Twix and Six

Starting gambling at the tender age of six, I knew there was more than money to quench one’s wallet, or lack there of.  I had no wallet, let alone money, but I longed for the almighty Twix candy bar.  Making a wager for a candy bar was worth the risk of receiving a spanking for gambling a dollar I didn’t possess.  However,  I knew my father was good for the buck if I lost a bet….as long as I made his bed and dusted the house.

In 1979, prior to the Super Bowl, I marched over to our neighbor’s house and made a wager with the father of some of our great friends.  He knew I loved football, and he knew I was six, but he also knew I liked chocolate more than money.  Additionally, he clearly knew I was ignorant.

Fortunately, he and my father were good friends, so he knew I was solid for the dollar if I lost.  If I won, I knew he was solid for the Twix.  This was hardcore Locust Street gambling.

The Pittsburg Steelers ( the steel curtain) were playing the Los Angeles Rams.  The Steelers won and I lost.  I was good for the dollar after making Dad’s bed while dusting a five thousand square foot house.

One week later, there was a Twix candy bar lying on our porch.  My father required that I  return the Twix to our neighbor, as a bet is a bet and you have to stand tall (or short) regarding how shrewd or dimwitted your bet may be.  Reluctantly, I did return the Twix, yet our delightful neighbor denied he had purchased it for me.  It further solidified my father’s friendship with our neighbor.  I still have the Twix. I keep it in my glove compartment.  That’s B.S…I crammed that cookie caramel chocolate finger sandwich in my mouth on his porch like it was my last supper.

Other than friendly bets, I don’t gamble anymore.

 

 

Fight Night at the Gannons

All of you who weren’t sucker punched like me, my wife and my brother in-law, along with a seventy five dollar cover charge, I will give you the best or worst round by round coverage of the fight between Floyd Maywether and another guy I’m hoping gives us his money worth.

Let’s have fun with our money.

Before the first round started, quite honestly, my brother in-law and my sister delivered some of the best salsa I’ve ever tasted.  This was supposed to be first round hype.  It lived up and tasted up to all our expectations.  Although my sister never showed up to the fight, we do consider her to be ducking a good party.

Round Two to follow for those who haven’t ponied up your own seventy five bucks of history…….

Round One:  (We’re still waiting for the fight to start.  Jerry, our honorable guest, is acting as though he enjoys my pulled pork.  He hasn’t had seconds yet.  I’m not offended, but McDonald’s is near by…no big deal)  The fight is close.  McDonald’s is closed because everyone employed is here watching the fight.  Jerry has asked for seconds of the pulled pork.  He is now welcomed to stay.

Still waiting for round one to begin:  We talked to my brother who says he’s watching the fight as well in another city.  We don’t believe him.  He just didn’t want to fly two hundred and eighty miles to eat pulled pork and watch a fight which may last two hundred and eighty seconds.

Officially, I think, the first round may be starting.  (according to my wife, the Mexican National Anthem lasts forever)  My brother in-law is texting his wife during the American Anthem.  I think that’s disrespectful.  I may ask him to leave before the fight starts or after I finish the salsa he brought.

Wow.  Apparently, this is a circus.  Justin Bieber is now fighting…….no, he just has tattoos and a white watch while tagging along with the Champ!  Let’s get this circus on the railroad!

End of round one: my wife thought many of the white haired ladies in the crowd had the same looks on their faces as those who were watching Pulp Fiction for the first time.

Two:  Nothing but waiting for the champ to finish, and my wife to talk Lil Wayne.

Three: We all have to pee.

Four:  Losing interest.

Five: Bell rang at the end of it.

Six:  Calelo hasn’t won a round.

Seven:  Possible stoppage because of poor usage of Mexican Mariachi Band.

Eight: Only a matter of time

Nine:  Denzel is at the fight.  This has been worth the money.

Ten:  My brother in-law is looking for the last ferry ride home.

Eleven:  Our party has now resorted to how sore we were after playing wi boxing and tennis.

