For The Love Of A Good Sore

We all remember the story of poor Lazarus in the Bible -- poorer even than me -- dogs came and licked his sores. I heard the old preachers of old expound on this passage at some length. By the time they were done, he'd suffered long and they were terrible sores, with one brutal sore right at the nucleus. Of course it took three or four sore points to finish the soremon. Ah, for the love of a good sore!

One of my favorite jingles in advertising is, "Dog’s don’t know it’s not bacon!" Let's say we have a guy carrying bacon in his back pocket. The dog comes running up and bites his ass. Because, "Dog’s don’t know it’s backend!" Now I got another hole where the good Lord folded me, very holistic. My dog’s never been picky either when it comes to food. If it’s related to the meat family, it’s 10 times better than the world’s finest grain.

You get a sore, the sore has to heal. Dog’s also heel, eh? I have a few little sores. Who doesn't. You scratch too much, there's one, then another. And sometimes I get banged up. A cut. And I always hope the same thing, that the tetanus shot I got in 4th grade is still working its magic.

Other than that, there’s always dogs. Just take your mind off your problems. Watch TV, lay back, relax, and let the dog lick you, like Lazarus. It gets so comforting, you might set an alarm. I had a sore on my leg one time and the dog started licking me. Naturally I went to sleep. I woke up and there it was, all the color out of it, like a bit of ham fat from a can of soup after it’s processed in the soup factory. Hanging there, no substance, no strength, just dead tissue. Two minutes later the dog would’ve been bitten it off and I'd've never known.

Pa, is that dog still licking you? Cover that thing up or it’ll never heal! The dog hears heel and dives to the floor. Dives, of course, being the name of the rich master in the story of Lazarus. He had enough of life here — overdosed, I’d say — and had to go to hell, took a dive, dove right in, to a place where dog’s don’t heel, including Cerberus, the hound of hell. He’ll never heel in hell. I’d rather kneel in heaven than heel in hell, amen? For the love of a good sore.

A sore can be useful. It's nature’s bandage, an organic arrangement of blood and evaporation.

Dogs get so they understand the word sore, depending how accident-prone you are. Especially way back when, when they didn’t get treats like today. It's just like you say ‘You wanna go bye bye?’ They know bye bye means a car ride. You wanna go to the park? They know park. One of my dogs knew the word squirrel. I’d tell her “Squirrel!” Her ears perked up like satellite antennae. She’d look for my finger to point the way, even though if she wasn’t so dependent on me she could’ve just discerned it. Then she was off, blazing speed. Even caught one one time, but I didn’t want her tasting wild blood, so I called her off, letting the squirrel live. There was, however, a time when I came around the bandstand and there was a dead squirrel at her feet. It looked fresh with some fresh sores, and naturally I didn’t let her have it. A squirrel’s a rodent, and rodent’s carry disease. That’s why I don’t allow mice in my home, even if they are good for keeping roaches at a decent level.

Milton, he milt hell for all it was worth. Besides him, mythology has Long Schlong Silver (his distinguished appendage tastefully censored with a dime) with Cerberus appearing on the vast hellscape, that three-headed dog pissing on Satan to help relieve his pain. Or something. 

Sometimes, though, as Kenny Rogers said, the hurting won’t heal. You get a sore, it gets worse, other sores pop up, things run, things get pusy and drip, and the whole thing degenerates into a mass of coagulation, looking a sight. There's purpose in that, too. A good sore sets things right, if you tend to it right. Or not, either way a good sore does its thing. Finally in the end, we fall on our sore and die a noble death.

Great Caesar's Ghost

PROLOGUE: Lend me your eyes. Look at that picture, man. Isn't that a thing of beauty? I'll say it is, since I worked on it and am in some degree responsible for it. (I didn't make the original, of course, since I can't draw flies.) Looks like Julius Caesar, too, doesn't it? In a chariot being pulled by a couple brute animals, bred back then for that purpose. I really like the trees, how they stand out, evocative of entire trees but only a few random limbs or trunks.

NON-PROLOGUE: I'm making my way through The Adventures of Superman TV show again. And as I already well know from childhood, Daily Planet editor Perry White's go-to expression of outburst -- astonishment or disbelief -- is "Great Caesar's Ghost!" At some point in the first 8 or 10 episodes, he says it a time or two. It stands out more for me now as an old man than it did years ago when I was a kid. Because people just don't say things like that anymore. No more than we'd say a similar phrase that old people (on TV anyway) used to use, "Land of Goshen!" Now they just say "What the hell" or worse.

Later in the series there's even an episode in which some guys gaslight Perry White, with one guy dressing as Caesar and showing up at Perry's home, etc. He's got the weird helmet they used in Roman times, a kind of mini-skirt of mail, the strap-em laces and boots, legs a'showin', the whole bit. Perry is of course taken in and doesn't know what to think, how to overcome the nauseating effects of the whole scheme. Superman flies in and tidies it up, sending the faux Caesar down the Appian Way to the closest clink.

Perry White and the '50s aren't so terribly far away. Kind of a while back. I was born then -- how about that? -- so even though I'm getting older all the time, I'm not exactly ancient history. Yet when's the last time you heard someone use the expression "Great Caesar's Ghost"? It has to have been a while. Anything else sounds better. What the hell? What the fuck? What in Sam Hell? Goddammit to a Christless Hell is one I use from time to time, which is very interesting, isn't it? I am very invested in the Lord, let me put it that way ... He's building for me a cabin in the corner of Gloryland, and some glad morning I'll wake up there, arrange my things, take a shower, and go out to see what it's all about. Now, if there were a Hell in the traditional sense of the word, isn't it damned awful that it would somehow be entirely apart from Christ, Logos, and even an ounce of good or light? I shudder... I used to dream of it as a kid, brought up in the church when Hell was the main attraction week after week.

But no one in the show ever offers up (in my memory) surprise at "Great Caesar's Ghost!" Not Jimmy, Lois, Clark, or even Superman. They put up with Perry's brusqueness and just chalk up the expression to "Everyone's gotta say something, we guess." It's a personality device, his catchphrase, and that's all there is to it. It makes me wonder when they were doing the writing that someone actually pitched the "Great Caesar's Ghost" episode, since it assumes a guy who says a phrase would be especially susceptible to it being literally true. I don't see that. We're usually able to separate blank expressions from daily reality very easily.

I should read up on Julius Caesar a little more. Maybe I'd dream of him. Maybe I will now, having written this. "You summoned me, here I am! None of those other people can see me, only you." Etcetera, etc., and so forth... I know I'll be terrified -- maybe that's true. It could be one of my patron saints, George Reeves, will swoop in and save me. Let's hope, shall we? that George Reeves, whatever happened to him long ago, also has a corner in Gloryland. And that he and I get to be fast friends. My so-called friends from long ago used to (not often) taunt me that Superman killed himself, etc.

