trump Gets It Right

Even though our current president cannot think, read or speak, he has finally expressed his support for a just and holy cause: Students' rights to pray in public schools.

I am not fond of trump, but I'm man enough to give credit where it is due.

I'm relieved and impressed, for example, that he has carefully researched this issue before taking a stand and speaking out.

trump apparently spent many hours in libraries and at his computer searching for solid evidence to prove that the absence of prayers suggested or written or led by teachers has resulted in a decadent age "like no other."  

What did he learn? And what did he deduce from this data? The following:

Since the 1962 Engel v. (Dick) Vitale case, there has been an exponential spike in school shootings. Therefore, if we relax the restrictions on public school prayers, the slaughtering of our children will cease, and this will take the heat off the NRA, an organization that, lubricated with a mix of gun oil and child blood, has done so much to protect our Second Amendment rights.

Praying at school will keep the kids in closer contact with the God of Love, the Ten Commandments, and all of that. No child who's read a few passages from the Good Book (the bible, not Moby Dick) as we did when I was in school, will have any desire to take an AR-15 to school and fire away at teachers and students.These kids would know almost immediately that you only kill people from other tribes.

In short, the old saying is true: "Make kids pray, and away from mass murders stay," or something like that.

Next!

According to scholarly intercourse among sociologists, teen pregnancy -- which climaxed in 1991 -- has skyrocketed since prayers were ruthlessly withdrawn from public schools. Therefore, trump deduced, if the government can penetrate the barrier erected by radical-left atheists, teen pregnancy will come to an end.

Again, my experience backs up trump's support of school prayer. You didn't see a bunch of pregnant sophomores running around campus back in the prayer days. Oh no! Most of us didn't know where to put things during sex. Those who knew might occasionally create a pregnancy, but if so the girl knew to disappear, maybe forever. The guy could stay. Stud!

Oh, and due to prayer in school we loved the Lord so much we wouldn't dare do nasty stuff. We had the decency to stifle our urges, at least when we were with people.

trump's hours in the library taught him that 8 per cent of all high school students in America now report being gay, lesbian or bisexual. The numbers were nowhere near that high before prayer in school went the way of dinosaurs! In fact, there were probably only 8 kids in the whole damn country with the guts to report such things. 

Therefore, there'll be fewer gays, lesbians and bisexuals if we bring back prayers to the classroom. Kids, like the ones in the good old days, will acquiesce to the genitalia God gave them before they even entered the womb by way of consensual maritally sanctioned sexual intercourse, esp. if "acquiesce" means "regardless of my urges, I'll only have sex with whatever I'm not."

Yes, in the golden pre-prayer-removal age, "peculiar" kids knew to keep it to themselves, force themselves to enjoy a straight relationship, marry a straight person, and hang in there and pray that someday it would be okay to love the one you loved. Or they could commit suicide, as many of them did.

Studies also show that since that devastating ruling in 1962, students' language has become woefully obscene. Before praying was banned, for example, only boys said "fuck," and only in an appropriate context, such as telling a dirty joke or describing what you would do to "that girl" if you had the chance. Boys would never say "fuck" in the company of females.

If trump succeeds in loosening the Great Prayer Ban (GPB), kids may well stop saying "fuck" at all, even when they grow up. It's possible that "fucking" will disappear completely from people's list of favorite hobbies, replaced by "making love" or, at its worst, "screwing."

When the anti-prayer sanctions are relaxed, those Ring Around the Flag Prayer Circles will no longer be necessary. Some days it's too cold or hot to pray outside. Also, in those circles -- what with the hand holding -- you're way more likely to ignite a flu outbreak, but maybe you could pray your way out of it. Lots of people use prayer instead flu vaccinations anyway. What could possibly go wrong?

The American Flag: The heart of all Christianity

Finally, I support trump's support of prayer in school because it is born out of his own experience. Yes, trump was in high school in those days and thus a product of this daily spiritual ritual. This helps explain his love of Our Savior Christ; of evangelicals; and of criminals, prisoners, outcasts, scam artists, dictators, liars, racists, traitors and female porn stars.

Those days of prayers made him who he is, our leader and our hope, and a model for our children.