Twelve:  We were just thanked by the reigning champion for supporting him.  This is where some utilized the art of profanity.  Not me.  Good Night.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Labor Day (it’s work)

I was working on this three page driveled out story regarding Labor Day Weekend.  It stunk.  It started out bad, and then it became worse.  When discussing the importance of Labor Day, I was interrupted by my friend discussing his day.   It took him six and a half @##$hours to drive sixty miles to get a Walla Walla Corndog at a State Fair.  Although trying as he might, he couldn’t even sniff out a funnel cake or elephant ear.  Now, that’s labor, and “by God”, That’s September. It took me five seconds to erase everything I wrote prior to this piece of garbage.  I can’t wait for labor day to end. It’s just too exhausting.

Bad Timing (an awkward day of remembrance)

Today, I celebrate.  Why?  For many reasons.  I am alive. I have a terrific family, wonderful friends and I am happily married.  I can celebrate the 50th anniversary of MLK’s “I have a dream” speech meaning so much to so many, and, I have the opportunity to enjoy the sunshine following the deluge in Seattle last night.  Listening to baseball play by play on the radio, the Seattle Mariners are hosting the Texas Rangers.  Seattle’s pitching ace, or “King” is on the mound, so why wouldn’t I celebrate?  Yet, for a recognition of hatred still existing to this day, if I may, it seems a little awkward, and sadly ironic hearing the Mariner fans chanting “KKKKKKK” while King Felix Hernandez pitches on this day of fond remembrance.  Of course, there is no racial intention, the fans are only using the chant as a reference to a strike out.  I can also be positive and celebrate a teaching moment.  Most would ask why a strike out is called a “K”.  Don’t ask me, ask Google. I did.  The letter “K” was used in the baseball scorecard representing the last letter of the the word “struck” out. The man developing the scorecard, Henry Chadwick, couldn’t use the letter “S” because Stolen Base was already taken.  Therefore, he used the letter “K” for the last man to record an out in that inning, often times resulting in a strike out.  You could argue that it could have been a “U” or a “C”, but does it really matter?  I believe those letters could be used to describe fan emotions.  Upset and Crying would describe how I feel after a team I’m rooting for pitifully loses. People could also use those letters to form scrabble words such as “Uncle” or “Cracker”.   As a pearly white caucasian growing up in the seventies with modest suburban roots, it was sad that all those letters made me think how despicable parts of this country were before I was born, and sadly, how ignorance still exists.  Irony was working at its best or worst on this day.

Of Mice and Mary

The moss grew thick in the habitat for inhumanity known as a porsche one day, or perhaps several years.  Much like a fallen tree, it became an apartment for some, but for that particular porsche, it became a condominium for a group of pretentious mice (save for a few) as well as a warm and friendly environment for some mice to hang their tails and eat properly.  No garbage at this condo, just a lobby serving complimentary casseroles.  Status does not exceed the minds, hearts, and stomachs of mice.  Evidently, they chose cars over logs and couches on any given Sunday.

Under unfortunate circumstances, Mary and her husband, Denny, proprietors of the house, were once burdened and forsaken by selling a car.  This car had been in the family for years and had taken on a far more important purpose for living or being driven; it lived for a family of rodents, and the car notoriously became known as the Mouse Condo.

Have you ever heard of a Mouse Condo?  Neither had I.  Evidently, it comes in the form of a 1974 914 Porsche with a 2.o something I can’t even describe.  I’ve only known two of them.  One sat in a backyard, yearning to be stolen, and the other sat in a garage for ten years as a halfway house for those lovely pests we refer to as mice.  This is where Mary and her husband, Denny, enter this epic story of Mice and Porsches.

Some cars consume your soul.  For Denny, its initial owner, this was no exception.  Denny  maintained, so to speak, one of these female mice chasing vehicles for many years.  When the option of selling came for practical reasons, out of the greatness of his heart, he refused to let go of it, even considering the rust, flat tires, exploded engine, people or parasites willing to take it off his clutch cold feet and hands.  He considered it a habitat for mice.  Denny’s heart weighed more than the porsche those days.