That's it! I get to Heaven, I immediately find George Reeves. Then we get together with the whole Superman gang, and go find John Hamilton (Perry White), and Julius Caesar -- say he somehow makes it -- and we have a damned ball? How about that?! I'll take that over a Christless Hell any day of the week.

Have You Seen The Pink Professor?

Right on time this morning, my team of university professors arrived and began their work of evaluating the 300,000 books, their task to choose out books I would want. They couldn't wait to dig in, which got my day off to a great start. A literature guy, a religion guy, a philosophy guy, as well as specialists in sociology, general scholarship, and even trivia, got down to brass tacks, a sight to behold.

I milled around the large sorting facility, and in watching them noticed many attractive qualities. Efficiency, confidence, intelligence, and delight for books, to mention a few. So I may as well say, I've always had a thing for professors, whether they wear the traditional mortar board and gown or prefer the more modern, non-scholarly garb. This group was a mix, which to me only attested to their confidence and how comfortable they are in their own skin. That is to say, there wasn't a dogmatic bone in their bodies, no judgment, just the love of teaching, learning, and being helpful.

You might know where this is going... Watching them, and these forces at play, had me, as it were, salivating, being so often provoked as I am in my spirit at the bitterness in our social affairs today. When professors could lead the way to something better. Then there was an additional reason for my salivating, the longing that arose in me for my own prof, The Pink Professor. O God, where can he be! If only money could bring him back, I've got all the money in the world! If I could, I'd apologize a million times, but of course he would silence me well before I could. It's all too much.

We had the most foolish falling out a few years ago and he left town. I say it was foolish, because we should've known better than to argue about "proper ways" of kundalini meditation/lifestyle. Even now I'm kicking myself in the muladhara. I was at a certain level and he was at a certain level -- without explaining the terms, the argument was over philosophies, the "Trash stratum" (Philip K. Dick) vs. "Sahasrara purity." It was quite the dispute, recalling Jesus vs. the Pharisees. Of course I was the complete libertine. I threw a cup of coffee all over his wall and he rolled his eyes at me, illustrating which of us expounded which doctrine. But doctrine be damned!

Later, in subsequent revelations, I realized we were both right (and wrong for insisting on rightness), and that I missed my man. By then it was too late. I sat at the bikers bar, where we met, for three weeks, and slept behind the bar on the floor like a dog, but he never returned. I thought our life had been complete. But it was all broken. If only I could find him. He's gotta be out there somewhere.

Flash! All my life I've had brilliant ideas when pressed. Now I'm a billionaire, they're even more brilliant. I looked up at that team of professors, nearing the end of their book sorting, and decided, These professors are the ones to bring him home! Like attracts like! Who better to track down a prodigal professor than other professors? One professor in hand might be worth two in the bush, but I don't know where--- [lost my train of thought] all that to say, The Pink Professor gets me ... here (chest bump).

I explained the whole situation and offered to finance a sabbatical like they've never known, if they'd only help bring him home. I set out the facts and shared his emblem (his unremitting pink shield) and they immediately knew who I was talking about, The Pink Professor. There were smiles of recognition all around. One of them, in addition to being a scholar in liberal arts, was also a math whiz, as he put 2 + 2 together really fast: "So you and him? Him and you?" I nodded, as if to say, "You got it, Ace."

Binoculars were handed out -- each responsible for his own pair -- and they became my Binocular Brigade. "Your only boundaries, there's no boundaries. Your only mission, to bring him back to me, or good information. Your only rule, Don't fall for him yourself, he's mine." With that, they were off! Leaving me very much alone, to look over the books they had so skillfully separated from the 300,000, and wait.

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My Past with The Pink Professor

The Pink Professor Explains a Game of Pool
The Pink Professor -- The Biological Impetus
Bikers Bars Need a Pink Professor
The Pink Professor A Baton Twirler
Pink Professors Needed -- Immediate Openings
Body Language with The Pink Professor
The Pink Professor -- Someone's In Love
The Pink Professor -- The Rules of Love
Breakfast with The Pink Professor
The Pink Professor -- My Dreamboat
Sex Talk with The Pink Professor
My Real Life Pink Professor
The Pink Professor at the End of My Path
Proceeding from The Pink Professor's Open Zipper
Lovingly Bathing The Pink Professor
The Pink Professor -- Don't Judge Us
The Pink Professor -- The Heavenly Marriage
The Pink Professor -- Concerned About Our Health
The Pink Professor -- Beautiful Things, Beautiful People
The Pink Professor -- Gang War!
The Pink Professor -- Baby, Please Come Home
The Pink Professor -- All Night Long!

Leaving My Blog Post at the Manger

I've always been impressed by the Christmas story, for many aspects of it. One of the greatest is the idea that each person who comes to behold the Child brings a gift, the best he or she has.

For the Wise Men, we know their best was gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Impressive. For the shepherds, they brought a couple of sheep. And for the Little Drummer Boy -- I like his most -- he had no other worldly goods except his drum, so he played for Him.

We've all heard the message, "What can I set before the King?" It varies from one person to another, of course. Maybe a watch or some other valuable thing. Maybe an animal other than a sheep, like if  you raise birds or cattle, whatever. Or something you can do and do well. For me, that has to be these blog posts. I'll be the first to confess, my talents in life are sorely lacking. I don't play the drums or piano. I don't raise animals. And I don't have any gold. But I do write blog posts. I guess pretty well. I don't get many complaints.

So this year, my gift at the manger is a continuation of my last blog post, starting where I left off, some of my old memories of the newspaper delivery boys we had in olden days.

In those days, when I was growing up, there were boys in town who delivered the newspaper every morning, and also evenings. (I don't remember any girls.) One paper came out in the morning, and there were two in the evening, except Sundays when it was just the morning paper. That's a lot of papers, but we read each one.

The good thing for those boys, obviously, would be, That's a lot of work! Giving them the opportunity to have spending money and also money to save. It also taught them, no doubt, important lessons on responsibility. I myself never had a paper route as a kid. Whatever responsibility I learned was more through trial and error, and, frankly, I'm still learning!

Paper delivery in those days had an additional important aspect to it, collecting. The boy had to collect the subscription fees by himself. We didn't mail it in. That could be challenging, even though my parents were prompt in paying. Others, regrettably, would be short of money, and so they'd "not be home" or just blatantly putting him off. I can see a lot of frustration in that arrangement.

Now everything's changed. We have a guy in a truck who tosses the paper out the window, then roars off. He doesn't have to collect. We never even see him, unless we just happen to be up and looking out the window and he's there. In his truck roaring off. Instead of paying him directly, we mail our subscription in on an annual basis. That's a lot of money to come up with all at once, close to $200, but we want the news, so we cut back on food (or whatever) and get it accomplished.

