The Greatest Scientific Breakthrough

Some people will try to list the greatest discoveries in the history of humanity. As I was channel surfing the other day, I saw a show on the History Channel about the wheel. It was tracing the origins of the wheel back through time as the narrator proclaimed it to be the greatest invention in the history of the world. Since I had to choose between Elmer Fudd tracking that wascally wabbit and the wheel, I never found out whether it really was that important.
One man was on the television the other night declaring that the computer was the greatest technological breakthrough of all ages. As he demonstrated all the things that can be done with the computer, it was beginning to make sense to me. I felt that this man must really have a point when he declared he had a dream to see computers in every home, not only in America, but also in the entire world. Of course, some of the people would need electricity first. All of this sounded like the work of a caring visionary, until I actually looked up from the Internet game I was playing and saw that I was listening to Bill Gates. So much for the credibility of that theory.
As impressive as those may be they cannot hold a candle to the greatest discovery of all time: Beano. This amazing medicine makes a preemptive strike against the natural gas found in the people who are always given the middle seat on flights of two hours or more. I cannot tell you how often that little pill has saved me from embarrassing moments. Before I discovered Beano I often found that I was sitting alone in church in my own pew. But now I have a pill that keeps flatulence at bay.
Looking back at my childhood, I wish I had known then what I know now. More accurately, I wish my father knew then what I know now. He had several foods that he loved; however, there was one food that he loved more than all others combined: Kidney Bean Salad. We called it Skunk Surprise. I lived in fear for two days after that. There was one thing my Dad would say that would make maggots for miles around squirm away to the perfume of a poop pile. He would point at me and say, “Come here and pull my finger.” After years of therapy I can once again bear the sight of an index finger without going into hysterics and falling on the floor in a fetal position, sucking my thumb and begging for the green clouds to go away. But I digress.
Thanks to a team of psychiatrists, a skilled nasal doctor and several surgeries, I recovered from my childhood trauma. Nevertheless, there are still children out there – mostly in Alabama – who still suffer from a father who can make himself levitate in ways that David Blaine never dreamed. With the proper precautions, they can avoid the hardships that so many of us endured during that less technologically advance age. First thing you kids need to do is to go to any store with a pharmacy. I’d recommend looking for a store with the word PHARMACY written on the side of the building. That is usually a good clue. Once you have entered the store, go to the section where they keep the Pepto Bismol. Get some of that to take care of your churning stomach from dad’s antics after the double-bean burritos he ate last night.
Now look a little further and you will see Gas-X. This is NOT what dad needs. That, kiddies, is for someone who is having gas pains and needs to find some way to get rid of the methane within. Just remember: you are the one in pain. Dad feels really good! Near the Gas-X you will see two little bottles with the name Beano on it. This is your Ark of the Covenant and Holy Grail all rolled into one, Indy. There is the smaller size that has only 30 tablets. This is fine for someone like you who may have an occasional toot. For dad you need the 60-count size. I have sent a letter to the Beano people requesting a slightly larger size for exceptionally gassy people. I received a rather terse and narrow-minded reply. They said that 50,000 pills is not a feasible size for shelving purposes.
Now take your purchases to the counter. You may notice that the Beano is roughly the same price as a year at Harvard Law School. Don’t worry about that. If you do not take care of the toxic fumes at home you will not live long enough to be rejected by Harvard. After taking out a student loan to pay for the Beano, take it home and hide it someplace safe. I’d recommend putting it where you put the cigarette loads you occasionally sneak into dad’s cigarettes and blame it on his best friend. By the way, never put three in one cigarette. I tried that experiment one time and discovered that those loads also work well as facial reconstruction implements. Perhaps facial demolitions would be a better description. Don’t worry, it only blew up while my parents were entertaining their new friends. Now that I think about it, I never saw those people again.
The next time your mother decides to punish you by fixing your dad her infamous New Orleans Red Beans and Rice casserole with boiled cabbage on the side, you will be ready. Take some of the Beano and palm it in your hand. The directions recommend three pills; however, I’d recommend using the whole stinking bottle for that explosive meal! If you have siblings you can trust – or who are suffering from the same maltreatment as you – have one of them cause a distraction. Some so-called experts in the field of distraction will tell you a spilled glass of milk is sufficient to distract everyone at the table. That has a slight chance of working, but dad may not even think it is worth crying about and will not even stop the scoop shovel going to his mouth with all of those beans and cabbage. I recommend a fire at the very least, but a small tactical nuclear warhead in the living room in even better. Little things like fires and massive radiation will get his attention and make him get up from the dinner table. While he is gone, put all the Beano you can into his beer. (Of course he is drinking a beer with this meal!)
The Beano uses space age technology to stop the flatulent one before he can become armed and dangerous. I think it uses enzymes, parasites or some kind of nano-technology to stop the gas. Just think of the pain and suffering we can stop with this life-saving piece of technology. No more children must suffer needlessly at the hands of a sadistic father who…Wait a second! That chili I had for supper is getting to me. Hey son! Come here and pull my finger.