So I'm on your side, donald. Bring back the prayers, and hurry. 

And pray, children, pray. Please pray. And pray hard and often. 

Ask the Dear Lord to make him go away, ask Him to welcome trump into His loving arms until, after a nanosecond spent sniffing out the stench from his putrid rotting soul, he releases this fiendish monster to plummet into a pit crowded with friends of his ilk. 

And if your teacher gives you time enough, go ahead and toss McConnell into the mix.  

Teachers Keep Abreast of the Cleavage Problem

That first day back to work for teachers can be pretty draining what with all the time-eating pointless activities. 

Howard was certainly "dragging ass" when he got home, but Tally, his former abductee and current life partner and love of his life for the time being, wanted to hear all about it.

"Tell me, Howard, what did you learn today? Tell me everything," she pleaded* upon his arrival. "All day, I've been thinking of you and remembering the famous saying by the Chinese philosopher Confusion: 'The longest journey begins on the first day,' or something like that. So share, you large, laid-back lug!" (Like Aaron Judge, Howard is 6'7" and weighs 285 pounds.)

Howard sighed a sigh of disappointment.

"Okay, Tally," he said. "As you know, I'm interested in learning about the balance between inviting student participation and relaying information, you know, between discussion and lectures.

"Unless we inspire students to think on their own, to share their thoughts and insights, and listen to their classmates with patience, tolerance and civility, we have missed a rare opportunity and have deprived young people of a meaningful growth experience.

"On the other hand, they cannot discuss the law of gravity, latitude and longitude, the boiling point of water or the contents of a water molecule. We teachers are the founts of this quantifiable learning, so at some point, lecture we must, and become the often scorned Sage on the Stage.

"And of course there's the precarious balance between authenticity and authority. The students need to see the teacher as a human being, you know, 'One of us! One of us!,' but also a person superior in wisdom, more experienced in learning, more mentor than mate."

"So what's your point?" Tally queried.

"I'm just saying these are what I want to learn more about, so today I held up my hand to seek input from the administrators and seasoned but listless teachers, but our principal Mr. Z. cut me off and began the meeting thus**: 

'Folks, we have to talk about dress code. We are going to get on top of it this year, and you're gonna write up the non-compliers and send'em down and we're gonna call momma and tell'er to come pick'em up.'

"'Send'em down! Pick 'em up! Send'em down! Pick 'em up!' chanted a large band of teachers, but others tried to shout them down with 'School uniforms! School uniforms! School uniforms,' but lacking the rhythm of the original cry, the second chant soon faded into obscurity.

"Before Mr. Z. could respond, a coach from the back row shouted out, 'I'm tired of seeing cleavage!' Then a woman near the front added, 'And butt cracks! I've had it!'

An example of cleavage

"'This year's policy will address both those issues,' Mr. Z told us. 'Each and every teacher will be issued a Cleave-a-Rater app, which basically serves the role of a ruler. If you see one of the young ladies dressed in what you deem an inappropriate manner, simply approach her and hold your phone near her, uh, around the, uhh . . . '

"'Boobs!' shouted a foreign language teacher known for her candid outspokenness.

"Mr. Z. continued, 'Boobs, right [some snickering from the older faculty]. Your app will beep if the student is revealing two inches of cleavage or more. At that point, you will write up the referral, and send her down.'

"And again, the cry rang out: 'Pick 'em up! Send 'em down!'

"'Now, are there any questions about this issue before we move on to our policy on butt-cracks -- or intergluteal clefts or plumber cleavage, as they say on the streets?'

"A seemingly nice lady who I was told had been at Medford for 26 years had the first question: 'What if the cleavage is, say, 1.8 inches? Do we just issue a warning, and is there paperwork involved in a warning? 

'Or what if it's 1.5 inches when she enters the classroom, but through the various natural movements of her body, swells to 2 inches? Can she not claim that she had adhered to the dress code but was then victimized by gravity over which she has no control? Then what?'

"After 17 more questions, we finally moved on to butt cracks about which the major issue was length, sex, gender, sexual preference, sex at birth, and sex currently. Was a guy's butt crack, for example, more of a distraction to girls (or boys) than cleavage was to boys (or girls)?  