Let’s back up a bit and consider why Denny was so kind to allow his model of nostalgia to be rented by cheese eating squatters.  After selling their cabin, Mary and Denny imported the mice from a very special place called Diamond Lake by way of a couch. Denny’s wife, Mary, vehemently opposed the mice infested couch to migrate from their cabin and enter their house, but according to Denny, the couch was worth some money.  Mary’s only solid debate, since Denny did purchase the couch and cabin prior to their wedlock, was that the mice didn’t have Visas required to legally transport them from the country to the city.  Denny’s reply was, “Neither do Cubans! Have you seen any major league baseball players being deported?”  Mary’s ammunition was depleted because she loves and respects the game of baseball, Cubans and yes, mice.

So, now the couch enters the garage just in front of the Porsche 1974 914 car whom nobody gives a yankee dime about with the exception of Denny and mice.

The couch, much like the porsche, never entered their house, but did move on up to the City in a garage.  And, just like all mice will do, they took full advantage of that vintage Porsche in the garage.  Much live a fictional novel, both the porsche and the couch became living and snoring creatures.  They haunted Mary when she was asleep, and they haunted her when she was awake.  Kind soul that she was, Mary had to come up with a plan and cure for her sleep deprivation.   That’s when, on the seventh day, Mary, created the casserole, and everyone rested on that day too, except the mice.  Affectionately, throughout the land, both humans and rodents, deemed Mary, The Queen of Casseroles.  Negotiating with the mice, it was finalized by Mary and Denny only allowing three of them to enter the house on Sundays.

Most of the mice in the porsche needed leaders.  As everyone knows, mice are very diplomatic so they voted on who the President, Vice President, and Chief Economic Advisor to the President would become as the first trio to manage this District of Worthless Vehicles as well as provide them all with ample sustenance.  Since mice only have first names, the uneducated mice voted only on their names (much like horses) and their lake of origin.  They voted in Dusty, Dorris, and Dottie from Diamond Lake.

Mary’s casseroles were so good, she developed a way to make everyone in the house happy….including the mice.   When her husband, Denny,  found that Mary was welcoming  three kind mice into a home worth far more than his porsche, she was definitely close to resting, and resting her case of casseroles as well as a derelict vehicle.

The kind and keen mice developed a sense of what was wonderful in this house, and they embraced it.  Progressing from a couch to a condo was quite a step up for them.

The different personalities of these three mice are most intriguing, considering they  were siblings.  The male was the oldest and the strongest, and the two following him, female mice,  were the cutest and most clever.

Mary first welcomed “mice one” to her family introducing him to her husband, Denny.  It was a shrewd move on Mary’s part.  Denny was not just interested in cars, but also very interested in sports.  Denny and Dusty hit it off immediately.  Baseball, basketball, football….it didn’t matter, they were joined at the sofa.  This provided time for Mary to make her casserole.

Mouse number two: Dorris:  If you research mice, some of them are capable of giving birth after two months of being born. Dorris was no exception. They are also willing and quite capable of providing for them after their  birth.  Dorris was shrewd, much like the owners of the house, knowing when casserole Sunday came around on the calendar.  For the other mice who were not allowed to enter Mary and Denny’s house, thanks to Dorris, it was much like going to church, but skipping the boring sermon, and going straight to the wafers at communion, followed by eating leftovers in a clean cafeteria with the other pious souls.  Dorris, however, was not one to ration, and mice will eat until the food supply runs out.  This created issues between Dorris, Denny and Mary, because the only thing Denny cherished more than sports were Mary’s Sunday casseroles.  Poor Denny would end up with porridge after a hard day of watching football with President Dusty.  The third mouse came up with a solution.

Mouse number three: (Economic Advisor, Dottie)  Dottie recognized that President, Dusty, and Vice President, Dorris were ignoring the important details of maintaining a nation of mice if they were to survive in the Porsche Condominium.  It was a simple and rational solution.  Dottie knew how to fiscally make everyone happy; well almost everyone happy.