Morning birds sing, waking me slowly.
Cool breezes blow, cooling me lowly.
Life is so wonderful, almost nearly holy.
Unless you’re extinct.
Running through fields filled with flowers.
Feeling the rain, soft gentle showers.
Holding the hand of a lover for hours
Unless she wants to talk about feelings then forget it.
Each day is a gift, giving for giving.
Each sin is a chance to be so forgiving.
Each year is another time for real living
Unless you died that year then nevermind.
Seeing the world as a place full of wonder
Can make your life joyful, never torn asunder.
Playing with kangaroos, way down under.
Unless you prefer giraffes.
These lines of poetry are me being silly.
They joke and they jest, going all willy-nilly
Written while drinking moonshine, made by a hillbilly.

Unless you’re my pastor reading this then it was lemonade.

Top Five Times NOT to be Funny

Warning: before you read this, please know that this is darker humor than usual. I got a rejection letter from an agent and am crabby. I have posted many blogs which are meant to make you laugh. Some of them may have actually achieved chuckle-hood. But there are times when you should be serious and jokes might not be the most appropriate. Since you probably already know these times, I am just going to share my top five times when I found trying to be funny was NOT the best idea.
5. You know that time when you are on a date and it just isn’t going well? It is wise to just shake hands and walk away instead of making a joke. Explaining to her that you have to go home and wax your nose hair instead of staying on this date can lead her to grabbing a handful of the aforementioned nostril plumage and yank really hard. The blood will eventually stop after an entire roll of toilet paper is shoved up there. Also, a guy crying on a first date under any circumstances is just wrong.
4. When your friends are explaining that their son has the rare disease known as Proton-McDonald Syndrome (before you get mad, I totally made that up), you need to sit still and listen intently, nodding with a sad look of understanding on your face. It is not appropriate to wait for a lull in the conversation to point out that Proton-McDonald Syndrome’s initials are PMS and their son could be famous as the first three-year-old boy who could say he had that. You really need to wait until he is twelve and then use that joke while handing him some cramp medicine and taking him to get fries.
3. Funerals are tricky when it comes to humor. Sometime you can say something that is incredibly funny, but laughing is just wrong. For example, my grandfather’s funeral was a sober affair due to the nature of his passing. He was shot at the age of eighty-three. It was tragic, really. He lived to be that age and a jealous husband caught him climbing out of the window of a twenty-eight year-old newlywed. Grandma said if he had missed, she was a good shot, too. That was really funny but I restrained my laughter. I’ve seen her shoot and she’s terrible.
2. I discovered that making jokes with someone right after major surgery is frequently not met with the hysterical laughter you were hoping. Hysteria can happen must more frequently followed by a mania that is not unlike a type of murderous psychosis that can be used as a viable defense at their murder trial. You make one joke about the doctor removing the wrong leg and people tend to get cranky.
1. Last, but not least, when your friend is telling you about catching his wife in bed with Enrique, the Columbian gardener, that is not the moment for levity. Trying to lighten the mood by discussing him “plowing her field” can get you punched in the throat. Later, after the divorce, you can make all the jokes you want about him grinding her coffee. But, save that for times when he is mad at her, which will be every moment for the first two years after the divorce. On an unrelated note, has anyone seen a young Columbian guy named Enrique? I have a joke to tell him. Yeah, a joke. Just a joke. Pay no attention to the cattle prod behind my back.

Well, I hope those will help you realize when you make jokes and when not to make jokes. Even if it hasn’t, let me know if you see Enrique.

