Shit, Wipe, Leave: One Man's Spiritual Journey

I have no time for Christianity, the faith of my forefathers; I have even less time for Islam, the religion of the man who used to overcharge for Junior Mints in his grocery store at Gidding's Corner; I have about thirty-five minutes, give or take, for Japanese fox spirits and other varieties of Shinto anthropomorphism; and, when I was in college, I spent an entire lunchtime in a local Hare Krishna temple, but that was only because the orange-robed baldies were forking over free salad, and even then I wouldn't have gone had I known beforehand that they only offer a very unimaginative selection of dressings. Look, you can say what you like about Buddhism, but I won't listen. I would rather search for a needle in a crop circle than festoon an elephant-headed icon with foul-smelling sticks of incense. Actually, having said that, I possibly could be persuaded to participate if the icon were Cheshire Cat-headed, but they never are.