Using mathematics, Dottie devised a plan where they could divide the casserole, and all may not be happy about the proportions, but certainly would see the light of the next day.  “One quarter of the casserole should go to the three of us.  One quarter of it should go to the freeloaders in the garage who don’t say please and thank you.  The other half should remain with these humans.  That way, we all survive, and can look forward to many more Sunday brunches.”

President Dusty and Vice President Dorris couldn’t disagree with logic.  It was settled in a private meeting in Mary and Denny’s attic while Dorris was giving birth to another baby.  Like all meetings should, it lasted less than five minutes.

So, life went on, and for several months, everyone was fed properly.  However, the peasant porsche freeloaders were beginning to rebel against the regime of Dusty, Dorris and Dottie.  “Why can they watch T.V., drink tap water, use sophisticated bathroom facilities, while we are crapping in a porsche, now being referred to as the Porsche Porta Potty?”

They were calling for the impeachment, or imcheesement, of the President.

This is when a President loses all sense of judgment and just wants to please the rodents. Even without Dorris and Dottie’s approval, Dusty invited all the mice in for a Superbowl of Casserole Sunday party.  Denny wasn’t present that day.  He gained knowledge of the party via Dusty, who had become a very nice companion for Denny, and Denny wanted no part of this cheesy party, because he knew exactly how it would conclude:  A Mary Fondue Meltdown.

With a semi-genuine smile, Mary welcomed the mice for just this one day of fun.  She had the usual appetizers all mice would enjoy such as crackers and cheese as well as the breadcrumbs she had spilled upon the floor from her main course.  She also provided the tap water for all of them.  That was her last mistake.  While initially quite affable mice, after drinking the free tap water, some of them went from jovial to surly.  The jovial ones weren’t just drinking the water, they were diving into pools of it, whether it was a bowl on the kitchen floor or a sink or a bathtub.  The surly mice began to fight over some of the breadcrumbs creating a natural kitchen room brawl.  Tails were flailing, teeth were chattering, and one particular water tapped out mouse had the indecency and audacity, to look at the hand which was feeding him and said, “Are you going to fight too?  No?  So you’re a Mary, not a mouse?”

Laughing, President Dusty knew where Mary was heading.  Mary walked into the pantry, closed the door, grabbed her broom, and came out of it as the infamous super housewife, Meltdown Mary.  Flying out of the pantry on her broom, the mice witnessed the Hell which was coming with her. Upon landing, Mary started swinging the broom in the air like a baseball bat.  They scattered and shuffled to find any place for shelter.  Most of them scuttled beneath the door to the garage where they could retreat to the porsche.  The mice remaining, not quite understanding the wrath she was bringing with her were provided a harsher tone.  With a booming voice, Mary bellowed, “ALL YOU OTHER RATS, GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE, AND THAT INCLUDES YOU THREE, DUSTY, DORRIS AND DOTTIE!”

Now you have to understand that calling a mouse a rat is very offensive to mice since mice are much smaller.  They have smaller teeth, smaller noses, and of course, smaller tails.  They hate being called rats since rats have been making fun of them for centuries.  That was it.  There were no casualties, but they left and never returned.

That same night, Mary was having terrible thoughts.  She knew some of the mice would come back to apologize for their deplorable behavior, but she wasn’t ready for an apology.  Therefore, she devised a plan.  The next casserole she was to make would be doused with strychnine.  Perfect.  No more mice.  Luckily, for the mice, Mary slept on that idea.

The next morning, Mary herded twelve little toes with tails between their legs scurrying into her room.  Actually, it was more like a saunter.  Dusty, Dorris and Dottie came to ask for forgiveness on behalf of all their idiot rodent friends.  Mary did indeed forgive them, and nary a mice was poisoned.  However, she asked that they never return again.  Sadly, the three kind mice understood and left the room without a crumb.