Facebook Lessons

It has become apparent that there are many people out there who are blissfully ignorant of some of the basic rules when using social media. Since I hate it when someone has more bliss than me, I want to help remove your ignorance. Please don’t thank me. It’s the least I can do to improve the social quality of your social interactions with people you most likely never see in person.
A few mistakes have been made by yours truly that would be best not repeated by you or anyone else on Facebook. I made a list of basic Facebook Rules for you to follow as if your life depended on it… well, your cyber-life does depend on it. You can only change your name so many times on there before people wise up that you are the same doofus who made the comment on the Black-Eyed Peas fan page about preferring snow peas.
Rule #1: If you are chatting with a buddy about women in one window and your mom about her grandson’s grades in another, DO NOT MIX UP THE WINDOWS! The Oedipal issues aside, if either one is deserving of the title “buddy” or “mom”, neither one will EVER let you forget that.
Rule #2: Facebook is a great place to socialize sober. A bar is a great place to socialize over a few drinks. Facebooking while having too many drinks is a disaster waiting to happen. If you’re like most people, your inhibitions tend to be drown quickly in alcohol. Some of the things you say after a few too many shots of Jack may not be appropriate for the tender eyes of the kids who lie about their age to get a Facebook account. Plus, there is a good chance your mom is stalking your Facebook page. Some things you just can’t explain away.
Rule #3: Some posts sound much better in your head than on the screen. I saw one post that said, “BLANK is a total BLANK for BLANKING my BLANKING boyfriend in our BLANKING BLANKING BLANK BLANK!!!” As you can clearly see there were several missing commas and three exclamation points are not grammatically proper. Please consult a grammar checker before posting something like this.
Rule #4: If you are chatting with a member of the opposite sex, do not confuse the chat window with the status window. Or worse, do not confuse those windows if you are sending a picture you do not want your dad to see. It was so embarrassing for a buddy of mine that I will NEVER let him forget.
Rule #5: If you receive a friend request from a woman/man who is way too hot to be friending you, just say no. She/he is either a) after money; b) a fake pic and profile from your girlfriend/boyfriend to see if you are being good; c) a fake pic and profile from your buddy who is trying to make you look really stupid; or d) a sting operation by the cyber-crime branch of the FBI who think you are a pedophile thanks to the websites your buddy visited while using your computer to “pay some bills”.

I hope these rules are helpful.

Illegal Impersonation

While driving my son to school, I heard on the radio about a hardened criminal who had escaped from prison and was on the lam, hiding from the vicious bloodhounds who had caught his scent as he struggled against all odds to reach freedom across the border into the wilds of Georgia. Well, to be honest, it was a guy who escaped from the county lockup who was in for 30-days for possessing drug paraphernalia (I had to Google how to spell that word – I wasn’t even close enough for spell check to guess) and illegal impersonation. Yes, you read that right. I didn’t even know it was illegal to do a bad impersonation. The image I have is of a man who was jailed for being stoned and doing a bad Jimmy Stewart monologue, not unlike most Jimmy Stewart impressions. Who knew it was illegal in Tennessee? This is one weird law that I think should be everywhere.

There are some amazing impressions by various people including Dana Carvey doing Jimmy Stewart that made me laugh so hard I almost passed out. Lack of oxygen will do that to you. I enjoy impressions by Rich Little, Jimmy Fallon and Bubba Johnson (my Sasquatch neighbor who does a great impersonation of a human being) as well. But I have also heard some of the worst impressions in the world by those attempting to do impressions, usually after several rum and Cokes. I will admit to trying to do my impression of Jimmy in Philadelphia Story where he is drunk and talking to Cary Grant. It seems the more drinks I have, the better I think it sounds. But, that guy who got arrested must have been doing the worst impressions ever! The drug paraphernalia may have had something to do with it.
You know what? That guy may have been trying to sound English. In East Tennessee, that can be challenging. I can see it happening: “Top of the mornin’ to ya’ll!” Let’s hope he didn’t try Australian, Scottish or Irish. Those accents sound amazing unless they are done by an American butchering it. No, I am not referring any actor in particular. (Insert your own favorite worst accent by an actor here. There are way too many for me to choose.) Now, being half Scottish, I should have the natural ability to portray a flawless Scottish tone that would make David Tennet believe I was his long lost brother. Sadly, that is not the case. It is something about those R’s and the general tone, plus the vocabulary mixed with the guttural sounds that make mine sound like a man trying to do a really bad Irish accent. I can’t even do a good Tennessee accent and I live here. People are always looking at me and saying, “You weren’t born here, were ya?”
It is time for me to lay low. If the cops are out arresting people for illegal impersonations, then I need to stop doing my Sean Connery while drinking mojitos. That is so stupid. Everyone knows you drink Scotch while walking up to people claiming to be Sean’s son.

