My grandparents are Episcopalian and drive an hour out of town every Sunday in order to attend a service that condemns pretty much everyone. Remember that schism a couple years ago, when the Episcopal church was considering separating from the Anglican community in order to allow gay bishops? My grandparents have been hopping churches ever since, trying to find a “community” in which the leaders are willing to ignore the new, more inclusive rules, if not outright defy them. They seem to have found an appropriately bigoted church family in St. Paul’s and it was here that we all trekked to see my six-week old cousin Jack get baptised this weekend.

In case you’ve never had the fortune to attend an Episcopalian service, I’ll give you a little background. Remember Henry VIII? In the early 1530s, Henry split from the Catholic church in order to claim more sovereignty and bang more chicks. The result of this largely political, largely lustful decision was the Church of England, or as it’s more commonly known today—the Anglican church. The principles? Mostly those came later, with the exception of allowing divorce—an exception that Henry was in a big hurry for. The services are almost entirely devoid of joy and include a lot of standing up and then sitting back down. I think it’s partly ritual and partly a spot-check to see who among the mostly elderly congregation is still alive, awake, and paying attention. Forgive my blaspheme, but in my opinion, the whole thing is a crock of shit, and at one point my dad and I started (very) briefly doing the hokey-pokey in quiet rebellion.

I have a long and sordid history of blasphemy. When I was about three years old, I disrupted one of these somber occasions by standing up in the pew and screeching “Jon Bon Jovi—raise your hand!” in response to the undoubtedly rhetorical question, “who is the Lord?” My grandparents tolerate it because they love me, but I know they secretly pray for me and I’m sure they think I’m going to hell.

After they poured water on Jack’s forehead, the priest picked him up and walked him around the pews, instructing the congregation to “remember his face” (really!) because he—the priest—was going to hold them all personally responsible for Jack’s religious education. When he returned to the pulpit with Jack, the priest said something about passing along the peace of God, at which point Jack let rip a monstrous fart and exploded shit through his diaper and onesie all over the back of his christening gown. I almost gave myself an aneurysm trying not to laugh.

I’ll save you a seat, little guy.