Thoughtfully, after interacting with mice she had grown fond of, Mary felt remorse.  She knew her emotions had taken over, but also needed to set mice rules.  Late that night, when Meltdown Mary transformed back into the loving, caring, and generous Mary, she was missing Dusty, Dorris, and Dottie.  While all the mice were sleeping, Mary snuck into the garage to carefully awaken her three kind mice.  Not to awake the others, she simply took them in her hands, transferred them to a warm blanket and tucked them in using Kraft American cheese singles.  Mary knew that since the other mice had absolutely no desire to ever enter her house again, the three contrite mice would awaken to breakfast in bed because it was lying right on top of them.  Then, after breakfast, her three mice could silently go back to their porsche where they belonged.

Months later, the porsche was sold to some fool who also agreed to take the mice with him, providing Mary show up with a casserole every Sunday.  She agreed to the deal.  Then, she celebrated, and secretly told Dusty, Dorris and Dottie, they were welcome to return anytime and could even bring their children.  Denny agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Rest In Peace (the baseball nursery rhymeless)

One of my five year old nieces was staying the night with us, and before bedtime, I was requested to tell her a story.  I didn’t know it would give her nightmares.

Here was my thoughtful introduction.  (her name is Lucy)

Me:  Lucy, do you know anything about baseball?

Lucy:  A little.

Me:  Do you know anything about a magical place in the Emerald City (known as Seattle) called Safeco Field?

Lucy:  (apprehensively) No.

Me:  It’s where baseball players go to die.  There is nothing safe about this place!  And, many others suffer from their lack of ability and additional lack of knowledge of what should be a mentally simple game.

Lucy:  What do you mean by others?  Team mates?

Me:  Not just team mates, but those in the stands witnessing them dig their own graves, primarily in left field and center field.

Lucy: Keep telling the story.

Me: Ok, but it doesn’t have a happy ending like World War Two. Are you cool with that?

Lucy: Yes.

Me: Good, because tomorrow night, we’re going to talk about Korea.

Lucy: Ok.

Me:  I’m getting tired, but here’s the brief story.  When very talented baseball players lose their desire to play, yet don’t lose the desire to make money, figuratively speaking, they come to a home where they are safe, just not at home plate.  Are you following me?

Lucy:  Not at home?  Who feeds them?

Me:  Good question.  The owners.

Lucy:  Do the owners live with them?

Me: Nobody lives with them!  The owners can afford to pay people to take care of them, but the owners and players must sign contracts, much like making a deal with the devil.  Do you anything about him?

Lucy: No.

Me: Yeah, let’s leave that one alone for tonight, and get back to the fun part of the story.

Lucy:  But, uncle Ben, you haven’t told me about the worst part of this story.  The owners don’t live with them, but shouldn’t they, out of principle?

Me:  Another good question.  No, sadly the owners live thousands of miles away but provide vast amounts of money so these ballplayers can eat, drink, chew on bubble gum and other things like women, but let’s not get into that.

Lucy:  Tell me more.

Me: Before I put you to sleep with negative energy, let’s speak of a man named Santa Clause.  Are you familiar with this guy?

Lucy:  Yes!  He is jolly and brings me gifts my parents can’t afford!  He also has a beard and……..

Me:  That’s enough.  Do you know anyone else who has a beard?

Lucy:  Yes, but no one who shows up with presents.

Me:  Ok, let’s just get this Santa Clause crap out of the way, because he doesn’t exist, get it?

Lucy: Ok.

Me:  Do you love your dad and your mom?

Lucy:  Yes!

Me: They are much like managers of a baseball team.

Lucy: What does that mean?

Me: Good Lord, they are the ones helping you make proper decisions, when in fact, they should be kicking you in the ass.

Lucy:  You’re scaring me…….this is not a fun story, and where are you going with this?

Me:  The manager of the Emerald City Seattle Mariners is fat and wears a beard, but doesn’t bring any gifts!  He is the exact opposite of Santa!

Lucy:  I think I want to go to sleep.

Me:  Ok.   Goodnight and God Bless you.