The Mentos Treatment

I’m sure you have all seen all kinds of videos on YouTube about the wonders of combining Mentos with Diet Coke. They create the most amazing geysers. Check out this link if you have been missing out on this cultural phenomenon.

Those guys really need to get girlfriends.
Anyway, one morning while trying to wake up with some carbonated caffeine, I decided to freshen my breath at the same time. Please remember, I was half asleep at that moment. I had just dropped off my son at school – yes, I drive half asleep – and stopped for a drink and some mints. I had not had Mentos is such a long time, I thought it was high time I ate a few. As with so many other moments of monumental stupidity in my life, the soundtrack should be the music from Jaws. Without going into detail, let me tell you I discovered a new and rather dramatic way of cleaning out ones sinuses. Did you know that you can shoot Mentos-charged Diet Coke twenty-seven feet… through your nose! I am kidding of course. It was impossible to measure distance since I was in my car at the time. The guys at Simonize passed out when they saw the interior of my car.
After that incident, I considered marketing my Diet Coke-Mentos sinus treatment to the masses. Other than the mild side effects like the excessive burning of nasal passages, the loss of the ability to smell anything but Diet Coke and Mentos for three days, ringing ears (I have no idea why that happened), and the doubling the size of nostrils, I felt this could be a very effective treatment for those who suffer from stuffy noses. Then again, people can be so picky about ringing ears.
My oldest son suggested next time I swallow the Mentos first and then add the Diet Coke. He is studying to be an engineer and those engineers are methodical in their problem solving techniques. Plus, my son has a twisted sense of humor. I think he got it from his mom because I still have mine. That idea got me thinking about a new, cost-effective, highly-entertaining-for-everyone-who-hears-the-story, way to prepare for a colonoscopy. Yes, I am going there.
Consider, if you will, a man faced with the unwelcome (or perhaps enjoyable if he is into that kind of thing) prospect of having a camera take a rather unflattering movie of his lower intestine. A man who lives in fear, knowing that the prep is worse than the procedure where he will be in la-la land. You are now entering the Where-the-Sun-Don’t-Shine-Zone. Da da daaaam. (That’s as close as I can get to Twilight Zone music.) Many writers have written on the joys of taking the plutonium-enriched laxatives used to clean out their systems prior to this lovely experience. I yield to the master, Dave Barry, whose description in the Miami Herald is amazing! Check it out:
But let’s consider another possibility. What if we could harness the power of Diet Coke and Mentos as a means to help clean out a stubborn colon? The prep would involve swallowing a tube of Mentos and a two-liter of Diet Coke. Jump up and down twice. Sit down in on the commode. Use a five-point harness system that is used by pilots of the F-22 Raptor for supersonic flight. Start flushing and don’t stop! It is my belief that your entire digestive tract will be clean as a whistle – although I’m not sure it will sound like a whistle, but you never know – in no time at all. Bonus, your butt will have a minty freshness for your proctologist the next day. It’s the least you can do for him for what he will be doing to you.

The Joy of Socks

This blog is PG rated… I cannot be held responsible for things you infer.

Everyone loves socks. Everyone needs socks. If you don’t have enough socks you will find yourself in a world of trouble. There was one time when I didn’t have any socks at all for the longest time. I’m not sure why I let things get so out of hand. The last time I had socks was hard to remember. I couldn’t find any clean socks so – in desperation – I found some dirty socks. I felt nasty all day long!
It doesn’t really matter your gender. Both men and women need socks. Some people think that men need socks more than women, but that is just a myth. When you look at the socks women like, they tend to be longer than men’s socks. Men seem to like the short socks. No one knows why. That’s just the way it seems to be. Now don’t send me any nasty comments about you guys who like longer socks and ladies who prefer short socks. Let’s just all agree that we all need socks regardless of length.

