Holy shit, I bet the OP stole this FML from my autobiography, cause it's blatant plagiarism, as you'll see. It may seem like I'm just talking bollocks at first, but humour me on this one, guys. So there I was, wandering the moonlit streets of Paris with my good buddy "Black Balls" Eddie, who was eating out a Sarah Palin plushie like a woman possessed. Yeah, Eddie was a unique girl, no two ways about it, but you could rely on her for anything. We'd been soul-mates ever since the incident with Jason Voorhees. Psycho thought it'd be funny to dig up our mothers and take them both from behind while singing a poor-man's rendition of Hallelujah. Thought he was untouchable. Boy was he wrong. He just wanted to get some, then hit the sack like any other man would. Oh, someone hit the sack alright. Turns out even the undead can't survive a good stiletto to the nads. But that's a tangential issue.
So yeah. Paris. We were shaking down homeless kids for lunch money, and trolling the First Postecostal Church asking for directions to the Sweet Jesus Candy Emporium. Yeah, everyone knows where it is, but there's nothing quite like watching a priest have an aneurysm after being asked for the millionth time. Just a bit of juvenile fun. Turns out even God's ordained have a limit. Last thing either of us remembered was cock-slapping the door knocker. Next thing we knew, we were waking up in a dark basement, naked and covered in PB&J. Sure, it sounds sexy as hell when you read it, but all I could think at the time was about getting the hell out of there. Christ, I needed to sit my O.W.L.s the next day, and I sure as fuck wasn't going to come second place to Hermione fucking Granger due to sodomy-by-priest.
We were strapped down with steel restraints. Any other day, I'd have just given up and committed suicide by swallowing my brain, but that's when I noticed THEM. The embalmed corpses of Little Jimmy and Nick "The Cunter" Rock, hanging over the fireplace like some god damn trophies from a Dick Cheney hunting expedition. Wasn't going to stand for that shit, you know? The rage consumed me and the next thing anyone knew, those restraints were gone and the priest was reduced to a sort of fine tomato soup. 'course, we ate the evidence. Cops never pinned it on us, and all we got was a prion disease. We booked it the hell out of there and swore never to speak of the day again. Clearly I broke the oath, but I feel it's pertinent information.
I guess there are three morals to take from this story. The first is that trolling churches is bad, m'kay? The second is if your partner thinks Sarah Palin is hot, probably best to give her an early cremation. Third is just don't scream first, it never ends well and there's an 80% chance of contracting herpes in the process. Just ask DocBastard. Wee-woo.