 

Illustration courtesy of Lucy Gannon

Drawing courtesy of Lucy Gannon

 

 

The Resurrection of Paprika and Jesus. Happy Easter!

For thirty some odd years, I went with my family for the Easter Vigil at a Catholic church and, for thirty some odd years, I looked forward to it for all the wrong reasons. During the first ten years, I looked forward to one thing when leaving the two hour ceremony; ironically, my mom’s deviled eggs.

Three guests were responsible for bringing three critical ingredients.  Only one was wise enough to know not to arrive on a donkey with gold, frankincense or myrrh.  This wasn’t Christmas.  Jesus always struggled with the devil and bunnies.  However, He was kind to the infinite degree.

Knowing they were coming (some not invited but wishing to attend), we prepared ourselves for the best, the worst, and some in the middle.  Having faith in the greatness and significance of this day, we understood the best guest always showed up precisely when the worst was attempting to crash our pious Sunday gathering.

The Easter Bunny was kind of like the middle rodent or limbo. Delivering his eggs, we accepted him as though his was required for the deviled eggs.  I swear, sometimes I was more afraid of that bunny than I was of the devil.  To me, the bunny seemed to be much like a friendly ghost or even a friendlier sasquatch. Yet, I didn’t wish to see any of them!  Out of fear of witnessing this strange ritual referred to as hunting on this sacred day , I never wished to peer out my bedroom window and happen upon the eyes of  the 13 foot tall bunny hiding these eggs.  Rather, I relied on prayer, daylight, blinds, and my God given speed.  Courage was not on my Easter Resume.

I never saw the Easter Bunny…….thank Jesus.

Our family always had a great time locating the hidden eggs, because we knew that meant the giant rabbit was busy scaring other children in a different neighborhood, and those eggs, thanks to mom, were boiling before we even placed them in our comfortable basket.

Each Easter, we did, however, hear a sinister knock on our door when we were in the process of making the perfect deviled eggs.  Of course, it was the devil, and mom, fearlessly, answered the door knowing he was bringing his red hot paprika which mother forgot at the store.  (satan was actually bringing cayenne pepper)  Just from pure genius, our mother knew the difference between paprika and cayenne pepper, much like recognizing the difference between good and evil.

And, that’s exactly, without calling first, satan makes an unwelcome pop in visit.  The devil, annually, on this day seemed to be suffering from a tobasco sauce hangover.  His  spear shaped tail wasn’t waging and he even forgot his trident.  We actually felt sorrow for him because, even though he wished to tempt us and poison us,  he always departed peacefully, knowing who was going to knock on our door next.  He, Jesus, knocked on our door, and without saying much more than, “Have a wonderful day, and here’s the Paprika”; Mom, while inviting him in, Jesus merely, and, respectfully declined the peaceful offer.  I just think he was already full of those heavenly eggs, and just needed another nap………until next Easter.

Ingredients:  eggs, mustard, sugar, mayonnaise, sweet pickle juice provided by my sister, Mary, and paprika provided by a very humble man.

 

 

 

 

 

A Birthday Card for Mom (she just turned 322)

(most of this is inside joke material, but for any of my friends who read this drivel and have crossed paths with my mother and/or her sons and daughters, you may get a kick out of  it.  Initially, I was not going to post it, but some of my family members have requested it to be posted. If any of my family members who have not read it are offended, that was indeed my intent)

To my mother, from one of her sons:

Dear Mother,

You know you’re not getting a gift, right?  Let’s just clear that up real quick before you get your hopes up on some cruise ship long liner ticket with your first angry mate, sister Mary, coming along only as baggage.  I didn’t even get a call from you on my last birthday, January THE 14TH!!!  I haven’t slept since.  Ok, now for the happy go fortunate stuff.  (I don’t believe in luck)