A lot has changed over the years. Certainly newspaper delivery isn't what it used to be!

That's a pretty good gift to leave at the manger, I'm sure you'll agree. It'll give them something to read while they're just sitting there.

Santa Claus Was the Christmas Star

All of us have suffered the same tired discussion every year for the past 2,000 years: What's the truth about the Christmas Star? I hesitate to even mention it -- beating the same old dead horse -- because most of us turn it off at the first breath. Even now I feel queasiness coming over me. And it always ends inconclusively, because, whoever it is -- scientists, theologians, pastors, Sunday School teachers, even your parents -- it always ends the same way: "We'll never know." Doesn't that just make you sick?

In fact, they come pretty close to saying there wasn't even actually a Christmas star. They point out, rightly, that with a simple sky-view app, we're able to see precisely what the stars in the sky were like on any day in history. According to this, there wasn't any unusual star activity on the first Christmas. They tell of various conjunctions of stars on different dates, but none of them are quite right. Especially if you factor in the Wise Men (Magi), following a star that eventually pointed to a particular location!

I can't believe I just belched out a whole paragraph on this. That's how queasy I get. Because I've been saying for years that the star was actually Santa Claus. When the story says it was a "star," of course we can take that a couple different ways. Santa Claus is a major "star," right? He's even one of the "stars" of Christmas, is he not? I'm saying that's what the Bible meant.

A couple things here. You might say Santa wasn't even around in the days of Jesus. I beg to differ. How many times have I seen authoritative artwork showing Santa Claus bowing at the manger? Yes, they have an agenda when they put those pictures out, trying to detract from Santa and give greater prominence to Jesus. The agenda, unmistakeably, has to do with how Christmas has become commercialized. Which wasn't the case way back when.

But the pictures tell me something different: Santa was there! How did he get there? Isn't it obvious? Hello? His sleigh? The brightness of his countenance (let's say), and the leadership of Rudolph ... It had to be a magnificent sight in the sky of the ancient world, before electricity, when nights were extremely dark.

It's no great shakes to answer how Santa knew about Jesus. If he knows every boy and girl in the world, what they're doing when they're awake, when they're asleep, when they're bad and good, how much more is he going to know Jesus! The very guy who would go on to compete with him -- head to head, mano a mano -- for Christmas supremacy. I'm sure they got together as the years went by, trying to hammer out who would get what, which one would get the fun side and which the serious side. That's how it should be done. Like in the circus, you've got clowns and regular people. Or TV, cartoons and documentaries.

In my opinion, I'd much rather it was Santa Claus than an actual burning star. An literal star, if it got too close, would fricassee Christ and completely obliterate the earth. You don't mess around with stars. Our sun is a star, 93 million miles away, and look at the damage it does. But Santa Claus, being a person, whatever star quality he has, gives things a personal touch. He can rip across the sky, leading the Wise Men, then double back and make sure they're not lost. When Herod goes out to look at the star, he can be hiding in an alley. Then back up! And most importantly, he can hover right above the stable and point to it without fricasseeing anyone.

I'd love to sit down with Santa and get his take on this stuff. Wow! To think, all those years when I was a kid, I was in the same house with him. However briefly. But always asleep. There on my little bundle of straw, my parents standing on either side of me, looking down, with sheep, donkeys, and cattle lowing. Waking up to the Little Drummer Boy, who back then was my parents' paperboy. We don't have paperboys anymore; now it's just a guy tossing it from his truck and roaring off.

"Giftus Thinga" Learns True Meaning of Christmas

Since about August there's been real despair at the manger scene in Bethlehem. Despite the best preparations for Christmas, they could find no new creature to share the true meaning of Christmas. Which, as we've heard all our lives, is very important.

The Lord is born! Wise men came from the East, and then over the years various other characters appeared, representing all creation: Chipmunks, beavers, birds, Frosty the Snowman, Little Drummer Boys, Little Drummer Girls, misfit toys ... The very last of the ordinary animals to come was in fact just a few years ago, the mole. Being an underground animal, no one thought to dig one up and take it.

With the mole used, every year they've been looking for other new things. Even microscopic things. Last year was touch and go, until they discovered Grubby the Pool Virus, found in a dank corner of the dressing room. Related both to dirty feet and poor janitorial work, Grubby, like Frosty, "came to life one day," and Christmas was saved.

I've been keeping track of the search most of this year. They've been using some of my global contacts, thanks to the blog, meaning I've been scouring the Ukraine and a few of the other more exotic countries of the world. Remember Mauritius? I get hits there, too, and I'm always thinking it's almost obscure enough to have new life.

Manger authorities even asked me to get hold of any scientist friends I may have, not wanting to leave any stone unturned in the search. I thought "stones unturned," and immediately thought of Neil Shubin, famous for turning rocks and discovering that each of us is descended not just from other mammals, but reptiles, then fish. Someone in Sunday School a couple weeks ago (true story) said, "Jesus wasn't a reptile." I immediately thought of Neil, but was wise enough to keep my mouth shut. Anyway, I called Brother Shubin, but the best he could do was a fossilized fur follicle from a Tribble. We already got Tribbles to the manger in '68.

So the search has continued fruitlessly. Imagine, then, my huge shock, when just yesterday, right here at my place, one of the heads in a Christmas present I was getting ready to send to a reader was granted life!  How about that? I bought 40,000 of these gifts and, like, the tenth one I'm handling starts moving! One little snaky, floppy, head thing, now going by the preliminary scientific moniker "Giftus Thinga-ma-Whatsit," came to life!

Yes, it's small, dinky, extremely tiny and insignificant. It's actually little more than a head and stem. But there's a few strings falling from it, like delicate roots. Probably the beginnings of a spine. I thought I saw movement, but denied it. Then it moved even more and was even looking around, all very tentatively. The signs of life increased by the second. Twisting and morphing, morphing and twisting.

I sat it down and told it the true meaning of Christmas, just in case it died, then called Bethlehem and got it on a plane to the Holy Land, and they said it arrived at the stable about an hour ago. With beautiful light beams coming from the manger in response!

Friends, this is it! Whether you're a pool virus, a chipmunk, or a brand new Giftus Thinga, the true meaning of Christmas is here, love, light, greatness and power, the Divine Word within everything. What's in it for you? How about free plane tickets to Bethlehem? .... if your story's convincing enough to the powers that be.

