, who was beginning to look strikingly like Patsy Montana, 'queen of the high C'�, Reverend Rob launched right into the sermon.

At first he started somewhat tamely, but soon enough he was charging around the pulpit stomping and yelling, his head so red and inflamed I actually thought an eyeball might shoot out and land in Loretta Lynn's bangs. Then, without warning, his accent went from slow-rolling Southern to Baptist black in the course of a few minutes.

'You see my children-uh, the Lord-uh doesn't want you to wallow in the shadow of the tree of temptation-uh! No sir-uh! The Lord-uh wants you to reach up-uh, reach up-uh and graaaaaaaasp the hand of looooooove in Christ-uh!'� The redness was creeping up his face into his scalp.

'Oh Lordy! Oh, Lordy I feel it commin' on! Oh yes! The Love of Christ-uh is with us today'�in all of us today-uh!'� Reverend Rob was in such a worked up state, pacing and yelling and waving his hands, that soon enough he began ending his fiery sentences with little jumps, usually in groups of three.

The candy was really starting to take effect now. The sugar was making me twitch and clap out of rhythm. Even my eyebrows were beginning to sweat. The more the Reverend jumped on stage, the more I jumped with the crowd. I wiped the dampness off my forehead with the back of my hand and yelled out 'Amen!'� and 'Praise the Lord!'� whenever Rob whirled around with his microphone.

'Now folks, who all needs special care today?'� He swung around and pointed his stubby finger at us. 'Who needs to be touched with the love of Jesus Christ?'� He put his hand on his hip and passed his other palm in the air over our heads. 'Y'all just step right up here in the receiving line and let Reverend Rob touch you with the spirit of God. Come on now'�don't be shy.'�

Every single person except George Jones and the toothless woman, (who were too busy fighting over the tambourine) rose up and took their place in the receiving line. Without a moment's hesitation, the Reverend took Loretta Lynn's head in his hands and shouted out a prayer so loud and powerful she nearly buckled from the force of it. Steadying herself with a chair, she wiped her eyes with a Kleenex and sat back down, fully cleansed.

Tammy Wynette didn't have it so easy. When Reverend Rob grabbed her head and shouted the Lord's blessing, she lifted up her trembling hands to the asbestos ceiling, and with tears running down her cheeks, collapsed to the floor. All I can say is thank God there was a spotter. When Tammy Wynette goes down, she goes down hard.

She balled herself up on the floor and wept long and hard for the love of Jesus Christ. Or maybe she was praying for the chipmunk I ran over last week, it was hard to tell. Her fingernails dug into the purple shag carpeting making long, tunnel-like furrows in the pile. Reverend Rob's touch was so powerful that she remained collapsed on the floor, completely destroyed, for the remainder of the service.

Getting caught up in the excitement of all the blessings, I accidentally dropped my last Butterfinger in the crack of Conway Twitty's bible as I attempted to push my way up front to the receiving line. I wanted to be blessed too goddamit.

'Come on, I'm a sinner!'� I thought. 'I have lust in my heart! I've even had tequila'�on a Sunday'�in an elementary school parking lot...and I've killed squirrels!'�

I jumped up and down, trying to get the Reverend's attention over Johnny Cash's 6 foot tall undertaker's suit. But it was no use, Johnny stole my thunder. When Rob placed his hands on the man's big, slick head, Johnny began shaking violently.

'Abadahabahdahabahdahabahdahabada!'�

Wow, imagine that. I had never heard anyone speak in tongues before, much less Johnny Cash. He sounded like he was trying to buy a basket of figs in Urdu at an Indian street market. It was a fantastic display...I mean, who knew Johnny was so worldly?

After a long, draining procession, all of the other Pentecostals received their blessings and wept accordingly. Tammy Wynette and Loretta Lynn held each other as they walked past the drum set after service. Johnny Cash hugged Freddy Fender next to the guitar amp, and George Jones must have finally stolen the tambourine from the toothless woman because I saw him hand it to Slim Whitman, who apparently spent the whole sermon hiding behind a pylon practicing the high notes.

I had missed out on being touched by Reverend Rob personally, but somehow I knew things would never be the same. You see, I'm an addict now'�and I can't wait for my next church revival.

I also can't wait to sin more. Because the more I sin, the more dramatically I can shed my transgressions in front of the Lord, the Reverend, and all the parishioners.

Next Sunday, it's going to be The Sacred Blood of the Lamb Revivalist Center, and guess what'�I hear they have Pixie Stix.

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