I had a dream the other night where I was sitting on a park bench waiting for a train.  A man next to me was holding a child not looking much older than one, so I assumed he couldn’t speak using words other than “mama”, “da da”, or perhaps “shit”.  These are the words infants use and abuse so quickly.  The man could recognize I was bored and I was chuckling at the infant, equally as bored, being fumbled about by the father’s hands trying to keep the child occupied.  Yet, it wasn’t the man who spoke first, it was the child.  The child looked at me and asked me if I had any older brothers, and I said, with a smile, yes.  The child then asked, “how many?”  Six.  This always raises an eyebrow with people, which is fun if they don’t know any of them.  He then asked if I had any older sisters, and before I could reply, the father replied, “yes, he has six older sisters as well”.  I looked at him and we both smiled and the dream ended.  I had never met this man and he had never met our family, but I looked at him as though he was an angel.  Now, you’re thinking I’m going to call you an angel since it’s your birthday, right?  Not so fast, mother.  You’re one tier ahead.

Not being much of a church going religious bloke anymore, I still maintain faith in God, mostly because of you and dad.  I believe you summon these angels to protect goofballs like me from imminent danger we sometimes bring upon ourselves.  You look at someone like me, or any other of our family members and say, “Ok, this person is going to need an angel”.  That’s where the negotiations start with you and a guy referred to as God.

God: Ok, Margaret, how many angels do you need?

Mom:  (sheepishly) Well, it depends on which son or daughter you’re talking about.

God:  Mike.  Isn’t he the one who has a great deal of arrogance……eh hmm…pardon me, confidence in one’s self?

Mom:  I guess you could say that.

God:  I like that guy.  He’ll be the angel of fun when he makes it here!

Mom:  So, probably two.?

God:  Done……..who’s next?  I know there is a long list and I have some Mormons knocking on my door who even have more requests than you so give it to me straight and quick.

Mom: Mary

God:  Hmm…….has she calmed down on the racial slur bit, and how about those meltdowns?

Mom:  Yes……..I think.

God:  As long as Anne is still in the picture, only three should do………NEXT!

Mom: Steve?

God:  None.  That guy can take care of himself.  And, don’t worry, there is a stool ready for him anytime right next to me.  I love to laugh.  NEXT!

Mom:  Glenn?

God:  This is a tough one.  I think I’ve sinned more than him.  Let’s just make him an angel and call it good, ok?

Mom:  Ok, Theresa?

God:  She’s good.  But she’s good enough to have four floating around from time to time just to keep her from developing a southern accent.  The next time I hear the phrase, “I hope ya’ll can forgive me” I’m sending them on the express way to Hell. NEXT!

Mom:  (while laughing) Anne?

God:  You’re wasting my time, Mrs. Gannon. You already know she’s an angel.  Oh, and by the way, the next time you catch her, tell her Missy is hanging out in my back cloud with a couple of llamas.  NEXT!

Mom:  Aaron?

God:  I’ve already been working on this one but none of my angels can find him.  I have like, thirteen working on the case.

Mom: I understand.  Dorothy?

God:  I can give you five…….

Mom: If you take one away from Aaron’s case, can you give me six?

God:  Done.  NEXT!

Mom:  Patricia?

God:  I have to check her file.  Hmm…..seems to be a good woman, but as a flight attendant, she does need at least one.

Mom:  But she was a cheerleader in high school…….do you know what roads she must avoid because of her good looks?

God:  You’re right, I’ll give you eight.

Mom:  Will you make sure they are civil war buffs?  Please?

God:  For you, yeah yeah yeah.

Mom: Maggie?

God:  Does she have a husband that goes by the name of Jerry, (and chuckling) aka Aldieny, aka McNuggets?

Mom:  (unaware of where this question is leading) yesssss???

God:  Ha!  I’ve heard about this guy.  We signed him up years ago.  He’s been an angel for years.  And by the way, Maggie has sent more business this way than Donald Trump has toupees.  I love that gal.  Next.

Mom:  Thank you.  Greg?

God:  This is another tough one because our angels don’t care for being hidden in a two hundred dollar bottle of balsamic vinegar.  Let’s see……isn’t he a reverend in the Catholic Church?