Our Savior with a Gun Devotions

I've reread my "Savior with a Gun" post a number of times, and I have to say, I think it's the holiest thing this side of the Dalai Lama's priest. The idea of eternal divine wisdom combined with gunfire carries a rare spiritual heft. Because I'm someone who grew up hearing the report of a gun in more or less a pastoral setting. It was a small town and the country was right there, where someone was often hunting or target practicing. But violence with guns just didn't happen. Any violence we had was always someone drunk wrapping their car around the bridge abutment about a half mile from my bedroom window. Not in my direct line of sight, thankfully.

One of the major things I like about the Savior with a Gun is he's a person of very few words, and for that matter, very few actual teachings. So far ... because I'm sure he'll have to do more than shoot his gun and send people to look for the slug, although that's a fantastic start. As was presented in the post, in that he teaches all kinds of personal and transpersonal values. Then think of him in a rural place, the birds singing, the stream running, the sound of the wind in the trees, and all of that pierced for just a moment by the loud shot of a gun. The echo and quick dying away of the sound, imagining that, touches me deeply. It's like Zen, the abrupt moment of realization.

I want to be honest with you; I think I owe you that. There isn't an actual Savior with a Gun Bible at this point. So we're putting up only a few mock verses, all for a good cause, just to show how beautifully adaptable this particular world Savior's teachings would be in the context of other well-known scriptures.

To set the scene, my photo shows a well-thumbed New Testament, which, because it was in my pocket one day, went through the laundry. I didn't have the heart to throw it away, since even mangled up as it is, and maybe especially since it was mangled up, it still made for a beautiful sight.

So now, here's a few verses as I've adapted them (quickly) to go with the "Savior with a Gun" teachings as we have them so far:

They asked him when should the kingdom of God come? The Savior spoke not a word but raised his gun and shot it in the distance, and directed the disciples and others forth to find the slug. When they found it, they knew he could have shot it anywhere.

How about Mary and Martha? -- Savior, do you not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Bid that she help me. The Savior lifted his gun and shot into the distance, directing Martha to go find the slug. When she found it, she realized Mary had chosen the better part, which would not be taken away from her. But by the time she returned, the Savior had holstered his gun and traveled on.

How about the 10 afflicted with leprosy? -- Before this shot lands, you shall be healed, in an instant. The Savior raised his gun and shot, and at once, indeed, they were cleansed. He sent all ten to find the slug, but only one returned.

Whom do men say that I the Savior am? Some say the Lone Ranger, others agree, definitely the Lone Ranger. But who do you say that I am? Peter handed him his gun, and upon the Savior firing, ran forth to seek the slug. When Peter returned, he said, You are the Savior with a Gun. The Savior raised his gun and shot again in the distance. Peter knew he was guided by heaven, the second shot confirming his declaration.

He let his gun fall back into its holster, and breathed his last, It is finished.

And with that beautiful verse -- one of the most touching -- I've breathed my last for this post and must now wander off with Martha, closing my beautiful mangled New Testament, honestly touched in head and spirit. As for the Savior with a Gun, he too travels on, shooting and directing seekers of the slug, as he wills.

Savior with a Gun

In every world I've heard of there are Saviors. The key thing with conscious creatures is we quickly sink into semi-consciousness or worse, not knowing our true selves and place in the cosmos. Everything bad (speaking existentially) stems from that Original Sin, the Big Bad O. So Saviors pop up as needed.

This particular Savior, on one of the worlds, like all Saviors, is full of great wisdom. The big difference is he teaches wisdom at gunpoint. It's like this: He's born, he grows up, he buys a gun, he reveals himself, and he gathers disciples, later to be charged with taking his message to others. But they also lack wisdom, so there's a period of teaching, preparation for the future.

The first day, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, telling his disciples to go find the bullet, what's left of it. Off they go for a job that could take hours and never pay off. The Savior's purpose in this, without saying another word, is to draw out their willingness. How will they handle the bigger job later without sharing his will?

The second day, as before, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, sending them forth to find the bullet. Off they go! As said before, it's tough to find a shot bullet, or slug. Of course they know the general direction, but once you get out there, it's virtually impossible to find. His purpose is to teach patience, something most of us definitely need.

The third day, the fourth day, and the fifth day, the Savior raises his gun and shoots it, sending them forth to find the bullet. And each day they're off with this unenviable task, since it's really just more of the same. Monotonous, thankless, and probably disgusting. But he has an overall purpose. Those days he's teaching attention to detail, teamwork, and diligence. I can see how attention to detail would come in handy looking for an expended bullet. It'd be mixed in with dirt, rocks, and who knows what. But if you used teamwork, maybe a few of us would look over here and some over there. And diligence. You can't give up easily. Shrug off tiredness, let's find it!

The sixth and seventh days are much the same. The Savior raises his gun and shoots it, just as before, and directs them forth to find the bullet. Naturally, as you might readily guess, he's teaching them thoughtfulness and self-reflection. Thoughtfulness is one of the ways we absorb wisdom, and you'd need it after six days of looking for bullets. Self-reflection centers in on who we are and what we can become, things definitely needed for the task ahead. The task ahead will be even harder than looking for slugs.

The disciples, though, thinking it over, have heard of Saviors who do it other ways. Whereas theirs doesn't vary in the slightest. Shooting his gun and having them hop-to to find the bullet. They bring the matter to him, spelling it out, really complaining, "You shoot the gun and we look for the bullet, day after day after day..."

Inscrutably, in response, the Savior remains silent, picks up his gun and shoots it, this time twice, directing them forth to find the bullets. In silence he teaches them two things, obviously great wisdom: 1) Get used to it; and, 2) Be my guest ... When you're the Savior do it your own way.

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Coming up: Stories from the "Savior with a Gun Bible," and leading a class or seminar through our "Savior with a Gun" curriculum. For preparation, you will need our material and a gun. Please note, we advise a country setting with lots of land to which you have access. For those staying in town, you will need to make do with a rubber band or PCP pipe marshmallow gun. In an inner city environment, of course you have other options.

My Death Year 2038 -- Living to 85

OK, as we all know, I'm going to live till I'm 85 years old. And we all know what year it is now. Which means, by the simple calculations I'm able to do, that my death year is 2038. (Depending on when my birthday is, it could go a certain extent into 2039, but you wouldn't really think I'd wait till the very last possible day, but who knows?)

I wonder what 2038 will be like for me, knowing what I know. It's a weird thing to contemplate, but I do believe it's still better to know. Because it frees me up in all the other years so I don't have to worry about it. It's a blessing knowing no random diseases are going to kill me till then -- very freeing. And I promise not to pray for an extension beyond 85, so 2038 (or into 2039) will be it.

I can't guarantee, though, that I won't be a little weird if it does come down to the very last day of my 85th year. Because I can't picture it just being a minute after midnight when I turn 85. Since I'd likely be in bed, and I fully expect to be conscious for death.  How about right after morning coffee? I make coffee around 5:40. I might tarry a little longer and enjoy my last cup. But what's the use of just one cup, when I have a full pot? It could be I'll drink it to the last drop, then go.