There is some debate concerning the frequency we need socks. There are those who feel that once a week is often enough for their socks needs. There are even some who claim that once a month is frequent enough to meet their desire for socks. On the other end of the spectrum, some feel the need for socks every single day. In the interest of full disclosure and honesty, it is only fair to tell you that I fall into that last category. In fact, there are days when socks one time just isn’t enough. But that is just me. 
Please, dear reader, don’t go without socks for too long. It is so wrong. It is not natural. It is not right for you to not have any socks. In this day and age of all kinds of socks and many opportunities for socks, there is no reason you should not have some. Your feet will thank you. And if you were thinking about something other than foot wear, get your mind out of the gutter!


L. Ron Hubbard once described the mass of roads leading into and out of our Nation’s Capital as a maze designed to keep the citizens from the seat of power.He may have had a point. Back when I lived in Richmond, Virginia, I had a traumatic experience with our beloved capital. I can finally look back on it years later with some wit and witticism. (I only cried twice while writing about it!) It was on a Monday and I was taking a friend to Dulles Airport outside of DC. I followed the signs and got my friends to the airport without the slightest trouble. Then I made a major mistake. I tried to go back to Richmond.

The expressway to Dulles is a fabulous road. It zips along without any of those pesky exits to distract you from your main focus – survival. To be fair, there are a few exits. Unfortunately, the one that I wanted (I can even remember which one it was now) had signs that said that Interstate was coming up; however, the road never appeared. I looked for it several times and never found it. I realized that I might have been in trouble when signs to new Interstates (ones that had not even existed as far as I was concerned) began to appear.

Knowing that I needed to go east to find my way to I-95 I took this new Interstate with the vague hope of finding my way home. I-80-something sounded promising. The problem was it was telling me east was west and west was east. Those sign people really have a great sense of humor, don’t they? I got on the east-bound I-80somthing, knowing full well I was going west. It was at this point when things began to get confusing.

I was lost. Not having been lost for at least 30 hours, I decided to just enjoy it. There were decent odds I would find my way out of the DC area someday. While driving along, I saw a sign that said Iwo Jima – next exit. Not really sure if the sign referred to the monument or the island, I took a chance that it was the monument. That chance paid off. I saw it. It was BIG. I mean really big! Cruising around it and wondering how to get closer, I made another mistake. There is a road right next to the monument that apparently has no way in or out. They put cars in there to make you think you can get in. I suspect they use helicopters to airlift them in there. I, still naive about the ways of Washington, decided to try and get closer. Logic dictated that going around it long enough, I would find a way in. (Yeah, I know. Logic and DC don’t mix. I was young and stupid.) I turned right. That was when I saw the sign that told me I was crossing the Potomac River.

Crossing the river may not seem like that big a deal to you. It isn’t, unless you started you trip at Dulles. You see, Dulles airport is not in Washington, DC. In reality it right outside of St. Louis. You have to drive forever to actually get from DC to Dulles. It’s a joke they play on tourists and foreign dignitaries. By now I figured that I was an accidental tourist.  Crossing the Potomac took me into the District of Columbia. I was really in Washington! “OOOOPS” was the first thing that came to mind as I watched Virginia fade away in my rear view mirror.

This was the point when all traces of sanity faded away and I began to enjoy the experience. The past two weeks had been rough and this was the crowning blow to the fragile hold I had on reality. (Some things never change.) A sign appeared that said “Independence Ave.” That sounded like a nice street to try. I got off the road I was on (which to me will forever remain the RoadWithNoName) and went on Independence Ave. I saw the Washington Monument in the distance and decided to use that as a landmark. It would have worked too if I hadn’t been forced to go the opposite direction by the escaped mental patients that drive on the streets of DC. With a tear I waved goodbye to the Washington Monument and looked forward to my next adventure in this new direction.

I found the Kennedy Center! I know. You didn’t think it was lost. If you think that, then you have obviously never tried to drive in Washington, DC. Trust me, it was lost. That is a cool looking building. Did you know that part of it just hangs over the road waiting for someone important drive by so it can fall on it? Apparently, it did not consider me worth smashing to a Doug-shaped paste. Oh well. I guess I’m not that important to the Kennedy Center. Some thanks I get. That’s the last time I’ll find it when it’s lost.