"Should the butt-crack measurement take place when the student was sitting, squatting or standing? Or was it possible that since fashion has allowed exposed butt crackage for close to 20 years now, the nether crease may no longer be a distraction at all, no more shocking than, say, a bra strap?

"As you can imagine, Tally, my brain quickly dismissed my pedagogical concerns and replaced them with a lurid PowerPoint featuring vivid depictions of various cleavages and butt cracks.

"My colleagues, though, considered the time well spent. Apparently they believe that if the kids cover their bodies in a corporate, appropriate, modest way, they will be more eager to take in vital information about the wide, wide world and all its various cultures and values, and to improve their critical-thinking skills so they can grow up to be happy and creative human beings and informed voters capable of transforming this Great Nation into a land of justice and compassion."

"Bummer. But Howard, you'll be teaching Pre-K kids,*** so why do you need to worry about cleavage?"

"We all have to go to these meetings whether or not the subject is relevant to us. The reason is because they are required. Mandatory. Obligatory. Non-optional.

"At any rate, we were still discussing butt cracks at the end of the day -- literally -- so Mr. Z said we'd have to postpone our discussion of all the new initiatives coming down from the state and some major changes in the benchmarks and standards and the reasons our union couldn't scratch out even a cost-of-living raise.

"'We know y'all have a lot to do and are eager to get to your classrooms and get this year underway,' he said, "So we'll work really hard to finish up tomorrow. Meanwhile, I'd just like to thank you all for all you do on a daily basis. We appreciate your love of teaching and love of the kids, except for Mr. Renfroe's, of course, whose love crossed the red line, sending him to the pen for a while, but thanks to all the rest of you, and give yourselves a big hand!'"

Clap, clap, clappity-clap, clap.

*Or "pled"

**Or "thusly"

***In the interest of verisimilitude, I should point out that Medford school was very small, so it contained within its halls all grades, Pre-K through 12.

Getting to Know You

And now Zephaniah Nahum, aka Mr. Z, begins Medford High's First Day Welcome Back Breakfast and Professional Development In-Service:

 "Welcome back, y'all, and welcome to all the teachers new to Medford School, home of the Fighting Meds, athletes and learners! We know you have a lot to do today and are eager to get back into your classrooms and cover the wall with wise sayings from Ayn Rand, Lysa Terkeurst, Henry Miller, Rudyard Kipling, Steven Pinker, Norman Vincent Peale, L. Ron Hubbard, Charles Bukowski, Martha Stewart, Edgar Guest and Oprah, and with oversized memes featuring kittens and Marvel Comic heroes to help motivate your kids to work hard while also displaying your 'withitness.' 

A high school fave -- God only knows why.

"Certainly we know how hectic this first week can be for you, and we appreciate all that you do on a daily basis, so we're going to make this as brief as possible. 

"We have just a few things to pass on to you from the State, the County and from our 3-hour principal meeting yesterday, but we should be able to wrap up this whole thing in, oh, 15 minutes or so.

"So we'll introduce the rookies shortly, but first let's go around the room so each and every one of you can tell us how you spent your summer.

"Let's see, there's 87 of us, so we'll start at the back. When your turn comes, first tell us your name, what department you're in, how long you've been here, what you did before you came to Medford, where and when you got your degree, why you wanted to be a teacher and when you first realized it, then tell us about your summer.

"Welp, ladies first! Ruth, we'll start with you."

Sadly for those eager to get to work, Ruth had given birth, vacationed in Iceland, taken horseback lessons in Chuluota, watched her home go up in flames after a lightning strike, found a bear cub in the backseat of her Prius, published an article on "Progress Monitoring in the Appalachians: Reaching Out and Helping the Kids Left Behind Get Ahead" which she felt moved to read in its entirety, and started a book club focusing solely on the works of Roberto Bolano, George Eliot, David Foster Wallace and Karl Ove Knausgaard.

As the teachers share their summer memoirs, and nervous Howard tries to conjure up a story more interesting than accidentally abducting a homeless man, let's dolly the camera back and upward to give us a God's-eye view of this learned congregation, this assemblage of senseis*, if you will.