Or, it could be I'll live through lunch. But why eat if I'm going to die? I don't eat just for the enjoyment of it, but for sustenance, which implies a future. I've always thought the stupidest thing they do on Death Row is give the prisoners a last meal. It's a waste of food and time, watching the guy sop up the last bits of gravy.

That day, if I linger, I might make it till mid-afternoon. It actually makes sense that I would. My baby book says I was born around 3:30 p.m., so what time for my death would be more logical than that? It's probably encoded in my DNA. Still, there's no guarantee.

It could be the good Logos field will want me to have the beauty of a nice evening. I always love evenings -- a beautiful sunset, then the first appearing of the stars, the very last stars I'll ever behold in this present body. We came from the stars; that's also in my DNA. I can see my old withered body reaching for them, then die and mysteriously wing my upward flight, just a slow purposeful flapping upwards, mounting ever up, past the highest church steeples, and vanish in the great beyond.

Or, as we get later, maybe I will yet linger while time presses on. Between 8 and midnight, I see no reason to sleep. I'll probably go to my bookcase and say farewell to some old friends. I love the great authors. You know the ones. I can see me touching the spines of those great books, saying goodbye to each one and "See ya soon!" By now I'm wiping away a tear or two, thinking, "Today my precious treasures on the shelf, tomorrow 5 for a dollar at Goodwill."

If I make it to 10 or 11 -- I know I'll be tired, and yet surely I'll be easily revived. It can't be long now. Between 11 and 12, if it comes to that, I can see myself deep in prayer, and maybe even singing the old spiritual song I used to sing in church:

"Build me a cabin in the corner of gloryland,
In the shade of the tree of life that it may ever stand
Where I can hear the angels sing and shake Jesus' hand,
Build me a cabin in the corner of gloryland."

If I'm still here as it nears 12, I'm reaching out my arms. Old feeble arms I could barely lift at 80. Now they're sturdy and strong, as if iron, as I await my deliverance. Just before midnight, then, I ascend, my body falling gently, in slow motion, to my couch.

No Facial Hair Allowed Here

I'm making a new rule for the blog, in effect immediately, as of right now:

No facial hair for anyone who reads my blog. If you have a beard or mustache, I ask you kindly to leave. If you're clean-shaven, you may stay.

It's a free country, though, and you're entirely free to wear facial hair if you choose, just as I'm free to make this restriction and expect it to stick. If you want to have facial hair, then exercise your freedom elsewhere, not here. Of course, I know you could probably get away with reading my blog undetected. I'm working on the technology to change that, but until I get it accomplished, it does remain physically possible for you to read it. I admit it.

Still, you need to ask yourself, do you really want to stay where you're not wanted? What fun would that be, knowing you're an outcast, a pariah in my eyes? If, however, you were simply to shave (and this includes funky sideburns), then you'd be more than welcome to come back. I would welcome you with open arms.

I personally believe that facial hair doesn't make a lot of difference in life. I firmly believe that personal appearance is of very little consequence, at least in the grander scheme of things. I'm completely tolerant. With one exception ... I don't like facial hair on my readers, and on that point I will not bend.

Why all this fuss, why the restriction? Beards don't make the man. A man is a man by virtue of physically being a man, or so closely identifying with being a man that he is one simply for that reason. And having facial hair (or funky sideburns) doesn't add a single thing to a person. Therefore, the rule. Facial hair doesn't add a single thing, so in some sense it's likely to detract. Another way to look at it: Facial hair is an unnecessary disruption to the community. Please guide yourself accordingly.

Now, naturally I've heard that guys with facial hair are especially given to protest and sniping. Perhaps that's why I'm so opposed to them, treasuring civility as I do. Further, I know that because you do protest and snipe, that you'll throw this in my face: "What about Jesus?" Is this blog off limits to Jesus?

I saw that one coming. This is something of a quandary for me. I know Jesus is often portrayed with a beard. To be consistent, therefore, I should exclude Him. And yet I'm reluctant to go that far. Having died for the whole world, I am willing to grant one exception, for Jesus. This is a begrudging exception. Of course I'd prefer it if Jesus were clean-shaven, like Buddha.

UPDATE:

Happy Horny Bastard's Day

I was walking downtown today with my old friend, The Imaginary Stud, .... [pause for his links]

The Imaginary Stud
The Imaginary Stud -- Something So Precious
The Imaginary Stud -- Johnny Peopleseed
The Imaginary Stud -- Your Biological Clock
The Imaginary Stud -- What's In A Name?

... when we saw a young woman lugging a big laundry basket of baby clothes up the sidewalk. He ducked in a doorway till she was out of sight. Then he says to me, "I haven't seen her for nine or ten months. I didn't even know she was expecting!"

I thought, "You horny bastard! That's all you're good for, eyeing all the ladies, then coming on to them, offering them drinks and a friendly smile, then it's off to your place or, more likely, the cheap motel on the north side of town! Love 'em and leave 'em, yep, that's your one goal in life!"

And really, when you think about it, that mostly what fathers are, or what they start out as, horny bastards. Which I say in the nicest way possible. Because they can't help it. The good Lord put it in our mind, thanks to His great system of evolution and natural selection, involving sexual reproduction, to scatter our seed far and wide, and wherever it lands, there it stays!

Life is the same all over, this planet anyway and probably the others. If you want to populate the place you could have 40 women and one man. That's why during hunting season you can shoot buck deer and cock pheasants, but not does or hens. Because deer and pheasants only need a few males, but a bunch of females. The same thing goes for bulls and boars, which is probably why these animals are so potent and heavy in the sack, because their lot in life is to be very busy.

Along with eating and killing enemies, horniness is the man's biggest drive. He can be 14, which means he's underage, although of course that's a socially-determined thing, or 90 and in the nursing home, and he will think he's gotta find a woman. Before the other guy! Whom he just might kill! Which might be why we have homosexual men. Nature's way of preserving someone thought to be non-threatening in case all the other men of the tribe get killed. Then he would step up to the task ... I know, I'm digging myself a big hole here, LOL.

It's hard to believe that evolution and the whole natural selection thing is still behind everything we do, but we're as primitive as ever, primitive meaning the same as nature made us. So dear old Dad, that balding guy with the pipe in his mouth, sitting on the easy chair, now with something of an old man's slump and a very bitter look, is still a horny bastard. He was a horny bastard when he was looking at Mom, all those years ago. And he'll be a horny bastard maybe to the day he dies, depending on certain things, like unless he completely loses his mind, or somehow he gets testicular cancer and has to have them removed, God forbid. At that point I don't know what happens next, and I hope I never find out...