There is a sinister law in DC that says left turns are illegal. I was not aware of that federal mandate until I tried to turn around. Every intersection for 87.3 miles said no left turn. You may ask me why I didn’t turn right? It was implied by the other drivers on the road that slowing down long enough to turn would get you killed by the eighteen people who were tailgating you. Eventually I found a place to turn right and go around 5 blocks to get back to what had once been Independence Ave. It was like seeing a long lost friend. A friend who really didn’t like you and tries to make your life as difficult as possible. Still, in DC, that’s a good friend. Don’t even ask about the bad ones.

I retraced my steps and found my way back to the Kennedy Center. (They still haven’t invited me to their honors after all the trouble I went to by unintentionally helping them become un-lost. But I’m not bitter. REALLY, I’M NOT BITTER ABOUT THOSE UNGRATEFUL . . .Sorry. I digress.)  It was then that I realized that I had a second chance to find more things for the city of Washington. I could find the mall! That is the place where all of the really big monuments supposedly stand as bright, shining examples of things we spend our tax money on! I thought I owed it to the American people to find these mythological places and tell the world about them. Sure enough, out of the mist, I saw the Washington Monument standing tall and proud. Like a beacon to a weary traveler (that would be me) saying come here and I will help you find your way. What a liar that monument is! There weren’t any Interstates near that thing.

As I traveled I saw several monuments and some things that may have been monuments or just buildings that looked odd. It is really hard to tell a monument from a motel in DC. All buildings have an air of arrogance that commands your attention. There was one building that looked really important. I thought that it must have been a government building where decisions are made concerning the future of the free world. When I saw the on the sign side of the building, I decided that if the decisions made there affect the free world then we are in trouble. The only decisions made there are between Big Macs and McNuggets. So much for the mystique of DC.

As I blissfully wandered and wondered around the country’s capital, I noticed a sign. It said I-395 that way. From the farthest recesses of my memory came small voice saying Interstates are good. Usually I don’t listen to the voices in my head, but as I said earlier, my sanity was questionable. I thought of home and family. Life back in Richmond seemed like such a distant memory. Could this I-395 have hope to save me from aimless wanderings? Could my quest for home be truly coming to a close? Would I be back in time to see my sons graduate from high school? Without much faith in the sign makers or DC, I decided to follow their cruel joke to the finish.

Then I saw it. The sign said “I-395 to Richmond.” Could it be true? Was there a chance? I cut across four lanes of traffic (a modest accomplishment compared to the other drivers in DC) and followed the signs to Richmond. It was true. I crossed the Potomac. I found I-95.  It almost brought a tear to my eye as I thought of going home. Eventually I made it back to the west end of Richmond.

I thought back upon my day and realized that it had taken me two hours to get to Dulles. It took me four hours to make back home. I was lost and alone in a strange city. (Trust me. They don’t get any stranger than DC.) I had survived. I was going home. As I clicked my heals together and said there is no place like home, I had swerve to avoid a car that wanted to occupy the same space as my car. Oh well. At least I was back in Richmond.

For all the Pastors Who Work So Hard

The pastors who work really hard won’t need this bit of help I would like to offer. Now, I know some pastors who hardly work and this may be of interest. I have been asked by a couple of pastor friends if I would be willing to ghost write their newsletter articles. I explained to them that it would be deceptive and way too much fun for me to write something for which they would get the credit, glory, and blame. Plus, let’s be honest, my sense of humor would get them fired in a heartbeat.

