He leaves his brown pew and meanders to the front of the church, head hanging low and disgusting sheets of paper oozing from his plain, old hands. The groans of the congregation turn to audible hum’s as he gathers his thoughts and raises the mic that is about to absorb his nasty breath. Imagine the disgust you will feel when those ears of yours begin to receive the sounds this “Son of a Gun” starts spouting off. This isn’t Hell, but it sort of maybe feels like it because it’s “Announcement Time” and that meathead is about to make some noises.
Your entire row unite in rocking that musty pew back and forth, back and forth — but you’re not really sure why. Perhaps it is because that bad boy is about to tell you what’s happening with all the ministries and stuff. All the while, he’ll be doing it with his real annoying mouth and face. “Ugh!” you say, “This Son of Gun is about to make announcements with the opening of his face and I have to sit here and take it.” This announcement-boy is a complete mess and waste.
As he speaks, the congregation vacillates between calling the police and weeping. It’s a horror-show. The ugly words that come out of his mouth about annual meals, babysitting, and the ladies’ retreat are like circus clowns opening up a drug store on the corner, and they are selling their medicine for prices that are way too high for the normal, everyday consumer.
“That guy,” you say, “is a real Son of a Gun.”
His stupid face is finally done making those ridiculous announcements, but you’re too busy writing down all the things that you despise about the Sunday Herald. He gathers his awful, wicked papers, walks down the steps and proceeds to sit by his family. “Finally,” you say out loud. “That Son of a Gun is finished with his nasty words.”