Imagine how horny of a bastard he was back in the day. Mom was a teenage girl, a fox, and Dad was a teenage boy, a stud. Enough said. Then they had all the advantages you read about in sociology books: A mobile society, kids with cars, places to go to be away from the family, increased disposable income, an easier access to prophylactics, social upheaval after two world wars and the Depression, the questioning of religious strictures, and reading the racy Scarlet Letter in high school. It's a combustible mix, with the spark that sets it off being Dad's raging hormones, a seething and smoldering in his pants, and next thing you know Mom is lugging baby clothes out of the laundromat. (Editor's note: We will save an account of Mom's raging horniness for Mother's Day.)

The fact is, however, that a lot of men, unlike The Imaginary Stud, stick around and fulfill their responsibilities to the mother and his growing gang of rugrats. For that, we honor them on this greatest holiday in recognition of paternity, of horny bastards everywhere, Father's Day. Natural selection honors them, too. Their staying around protects their offspring, so they'll grow up and continue his line with horniness of their own.

NOTE: I notice a lot of my Facebook friends are wishing a Happy Father's Day to their horny old dads in Heaven. I'm afraid you are suffering from a little bit of ignorance, however innocent you may be. Father's Day in Heaven is not till October. Everything's pushed forward like that because Easter's a three-month long holiday in heaven. Jesus takes His Resurrection very seriously. Christmas is about the same, but with that at least we on Earth are catching up, starting in September.

I Shall Be Pope Ye

I had moderately optimistic feelings about the new pope, Pope Francis. Which was only natural, considering the last guy having been such a scourge. Francis came in, naming himself after one of my favorite saints, a friend of birds and wolves alike. And one of the coolest garden statues ever. And he's done honorable things, like washing the feet of the poor and children and has been Mr. Cool in other ways.

But now, who knows what might become of him? It was in the news that he's staying in a particular hotel in order to get away from it all. In his own words, “I didn’t want to be pope.” And now he says he's living in the Vatican hotel "for psychiatric reasons." I think I get that. He thinks living in the papal apartments, right there in the loneliest place in the Apostolic Palace, would separate him too much from the people. He'd be living with all the various Vatican cutthroats, etc. They'd be going through his stuff, looking for dirt. Then it's simply a matter of blackmail. And next thing, you're retiring, like the last guy. I'd love to see the dirt on Benedict. Just one look at him tells you he's devious as sin. Yet they chose him! They couldn't find a more honest-looking rat than him? When even then Francis was right under their nose?

As for the psychiatric reasons Francis has, of which I've outlined some, to me this just shows that he basically has it together. If only I had the same boldness in life! Maybe I'd move away from Grandma's house here and find my own place. Really, you think I don't know the family's talking about me? He's 60 years old and still there. We ought to burn the place down, that'd take him out. Or dump out some bedbugs by his window. It wouldn't take them long to find his bed. There he is, rolling around in one of his fantasies, only to turn and see a bug the size of a pillow staring him in the face. That'd fix him! Of course, for psychiatric reasons, I'd be better off anywhere than here. Some place where they can't find me. The State Hospital, wherever, I'm not particular, anywhere.

It's refreshing to hear something honest, isn't it? Just like it's refreshing to hear the pope tell us what we've suspected all along. We sure didn't hear anything like that from Benedict. No, he was right there in the papal apartments, padding around the Apostolic Palace, he didn't care. But the walls had ears ... and eyes. He knew his time was limited. That bleeding statue? That's someone inside it who nicked his nose on a jagged piece of plaster. Watching Benedict, just biding his time, getting enough dirt on him that---- Well, you know the rest, the first resignation of a sitting pope in something like 1,000 years. What's the chances?

I'm really hoping Francis makes it a while longer. We had Pope John Paul I. He lived only a month! I'm still suspicious about that. Then Pope John Paul II. He lived forever. He was the only pope some people ever knew. They were born when he was pope, grew up, married, had children and grandchildren, and finally died. Like the queen in England, trying to outlive 'em all. And then ... you know the succession ... finally someone offed JP II, and, surprise! surprise! there was Benedict standing there, eager to pick up the crown! As devious as they come! Then he's caught doing something behind the scenes -- let's say -- first one to resign in 1,000 years -- and the Vatican decides to clean house.

But can Francis make it? He's already talking about his psychiatric health, and telling children he didn't really want to be pope, etc. I have my suspicions of what must be going on behind the scenes. And it ain't pretty.

OK, what about me? Do I want to be Pope? If elected, yes, I'd give it a go. And just like Francis chose his hero, St. Francis, so I would choose my hero, my lifelong hero ... Popeye, making me Pope Ye.

What kind of pope would Pope Ye be? All the Vatican enemies, the various cutthroats infesting the place, would have to be on their guard. Because I'd eat spinach, puff out my chest like a battleship, and destroy them all. I'd BIFF them and BOP them, and always I'd STOMP them. Let's say I punched them so hard, they flew up in the sky. Before they came down, then, I'm punching trees so hard they become boards and fall down as a dozen highchairs. The cutthroats land in the highchairs, which snap into place, leaving them there to fuss and cry, shaking violently their rattles.

As Pope Ye, I would immediately ordain women. Yes, Olive Oyl isn't the strongest role model for women. She always needs my assistance against Bluto, who's almost sexually deviant enough to qualify for the military. But once Bluto was out of the way -- a type of devil, or Benedict, if you will -- then Olive would be free to bloom and grow. I'd immediately ordain her as priest. It would be a complete renaissance for the church, which to this moment is stuck hopelessly in the mud.

Then, as Pope Ye, thinking of little Sweet Pea, the baby in Popeye cartoons, as well as Popeye's four nephews, we would immediately address the child abuse bullshit that has given the Catholic church such a black eye. I would gather all the male priests and demand them by everything holy to immediately confess their sins. The sheep and the goats. Spinach cures all ails, and in this case it'd guide my judgment. And if it's just a matter of them being too horny they can't keep it in their robes, of course I would open it up so they could get married.

That's how it'd go as Pope Ye, if I were to be chosen. Just as my patron saint, Popeye, always brings everything to a happy finish, so I would completely reform the church. Then I would take on Protestantism, ridding it of snake handlers, Pat Robertson, strychnine drinkers, fundamentalists, and mission trips to Haiti (there has to be some other place these people can do good!). As Pope Ye, just to show I care about the unfortunate, I would personally go to Haiti and knock some heads and get it straightened out down there. It has to be a corrupt government. If we were able to get rid of Benedict, of all people, the persistent failure Haiti represents shouldn't pose an insurmountable problem.

Lastly, my ascension as Pope Ye has a biblical foundation, like when Jesus said, "Ye of little faith."

The Government Is Coming!

