Outskirts Press, INC.

HOLY COW! IS NOTHING SACRED? SATURDAY MORNING SINS IS WICKED FUNNY WITH A TWISTED ALTAR BOY CONSCIENCE.

Sometimes I fancied myself as faultless. I might be called to the alter to draw a mythic sword from a stone icon. Some yet unnamed angel, seeking a promotion would bestow great wisdom and superpowers upon me as a reward for my devotion. I would receive my own halo and wear it to school. Girls would worship me. Protestant boys would convert, and follow me to church every Sunday on their Stingrays. Catholic boys would buy the comic books that chronicled the episodes of my weekly escapades and my frustrating romantic crush on the Flying Nun. For that matter—it seemed just as likely a legion of demons would kidnap me on a chilly autumn evening (late in October when the goblins and ghouls return to their full-time jobs) and threaten me at sickle point.