There are the young and restless, eager to begin what they believe to be a lifelong calling, maybe even a lifelong passion, but, untutored in traditional socialization and decorum, are reluctant to make eye contact with their elders. 

And there are the veterans who, like the gray beard just now entering through the double doors, are hoping with all their hearts this is their last first day back, and that next year this time they'll be sound asleep, mildly hungover, still hours away from facing a new day of freedom. 

Over the summer, the faculty's weight has been redistributed -- some have gained, some lost -- but collectively the group weighs the same as it did in June, accurately indicating a consistent collective fitness about which few other schools can crow.

Eight teachers, six of them guys, have shaved their respective heads and grown the now popular Russian-novelist beards. 

Dostoevsky, Fashion Prophet

As the teachers' riveting narratives go on and on and on, a posse of coaches, seated in the back, continue to chat among themselves with their outside voices. 

A few teachers have surreptitiously inserted ear plugs and are chewing gum to the beat of Lil Uzi Vert, Keith Urban, Childish Gambino, Patti Page, Khalid, Taylor Swift, Barry Manilow, Webb Pierce, Ariana Grande and that one female vocalist with the massive bows in her hair and bangs that reach her lips.  

Many, many years pass as the teachers describe their fruitful summers, then finally Howard -- just waking from a nap in which he dreamed about abducting one of the "realators" who had catered their delicious Chipotle breakfast -- heard Mr. Z say, "That's everyone, right? Is that it? Anyone else? No? All right! We have time for a brief restroom break before our next meeting, then we'll finish up quickly and get you outta here. But first, everybody give yourself a big hand!"

Clap, clap, clappity-clap, clap.

And on and on, and the afternoon and the morning were the first day.

*A Japanese word

A Teacher Begins His Journey

The Medford school district was so hard up for teachers that Howard Desseray's convicted-felon status in no way hurt his ranking among the 14 applicants, most of whom had no college degree, let alone a teaching certificate, and wouldn't know a pedagogue from a pedant.

In fact, during his interview he openly recounted some of the highlights of his various incarcerations in the state pen, those accounts only serving to impress the school's principal, Zephaniah Nahum. 

(The Medford district was so antiquated and micromanaged that teachers themselves were not allowed to interview their future colleagues, even if they -- the future colleagues -- had done time.)

"We respect the dignity of all our candidates regardless of their little lapses in judgment," Nahum told him. "Also, your time in prison will make it easier for you to acclimate to our architecture, our students, our food and our soul-crushingly rigid schedule. Now tell me, Mr. Desseray, how are you with kids? I mean, like 4- and 5-year olds?"

Howard, courtesy Jade Deatherage

"As an abductor, I've had plenty of experience with them. They seem inclined to trust me, and I try not to betray that trust. I always abduct them in a way they'll recall fondly, if their parents promptly deliver the required ransom, of course.

"And speaking of parents," added Howard as he pulled a manila folder from his book bag with '17486490021' printed neatly on the top, "here are a dozen letters of recommendation from parents, enumerating the many times I've 'gone the extra mile' while acting in loco parentis cum abductus."

The principal and former football coach removed an imaginary pipe from his mouth and said, "That's good enough for me, Mr. Desseray! Monday morning, 6:30 sharp! Welcome to the team -- more than a team, really. We think of ourselves as family here, at least the administrators do, but whatever, see ya Monday. Oh, and they call me Mr. Z." 

And so the morning of Howard's first day as a teacher came to pass. Will he finally leave his criminal life behind and help America's youth mature into thinking human beings?

* * * *

It was Medford's First Day Welcome Back Breakfast and Professional Development In-Service, and the 2017 Golden State Warriors seemed to be running their patented fast break through Howard's digestive system.

He was standing in line with people he had never met, all of them wearing the obligatory orange shirts, all trying to squeeze out some small talk as they inched tortoise-like toward the Chipotle breakfast buffet funded by a group of local realtors (or "realators," as they called themselves), all of whom had once been teachers, but whose dream of kindling the intellectual flame of this Great Nation's young had dissipated as soon as they realized the pay would doom them to a life of poverty.