Now we all know the full extent of the government's snooping program. They felt it wasn't something we should know, and since we democratically elected them, and they serve the people, with the people being their bosses, it seems only right that we should've had to learn it by underhanded means. Whether the information will do us any good is still to be determined.

Many, of course, are unhappy that they've been doing it at all. As we know, though, many are simply unhappy people and are never satisfied with anything in life. Others normally have a happier outlook and so their unhappiness is a little more legitimate. I fall somewhere in the middle: I'm sometimes unhappy and sometimes happy, so I can see both sides. And on this issue, I'm a little on each side. It doesn't seem like it needs to be secret entirely. What kind of terrorists are we protecting ourselves from? Are they so innocent that they don't know we're even slightly devious?

Most of us are happy when there aren't terrorist attacks. That's the justification for all this. On that subject, though, there's a couple different ways to look at it. Which we were saying in the Bush years when all this bullshit was going down. 1) Are we willing to give up all our liberties and privacy over the miniscule chance that any one of us would be the victim of a terrorist attack? You have a better chance of dying from secondhand smoke from three counties away. We ought to be following the Cheney Doctrine, if there's only a 1% chance secondhand smoke from three counties away is going to kill us, we ought to be building a big wall and installing fans. 2) Can't they just kill the terrorists and leave the rest of us alone? Or maybe make a more wonderful world where people don't become terrorists? Like in the Tao Te Ching.

Personally, I see it as overkill, needing the complete records of all of us, just like it's overkill to strip search grannies at the airport. They've been perfectly normal, harmless people all their lives. They have no criminal record, they haven't done time. Their friendships are mostly with other members of the Doily Club. The idea that they should suddenly be strip-searched, and given this potential thrill in their lives that late in life, might be bad for their heart. Then the government would have blood on their hands, not that it's bothered them thus far.

Take me, though. A strip-search now and then would probably do me good. I've honestly never carried contraband or presented a second of harm to anyone in my life, but you never can be too sure. I feel shifty sometimes, that normal malaise the daily battles of life gives, I carry a certain amount of existential guilt, thanks mostly to my religious upbringing, and that extra punishment, the strip search might be redemptive, depending on how far it goes. Go far enough -- one drop of blood -- and I could redeem the whole world! IHS. Then 2,000 years from now, an unknown citizen -- we'll call him Walt -- will be testifying in church, at that point held under bombed-out interstate bridges: "The Grandma Slump guy was thinking about me. Had I been the only sinner in the world, He would've died for me." The imagination of people runs wild. And the imagination of Saviors.

Then once the whole world is redeemed, we won't have to worry about terrorists. That's the idea, anyway. But how to get everyone to accept the redemptive work (1), then to live 24/7 in the light given them (2), means we're going to need a whole new missionary emphasis. We'll be sending missionaries to the ends of the earth, meaning terrorists will be coming out of the woodwork, confessing their sins and accepting the new grace. Whatever phone records the NSA missed, the redeemed will present in hand, detailed printouts, of how, yes, indeed, they did conspire with my Grandma to blow up the World Trade Center, meaning the surveillance on her was justified all along. Turns out my whole family was involved, from Cousin Roto scheduling flight school classes in the barn to my blind Cousin Connie (a man) hiding Mohammed Atta in the outhouse. Guilty as charged!

Part of the complaint we the public have about government snooping is how secure our personal information is. They assure us it's perfectly safe. No one's looking into it. No one, that is, except this one guy, a lone wolf, who managed to download everything they have without anyone noticing. Not only that, but he was able to flee to Hong Kong. Sounds secure! With all the logistics the guy needed to do it, I'm suspecting UPS. (I wouldn't have the first idea how to flee to Hong Kong, let alone what I'd do once I got there!) The fact that our government had someone in their midst like that alone means heads should roll. How the top man still happens to have his job -- assuming he is a man -- is beyond me. We should examine some of his phone-computer records. Was he playing Farmville on the job? While the fox was in the chicken house, was he in the barn rolling in the hay?

It's a Hogan's Heroes moment. "No one has ever escaped Stalag 13! I know nothing, I see nothing!" Yes, I have all the information in the world at my fingertips, but still this one guy was able to steal the whole store. Wouldn't you think they've have some sort of software good enough to detect massive downloading? I think I'm more pissed about that than anything else. If they're so incompetent at oversight, how is it they're fully engaged at the switch protecting us from terrorists? While this guy was on the phone arranging the logistics of his world travels with UPS, why wasn't anyone noticing? Someone needs to order something from Amazon. I know the only time I never see a UPS truck is when I'm expecting something.

The lesson for the rest of us is to flee now! We're governed by incompetents! They can't even keep track of the people working for them. What do you mean Ed's in Hong Kong? I thought I just saw him in the hall! We could be safe from terrorists if the government wasn't asleep at the switch. Maybe we need to get George Bush back. He was stupid and looked it, so we had no temptation to trust his sorry ass.

Whittier The Snowman

Finally, a Christmas character I can actually like, who brings the true joy of the season to all. No troubles, no conflict, he's simply happy. Whittier the Snowman.

I have to tell you, I'm really sick of conflict in Christmas shows. I was watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer the other day, and this is what I'm talking about. Rudolph is bullied by everyone from his father to the younger reindeer to Santa Claus himself! Bullied because of his red nose. I'm sick of it. I can understand the younger reindeer; they're idiots. But his dad? And Santa Claus? How terrible. Santa's supposed to be a good guy, not a bully. So Rudolph, along with his similarly rejected dentist friend, have to leave the compound and run away on their own.

The conflict doesn't stop there, of course. There's the Bumble (the Abominable), the Island of Misfit Toys, and Burl Ives shivering and about to catch his death. There's so much trouble, I'm more depressed after watching it than I was before. You only have to hope Christmas will be foggy every year, just so Santa won't be stupid enough to reject Rudolph again.

One of these shows is on TV right now as I write this, Santa Claus is Comin' to Town. I'm not watching it because I hate it passionately. I think that's the one where the town outlaws Christmas, or outlaws toys, or some such nonsense. Like the Republicans, they're violently opposed to common sense. So everyone's miserable, until something happens -- what I can't remember -- but it has a happy ending. I hate conflict. All I want, all I seriously desire at Christmas, is more or less a slice of life in some little Alpine village where everyone is absolutely happy, giving gifts, with no need to exchange because something's the wrong size. No one tries to outlaw anything everyone likes. It's the ending of Scrooge without the rest.

Frosty the Snowman was on a few days ago. I'm not crazy about this show either. A little because it's obvious they're just giving a stupid story to flesh out the song. But mostly because there's conflict in it. There's an evil magician (or whatever), then there's the kids' sadness with Frosty melting. But they deal with it creatively, in that "Christmas snow" can never remain melted. It comes back on Christmas Day, and as for Frosty, since just living on Christmas Day isn't much of a happy ending, he goes with Santa to live at the North Pole. Where, no doubt, Santa will bully him till he moves to Antarctica.

