The Church

Sadly it was the rather stupid Charlotte Church that instigated this evening's thought processes.
I want to talk a little about religion. I want to, but can't. I know literally nothing about it. Well, not literally. What worries me most though is that I'm joined by about 6,578,257,375 people. 6,578,257,375 know nothing about religion. On a side note I had this theory once, or more of a fantasy, that women had a huge secret, and its such a deep hidden secret that they can't ever tell a male, without destroying everything. So not even a lesbian could break the vow...not even riddled with drugs and frying in a pancake oils. I don't know what the secret would be, obviously. Probably something to do with machines... maybe the world is hollow and lined with little rubbery handles, so that when the menfolk go to sleep (after a hard night hunting amphibious birdlife?) they drop down specially crafted tunnels that they dug as part of their initiation. They slide down these hand crafted tunnels and drop into the hollow earth, wildly grasping for a handle as they plummet into the innner void. If they manage to catch hold they can swing around, so that from a distance away into the space and turning back their shapes make important concentric patterns. That would explain magnets. If they miss they just drop...although the problem is after they have dropped for say, a thousand or so miles they'll be approaching the 'core' of the empty space. If they dropped any further they'd actually be flying, if you get my drift. So obviously they come to an abrupt stop in the centre....where surely thousands of women from all around the world will be dropping to. Exactly the same point. At high velocity too... no doubt creating intense heat. A huge boiling fleshball of oestrogen, and er, hairstyles and screaming and mangles.
I forget my point.

What is it that makes me?

I'm not from Wearside. And I'm not Jack. Yet I am Wearside Jack. What is it that makes me?

Olives. I cannot think of them without the Arabic word coming to mind. With emphasis: I cannot. That is simply unique; and olives, therefore, are unique. Eating them, one [i.e. I] is aware of imbibing goodness. Yet surely imbibing and mastication are bedfellows only in the most tenuously Amazonian of senses? Think for a moment, and it becomes obvious: the olive is the purest distillation of the life force - of the élan vital - and he who consumes the olive will never die.

Returning to our primary question, it seems that I am Wearside Jack not because I am, but because I was both flustered and flumoxed when imposed upon to enter some sort of identifier to proceed towards this curious goal to which a curious stranger had compelled my being to strive. That is: what is is the very first thing that comes into one's mind. Namely, I am an ostrich. Think - but not - never - too much.

Think.