Breakfast is on the"realators"!

(The "Head Mama" of the realators evoked a nervous chuckle from the teachers when, in the spirit of jocularity, she assured them that "there's no reason to worry about norovirus so soon after the recent Chipotle outbreak. You know what they say: The safest time to fly is the day after an airliner plunges nose-first into the icy waters of Kaffekluben Lake! Heh, heh.")

Anxiety -- unrelated to norovirus -- tightened Howard's esophagus as he pecked away at the guacamole atop his mountainous burrito bowl. 

Luckily, speaking was unnecessary as he sat at a table populated by younger teachers, all of whom, making no more noise than a mouse pissing on a cotton ball, texted feverishly, their smartphones stationed neatly next to their bowls. 

While his youthful colleagues munched and tapped, Howard reflected on the encouraging words of his likely fiance, past abductee, and future ex-wife Tally Dolcet, a devotee of art and welding: "If you're going to give up your calling as an abductor, you must do all in your power to become the best teacher you can be, given your felonious gene pool. Hang on to every word at the Opening Day meeting. Surely, those eloquent pellets of language will be golden gems of wisdom, keys to the bolted doors of young minds, an alchemical lubricant facilitating the passage and transmutation of knowledge from teaching to learning."

God bless Tally. He could picture her now, taking a break from welding the door back on their shed after an ill-tempered abductee had kicked it off, sitting on their new liver-colored sofa, watching her beloved Steve Harvey. Oh, how that woman loved Harvey's teeth!

After the teachers posed for their yearbook and ID photos (Howard embarrassed himself by instinctively turning sideways for a profile shot), the Opening Day meeting, at long last, got underway in earnest with "a few words" from Mr. Z.

Where Will the Cattle Go?

In the year 2038, the Czar, by military force, turned America, at long last, into a Vegan Nation. 

Anyone caught eating or drinking or even ordering an animal-based product was given a life sentence of listening to William Shatner cover "Stairway to Heaven." 

Cattle, now free to roam where the deer and the buffalo roam, posed some problems.

What to do with America's 96 million cattle, 10 million of which were dairy cows, 32 million beef cattle, plus millions of mixed breed (cattle mutts who produced sour milk and bland, stringy beef), homeless, or Spanish-mooing cattle that had illegally crossed over our porous southern border.

A quick clarification for city people: "Cattle" is the fussy, accurate term for domesticated bovines. A "cow" is an adult female, hence "dairy cow." 

A dairy cow

At cocktail parties, wedding and divorce receptions, and workplace meet'n'greets, however, it's acceptable to call "cattle" "cows." No one is likely to correct you and, if they do, you have a flesh-and-blood definition of "pedant."

A "heifer," 20th-century rural slang for "gal," is a female bovine who has likely not had sex yet.

A "steer" is a male who will never have sex, nor want to, and therefore will not harass cows. Steers were highly prized back in humanity's omnivore days because their lack of testosterone made their meat more tasty than bulls' whose only job in life is to have sex.

Just hours after the Great Cattle Liberation (GCL), the NRA, which had suffered setbacks during the two previous decades, picked up the scent of a potential resurrection, arriving at this syllogism: "We don't need more cattle. Bulls make more cattle. Therefore, someone is gonna have to shoot bulls."

This guy's totally gonna get shot.

Once that idea entered Earth's atmosphere, hunters (and mass shooters) raced from the shadows. They firmly believed, as they always have, that if wild animals aren't "harvested" or "culled," they were destined to die a more awful death, e.g., starvation, wolf and wildcat mauling, mad cow disorder, etc. 

Hunting was an act of compassion! 

Killing can be both fun and humane!  "Eat hot lead, Mama Deer! You'll never fear starvation again! I'm doing this for you! God, I love this!" 

So the rejuvenated NRA went to work buying congresspersons in order to legalize bull hunting (with the option of eventually adding homeless and illegal immigrant cattle to the death list).

We will spare the reader the details of this lengthy, boring process, laced with legalities and lies, propaganda, trumpian campaign rallies, "Kill More Bull" red caps, rushed construction of assault weapon factories, and hastily passed legislation to build even higher and thicker walls around schools to Keep Our Children Safe.