By the way, in Rudolph Santa also belittles the elves' song about filling Santa's shelves. He complains to Mama that he can't stand hearing that song, and that he wishes they'd all become dentists and run away so they'd finally leave him alone. And Mama's not exactly a benign character, since she's explicitly trying to fatten Santa up. In fact, he goes from thin to pants-poppingly fat in a quick cut from one scene to another. That's one dangerous wife!

Must we suffer everlasting conflict ... at Christmas time? It's even in the original Christmas Story itself, we have to suffer Herod trying to kill Jesus. It's a relief that Jesus grows up very fast and conquers the Roman Empire as His first official act. A hero I can admire.

Which brings us to another hero I can admire -- making two, Jesus and Whittier the Snowman.  But Whittier's story is even better than Jesus', because it has absolutely no conflict. Because your mind should be free and clear at the holidays, not having to put up with pain and anxiety.

Whittier's story goes like this. He's created one day by some happy children. He comes to life, and lives to a ripe old age and never dies. His age just gets riper all the time, but with no apparent aging. The people in his town share in his magnificent powers, living forever, or until Christmas is put away. Everyone is very very happy. Then spring comes and he melts -- happily, with no one mourning. All conflict is vanquished till after the holiday, at which point everyone's life gets back on track. See that? A happy story without conflict -- and I just read it again -- absolutely no contradictions to resolve.

Easter Bunny Moves His Schtick To Next Week

This is going to take a lot of kids by surprise, since it will be the first Easter without eggs, but we finally got it taken care of. We've heard the complaints for years about the Easter Bunny screwing with "the true meaning of Easter," by getting it mixed up with candy eggs, and, our personal favorite, solid milk chocolate idols of himself.

Welcome to the first Easter without the Easter Bunny! We got it accomplished, and it wasn't that hard; he's a reasonable guy, and once he heard the issue explained, he was more than willing to compromise. It's kind of odd, I think, but he's operated with a whole different way of thinking. He wasn't even aware of the issue. Somehow he'd never heard the story of Jesus, his death and being raised from the dead.

I know when someone is lying, and the Easter Bunny was really on the level! So I'm busy sketching it out for him, the basic story. Then I'm backing it up a bit and giving him the whole background, just whose death and resurrection he's been messing with. And I could see his furry forehead start to moisten; his agitation was real. He was even afraid, looking up, like he expected a lightning bolt at any moment.

At that point, I had to handle it carefully. Were I to be callous in the face of his extraordinary ignorance, he might completely go over to the dark side and turn Easter into a heretical grudge match. If his soul were to be damned, without grace and hope, then why not! I comforted him, letting him know the purpose of the Lord's work, that he might be forgiven and have new life.

What an important discovery! "All these years I always sensed there was something else going on, but what? Who do you ask? I just figured, everyone seems fairly cool, so I kept doing my thing. Now, though, looking back, I was blind, but now I see!"

I helped him along, as he saw his quandary. He doesn't want to screw with religion, but what about the kids? They love him! "When could I share my eggs and candy?" he asked. We looked at the calendar and I said, "What about next week?" There's nothing next week. Jesus gets raised today, and by tomorrow it's all over. Next week is nothing. "Do it next week! Then we'll have two special days!"

So from now on, that's what's going to happen. Easter will be reserved for spiritual meditation and whatever. But the Sunday after will be given over to the fun and excitement of the Easter Bunny bringing all the tasty treats we've forever known and enjoyed!

But he wondered again about the kids, really, how would they take it?

I explained that, yes, it's going to come as a shock today, but I don't think they'll be too disappointed. It's just one more week, and it'll give them something to look forward to, a whole Sunday for eating candy and getting sick! The anticipation will be fun in its own way, as they count down the days. Then it's here!

"Yes!" the Easter Bunny said, doing a happy dance to match his spirit. "They can get the resurrection of the Lord out of the way today, then they'll have the whole week to look forward to the goodies I'll bring! They'll like that very much!"

Chest-Thumping Jesus Asks, "What About Me?"

"Hey, who's stinking birthday is it, anyway? I'm sick you guys overlooking me! It rolls around like clockwork every December 25, you've gotta be used to it by now! So get it straight, OK? It's my birthday and I don't want you messing it up, wasting your time with a bunch of other stuff!"

I saw this revelation on a church sign, the Word become angry words on the curb, trying to shake some sense into our sorry selves, that Christmas is a time for a laser-like staying on task, keeping first things first. Of course that's a common complaint we've heard every year from people speaking of the Lord. They're always deathly afraid, like the original Puritans, that somebody somewhere might be having a good time.

But this is the first time I've seen it right from the Lord Himself, signed by Him and everything, how sick and tired He is of His birthday being crowded out by gifts, trees, and food.

Unfortunately, like the biblical writings themselves in the original language, we don't have punctuation, and the all-caps display doesn't necessarily convey tone, so that's something also to guess at. It doesn't seem to actually matter very much for the first three lines of the revelation. We can clearly see we have three distinct activities related to the holiday season. Having punctuation would be nice, since I don't like having to rely on guesswork for divine messages, but we are able to make out the basic meaning.

What we don't get, and it's more than just the all-caps, is His tone. Is he saying it in a resigned way, like He's defeated? Or is he saying it in more of a threatening tone? Like, "I'm keeping track of all your vain deeds, and you're gonna be sorry!" Maybe it's something else, but the last question shows He's not happy. He wants to bring it back around to what's important -- dammit -- ME, ME, ME!

In addition to the resigned or threatening tone, the way I first took it was with a lot of dumb bluster, that kind of attitude. Like a football player, not the quarterback but one of the lesser celebrated players, thumping his chest and blustering, "What about ME?! How come everybody's overlooking ME?!" Exasperated at the lack of recognition, and He did make a great contribution, dying for the whole team.
 
OK, let's allow for the old truth that everyone's "Jesus" is always simply a reflection of themselves. This apparently being a church of some strictness, lamenting that everyone else's shorts aren't also sufficiently tied in knots, naturally their "Jesus" is going to be a killjoy, jealous when anyone's having a good time with gifts, trees, and food, and aren't off suffering in a hair shirt. Any turning away to have fun, even for a second, is to deny "Jesus" His birthday due. Feeling guilty yet?

There are better "Jesuses" out there. Like the gracious one who might say, "Hey, enjoy your gifts! Decorate your tree and have a great time! Are you sure you've had enough food? Get some more! Wait, I'll get it for you!" But what about your birthday, Jesus? "Ha ha, when you're 2000 years old, what's another birthday?!"