That being said, I feel bad for pastors around Easter when they have so many services, studies and sermons that they don’t even have time to sleep. (Sunrise services? I’ll think about you when I wake up after 8 or 9.) I sat down to write a generic newsletter article that any pastor could use to raise up their congregations. I read through it and thought, “That is way too boring.” I took a few sips of Southern Comfort and tried again. The second version was a little more realistic, but not quite right. I finished off my glass of Southern Comfort, refilled it and tried again. The third version I felt really hit the spot based on what a friend of mine told me the other day. After… I kinda lost count… let’s say a few more glasses of Southern Comfort, I was feeling really comfortable and tried one last time. THAT one was excellent!
The next morning, after taking a few aspirin, I looked at my work and decided I should just let the pastor decide which one to use. I made it into a multiple choice newsletter format for pastors. Please select a, b, c, or d as fits your individual congregation and personality.
a)  fellow believers,                             
b)  beloved co-workers,
c)  thorns in my flesh,
d)  pagan scum,
it is with:
a)  joy and faith
b)  hope for the future
c)  fear and trepidation
d)  an evil and perverse pleasure
that I share with you:
a)  the successes in our ministry.
b)  our hopes for the future.
c)  the dire situation we currently face.
d)  my therapy bills.
Last month our attendance numbers were:
a)  soaring to heavenly heights.
b)  maintaining a steady level.
c)  in a slow and sad decline.
d)  nonexistent.
Our gifts to God in offering plate show:
a)  our giving is rivaling that of Solomon.
b)  hope for meeting our goals.
c)  that bankruptcy laws are there for a reason.
d)  that you have a found a way to take money back.
The church council has:
a)  been praising God for his blessings
b)  been encouraged and is looking for ways to grow
c)  disbanded
d)  changed its name to the Mod Squad
and has asked me to:
a)  have a service of thanksgiving for all our blessings.
b)  encourage you to remain faithful.
c)  resign.
d)  dress up like Larry the Cucumber and sing the haircut song while braiding my leg hair.
Taking all this into account, the theme for our sermons will be:
a)  “The Faithful are Blessed in Many Ways.”
b)  “Our Hope is in Christ.”
c)  “Why You’re All Going to Hell.”
d)  “The Eschatological Christology in I’m a Little Teapot.”
with a Bible study series on:
a)  “The Joy in Philippians.”
b)  “The Salvation in Romans.”
c)  “The Judgment on this Congregation in Revelation”
d)  “The Parallels between the Temptation of Christ by Satan and the hunting of Bugs  Bunny by Elmer Fudd.”
In conclusion, I pray:
a)  God’s continued blessing on each of you.
b)  you hold fast to your faith in Jesus.
c)  you will please leave this church and go torture a Buddhist church.
d)  that I will someday be allowed out of this padded cell.
Any similarity between the fictitious congregations mentioned here and the place where you worship is unintentional, but not the least bit surprising.

Wouldn’t It Be Weird If…

When he was younger and just starting to think abstractly, my youngest son would frequently start sentences with the phrase: “Wouldn’t it be weird if…” (He was seven when that began! Yeah, I know. He calls himself Dad 2.0 – all the great qualities of the original, but with significant upgrades.) It got to the point I would interrupt his musing and just say, “YES!” before he explained it. He would laugh. I would laugh. Then, he would go on and explain what he thought would be weird as if I had never spoken. It’s too bad he doesn’t like English class. He still may become a writer if I can con, coerce, cajole, or convince him to try.

Thinking back to those thrilling days of yesteryear, I wondered what would be something I think would be weird today. Some the things I think are weird may not even phase you. Let’s see how my weirdness compares to yours.

  • Wouldn’t it be weird if your cell phone’s autocorrect actually corrected the right words instead of making your texts seem like they were sent by a demented chimpanzee on acid? Not that I’ve ever given a chimpanzee on acid. That would be wrong. It was a spider monkey at the zoo and you would not believe what he did to that banana.

  • Wouldn’t it be weird if I could actually spell the word weird correctly the first time? I am certain that my computer keeps changing the spelling from weird to weird, and back again. Let’s see, it is I before E except after C unless it is a leap year, in which case it P before Y except after I…

  • Wouldn’t it be weird if politicians were paid based on performance testing of their constituents like they are expecting of teachers and students? I’m not opposed to performance evaluations, but I promise I will skew that test so our politicians get pay cuts. Who’s with me on this?

  • Wouldn’t it be weird if the CEO’s of Fortune 500 companies earned a salary inversely based on the number of federal investigations and class action lawsuits filed against the company? Let’s see, Bob. We had the Feds in here eight times last year, fourteen separate class action suits, and you had nine employees accuse you of sexual harassment. Adding that up, carry the two, and… let’s see… You owe us $8,385.

  • Wouldn’t it be weird if we switched the meaning of the words asteroid and hemorrhoid? I am I the only one who thinks we have the words reversed? I know I have mentioned this before but I’m going to keep on mentioning it until this gets fixed!

Well, that’s all the wierdness wiredness weirdneesstrange stuff I have for today. So am I as weird as you?