Freud psychoanalyzes St. Augustine

In one-offs, I might play with humor, short stories, or whatever strikes me. Right now, I am recovering from the man-flu and wrote an idea I’ve toyed with for a bit. Maybe as a way to showcase my religious angst or better yet, humor.

Picture a stuffy, wood-paneled office, reeking of cigar smoke and existential dread. The leather couch creaks under St. Augustine’s fidgety, robed ass, his eyes darting like a man who’s just confessed to jerking off to a forbidden pear orgy. Across from him, Sigmund Freud, legs crossed, puffing on a cigar so phallic it’s practically winking, scribbles notes with a smirk that screams, “I’m gonna fuck up this saint’s soul.”

Freud: (blowing a smoke ring that looks suspiciously like a vulva) So, Augustine, my repressed little cherry, tell me about this original sin fetish of yours. Sounds like you’ve got a raging hard-on for guilt.

Augustine: (clutching his rosary so tight it might snap) Oh, fuck off, Sigmund! You’d probably say my confessions are just me sublimating my cock’s cries for freedom. I’m trying to save souls, not jerk off to my own depravity!

Freud: (grinning, adjusting his glasses) Bullshit. Your whole “sin” shtick is just a masochistic wank-fest. You’re obsessed with your own forbidden fruit—those pears you stole as a kid? Classic displaced libido. Bet you wanted to shove ‘em somewhere naughty.

Augustine: (red-faced, sweating like he’s in a Roman bathhouse) You godless prick! Those pears were a metaphor for humanity’s fall, not some kinky fruit fetish! You’re the one who sees a dick in every cigar, you perverted Viennese quack!

Freud: (leaning forward, cigar dangling like a taunt) Oh, come now, Auggie. You wrote 400 pages about your sinful boner for God’s grace. That’s not theology—that’s a fucking Oedipal complex with extra holy lube. You wanna screw your way to salvation, don’t you?

Augustine: (standing, robes flapping like he’s about to smite) You’re a sick bastard, Freud! I wrestled my lusts for years—women, men, probably a goddamn donkey in Carthage—and I overcame them through divine grace! You’d probably say my conversion was just me blue-balling myself for Jesus!

Freud: (chuckling, scribbling “Holy cocktease” in his notebook) Exactly, you self-flagellating fuck. Your whole “City of God” is just you projecting your pent-up spunk onto the heavens. Repression’s your kink, Auggie. Bet you still dream of those Carthaginian whores, don’t you? Moaning “Mea culpa” while you spank your own ass with a Bible?

Augustine: (slamming his fist on the coffee table, knocking over Freud’s ashtray) Fuck you, Sigmund! At least I’m not jerking off to my patients’ dreams about their mothers! You’re so obsessed with pricks and pussies, you’d probably analyze the Holy Trinity as a divine gangbang!

Freud: (unfazed, blowing another obscene smoke ring) Oh, that’s rich, coming from the guy who turned his mommy issues into a saintly sob story. Monica prayed for your soul, sure, but you wanted her to nurse you back to purity, didn’t you? Classic Madonna-whore complex, my friend.

Augustine: (practically frothing, voice cracking) You’re a demonic shitstain, Freud! I confessed my sins to God, not to some coke-snorting shrink who thinks every prayer’s a repressed rimjob! I found redemption, you hack!

Freud: (smirking, tapping his cigar ash onto the floor) Redemption, my ass. You’re still jerking off to your own guilt, Augustine. You just swapped pussy for penitence. Same orgasm, different altar. Now, let’s talk about your father—bet he was a real prick, huh?

Augustine: (storming toward the door, tripping over his robes) I’m done with this shit, you incest-obsessed fuckwit! I’d rather burn in hell than let you psychoanalyze my soul!Freud: (calling after him, grinning) Run all you want, Auggie! Your id’s still fucking your superego raw, and God’s just your voyeuristic daddy in the sky!

The door slams. Augustine’s gone, probably to flagellate himself in a monastery. Freud leans back, lights another cigar, and mutters, “Saints. Always the kinkiest bastards.”