Surprisingly, many gun-toting Americans lobbied for some restrictions on bull hunting. 

Maybe, for example, hunters should use only .22 rifles with their puny little bullets (no hollow points!) so the killing process would take longer (bull scholars claim it can take as many as eleven .22 bullets, all entering either the heart or brain area, to kill a healthy bull), extending the hunters' pleasure, and making mass shootings waaay more difficult for our fellow citizens who enjoy such things.

The NRA's first-draft proposition -- called Fish-in-a-Barrell Easy Access -- was to leave the bulls in their respective home pastures so hunters would have fewer miles to drive their gas-gobbling F-350s and  SUVs. 

They'd just drive to ol' Farmer John's ranch, pull up to the fence, walk out amongst the now lonely and horny (not in that way) bulls, and fire away, trying their dead level best not to "do a Dick Cheney."

PETA and normal animal lovers protested immediately, and, as usual, they were ignored immediately.

Some of the Czar's more liberal advisers convinced him to open the gates, give the cattle two weeks to find a welcoming environment, then start bull-hunting season.

The NRA convinced the Czar (by requesting it) to allow hunters to use AR-15s on bulls weighing over a ton. 

And so began the DBS (Domesticated Bovine Solution), but it was only the beginning.

Even with a bull hunting season, too many cattle continued to roam the earth, their farts discharging a tsunami of deadly methane.

This moved the Department of Interior to implement two additional plans: One, transport wolves on Airbus A380s (each of which provided first-class seating for 860 wolves; snacks: sedated rabbits; entrees: roadkill "steak") to cattle-rich areas of the country. The Czar saw this as a win-win effort: restock this Great Nation's dwindling wolf demographic and "cull" or "harvest" millions of cattle.

Wolf  transporter

Two, market cattle -- esp.calves and heifers -- as pets for the very rich (they would have to be spayed or neutered, of course) (the calves and heifers, not the very rich) (even though spaying and neutering the very rich is well worth considering).

This plan caught on immediately. By 2040, you couldn't enter a wealthy person's home without bumping into a heifer, often clothed in playful anthropomorphic wardrobes -- Disney characters, Darth Vader, Sean Hannity, Santa Claus, etc.

The more humane among the very rich allowed their pets to enjoy some outside time, ruminating and chewing cud next to the pool, and using their ever-swishing tails to chase flies from their poop patties. (The pet cattle's fragrant droppings also created minimum-wage jobs for Mexicans who flew over the trumpian Wall in high-tech drones invented for just that purpose in 2020.) (The Mexicans could boost their income by emptying the very rich's massive Purina Bovine Boxes into which house cows shat).

Finally, the move to Veganism resulted in a new Cabinet Department: The Department of Separation of All Religions Except Fundamentalist Evangelical Literalist Christianity from the State, initially chaired by Franklin Graham, Jr.

This Department easily convinced the Czar (by asking him) to retain enough cattle for "those kind of Christians" to offer up as sacrifices to their carnivorous Lord as per instructions in Leviticus and the like.

Graham, always meticulous in his calculations, made certain that the cattle population (his "Bullpen," as he called it) was bountiful enough that very rich Christians could match King Solomon's record-setting 20,002 cattle he burnt as a peace offering to the Lord once Solomon's immigrants completed The Temple's construction (We're not making this up. See 1 Kings 8:63).

By now, many readers must be wondering, "What about pigs? And what's the difference between a pig and a hog?"

The first question is easily answered: The Reverend Graham had Exorcist-in-Chief Brother Siegfried Thompson cast out all the demons residing in Sarah Sanders, Stephen Miller, Mitch McConnell, and in the entire wicked brood of indicted trump associates, and when the demons were liberated, lo and behold, they entered into every pig and hog that oinked upon the earth's surface -- there were that many demons! -- and the swine were sore afraid and leapt into the Grand Canyon where they died immediately. (There's a precedent for the pigs' -- or hogs' -- behavior: Matthew 8:28-34)

As for the pig-hog question, that must wait for another day.

