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This shit is scary. Ever since I was a kid growing up in a recovering Catholic’s household, Christian stories have terrified me: floods, floating babies down the river, burning bushes, little guys killing giants, bros killing bros. And I’m supposed to be groovin’ on the word of G when his entire first novel is filled with such violence? OK, I’ve realized there are some admirable acts of charity in its pages, too, but as a kid I was mortified by the Good Book’s violence. I always imagined that when they made the film version—oh, they did make the film version. Anyway, my mind’s soundtrack always featured these Benedictine monks depressingly chanting away like a bunch of Monty Python extras as some dude gets fried for coveting his neighbor’s wife. Gregorian chants went Top 40 a few years back, and because I’m a punk I say, “What a bunch of goofily coifed sell-outs!” Now I just listen to the Monks’ Black Monk Time during the holidays and sway to “I Hate You,” “Boys Are Boys and Girls Are Choice,” and “We Do Wie Du.” I do.

—Blue Christmastopher Porter