Mom:  (excited) YES.

God:  Well then he’ll need ten for every commandment.

Mom:  Done.  Again thank you.  Tom?

God:  You know this is a tough one as well.  When remembering him, I even have to say ten Hail Marys. I once had a dream where he screwed me over on a business deal while playing monopoly.  I’m reluctant to give him any angels just out of spite, but out of complete and utter fury, mixed in with some forgiveness which is supposed to go along with this territory, I’ll waver and give him six angels for Park Place and Boardwalk Avenue……and no, Tom will not get his railroads back in return.  NEXT.

Mom:  Ben?

God:  Don’t you think the twelve you’ve already assigned to him has been enough?

Mom:  Yes, but, with complete reverence, you forgot that he has thirteen angels.

God: I AM NEVER WRONG!!!!  (heavenly volcanoes erupt with serious lava)  HOW DARE YOU QUESTION ME???

Mom:  (unfazed)  You don’t remember the request for that Brittney girl?  Well it’s working out and I just wanted to thank you.  Cool that volcano crap down now, please, it’s my birthday.  I have enough candles to blow out on my own.

God:  Oh yes.  You are welcome.  I thought you said that girl’s name was Gortney.

Mom:  Good bye and God ble………..wait………who blesses you?

God: GET THE HELL OUT OF HERE!

Mom, you are an inspiration to so many people inside and outside of our family.  You gave me hope, faith, love and laughter every time I needed it and you still do to this very special day.  Thank you.  Happy Birthday, you old bag of gifts.

Love,

Ben

Vets, Pets, and Debts

In this modern world, I am considered an outcast.  I use words such as please, and thank you, and although many people where I currently reside don’t respond with a proper “you’re welcome”, I provide it for them.  It may occur on the street, opening a door for someone wearing a fur coat walking into a Walgreens who ignores me like a common criminal, or most recently, my lack of sophistication resting at a Veterinarian Clinic.

Yesterday, I was dealing with Comcast….pardon me, Veterinarians.  My window of opportunity to pick up an animal was hidden between nine A.M., FIVE P.M. and a place considered, according to me, bales of haystacks, “the vet clinic”.   Not minding the quoted bill at a couple hundred bucks, I made the infantile and critical mistake of thinking about the nomenclature of such a statement.  A couple makes two.  Today, I guess it means four.  Let this be a lesson to all those who are betting on anything these days.

But, that’s really not the good and bad part of the story.  When being contacted at Five or so P.M., I was there to greet our lovely cat suffering from something referred to as “old cat syndrome”.  Twenty minutes later, I requested the bill and asked if our cat could be released from his incarceration.  They complied with just a slight flaw.  Ten minutes later, they brought out leashes and belongings not belonging to our beloved family of animals, including husband and wife.  I must say that each and every day, I still have something to learn about animals, therefore, sheepishly, I asked a question to someone delivering these items.  “Aren’t these items for a dog?”  (I was fairly certain we didn’t bring our cat in on a leash.  Seems like a terrific idea, but it hasn’t worked for me in the last five years).

“Yes, she’ll be right out.”

“Ok, but there is one slight problem…….

“Oh, I’m sorry, what’s the problem?”

“Our pet is a cat and it’s a HE and we delivered him to you in a CAT SECURITY BOX.  GET THE DAMN CAT, BECAUSE I WISH TO NOT SPEND FRIDAY NIGHT AT THE VET….please.”

Our Tomcat, unfortunately named “LOLA” was a victim of his name.  I won’t blame anyone for this mistake, not even the one naming him.  The female dog’s name was Lola as well.

After all of this transpired, I felt as if I was the crazy one asking what I thought to be logical questions.  Then, I understood, they were looking at me as though I belonged, not at the clinic, but, rather, behind bars in a zoo.  I guess in this bizarre world of modern society, I don’t wish to fit in.  Please, thank you, as well as humans understanding the difference between dogs, cats and quotes seem easy to me.

You’re welcome.