Let's hop into the way back machine as we delve into yet another reason why I am going to hell.
Back in the day, my parents used to take my sisters and I to church every Sunday, where we would wear our fancy dresses and sing pious songs about how we are sunbeams and things of that like. Every Sunday, they taught us a wee little lesson so that we could grow up to be good little boys and girls.
One Sunday when I was about, oh, perhaps seven, the lesson was on "sin". The Sunday School teacher, who was young and pretty and probably the mother of about 19 children had brought in a naked hard plastic baby doll and a can of chocolate fudge frosting. The lesson was that each child would tell a sin that they had committed (I tattled! I stole gum! I feel asleep in school!) and then with their finger dab a bit of frosting on the wee baby to symbolize the black mark on their soul. One by one the wee little darlings confessed to sins of great magnitude (I ate my sisters candy! I hid my brothers GI Joe!) until the sticky baby and it's bucket of sin came to the last row, my row. I confessed to who-knows-what, probably being bossy or maybe talking in class, and then I set the vat of chocolate evil beneath my seat and took the evil-incarnate baby to the teacher were it was "baptized" and all of it's sins washed away.
Then I convinced my fellow back row degenerates that we should eat all that tasty chocolate sin. Which we did. When it was gone, I hid the frosting can in the parka hood of the kid in the row in front of us and acted like nothing had happened. Because it's only a black mark on your immortal soul if you get caught, tattle or confess. And I never will! Oh, wait. Shit.
(pretty accurate respresentation of my sin level)