Church Choices

Abductor Howard Desseray, you may recall, had a short stint (one week) as a kindergarten teacher. On his first day of class, which would ultimately be his last first day, he did the usual getting-to-know-you routine, asking the kids simple questions such as "Do you still believe in Santa Claus and if not who ratted him out to you?" and "Is there anyone here who is not yet fully potty-trained?"

Even as a novice, Howard could pick out the probable problem child, the one who felt compelled to "act out" in order to receive "negative attention" which always trumps "no attention," much the way "hate" trumps "indifference."

In this class, it was one Delbert Stoker, whose dad pastored and ministered Medford's megachurch, Holy Mother of God and Precious Red Blood of Our Risen Savior Full Gospel Church.

Howard once attended Holy Mother of God and Precious Red Blood of Our Risen Savior Full Gospel Church with Chester, one of his more religious abductees. 

In a last-ditch effort to keep its doors "swinging open towards the loving arms of Jesus," the church provided four services to choose from.

The first service was at 7:30 a.m. and it catered to "old coots," as they were affectionately called by the Board of Deacons. These geriatric stuffy conventional traditionalists preferred to sing out of hymnals published before or during the Eisenhower presidency; enjoyed dressing up for the occasion as a humble nod to the presence of the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob; and preferred not to include dance or distracting arm-waving as a part of the service.

The 8:30 a.m. gathering was exclusively for those who enjoyed the gift of glossolalia. Should a non-glossolaliac show up accidentally, he could still worship with the help of an interpreter who, synchronized with the rhythm of the congregation's seemingly arbitrary verbal ejaculations, gracefully danced and swayed on the dais as she rendered Tongues-of-Fire utterances into plain old garden variety Christian language. 

The 9:30 service was the most popular of them all. The place was packed with the young and the hip, all come to praise the Maker in whose noisy image they believed themselves to be created. 

Feeling the burn

They imagined the Creator of the Universe as a bud, a mate, a friend, a besty, if you will, who favored highly repetitive songs of praise, each of which was roughly the length of the entire Book of Psalms. 

Called "up-to-date-here-and-now" worshipers, they favored lively kinesthetics over kneeling, genuflecting and other outdated gestures, and considered formal dress mere Pharisaical homage to materialism. 

Hence the men worshiped in pleated shorts, golf shirts and beach sandals, the women in spaghetti-strapped peasant blouses and shorts that stopped far, far from the knees, generously exposing enough buttocks flesh to reveal to all that "the Son of God came to us in the Flesh, and thus the Flesh is nothing to be ashamed of, nay verily, our bodies, butt cheeks included, are Temples of the Holy Spirit," or something along those lines.


During the with-it service, a shimmering veil covered the pipe organ and the altar was blocked from view by a praise-crazed 14-person band featuring banjos (lead and rhythm), a harmonica, a Jew's harp (an homage to the Old Testament), drums, an electric piano, a kazoo, 12-string guitars, ukuleles, an accordion, a bagpipe, an oboe, a tuba, a tambourine, and an air horn.

When Holy Mother of God and Precious Red Blood of Our Risen Savior Full Gospel Church moved into an abandoned K-Mart building, the congregants happened upon a still functional blue rotator light, similar to the ones atop cop cars. 

Previously used by the failed retail giant to signal brief markdowns -- called "blue-light specials" --, the church quickly converted the light to a "Come to Jesus" flasher. When, for example, a sinner heard the Lord call him to His flock and headed toward the altar, a deacon would turn on the spinning blue light to symbolize the presence of the Holy Spirit.

Finally, there was the 11:30 service conducted in French.* 

Howard's experience of Holy Mother of God and Precious Red Blood of Our Risen Savior Full Gospel Church's many options for believers weighed heavily on his heart. 

There was only one Jesus, as far as he knew. Must He then wear so many hats, must he become all things to all people that he might by all means save some, as St. Paul so eloquently stated in One Corinthians?

Surely there must be a simpler, more unified way.

*Due to Medford's location, obviously

Vote for Me

My fellow Americans, I am running for Office.

Below, I have provided a partial list of things I promise do if I am elected. If my promises seem too good to be true or if you feel that I'm overreaching or that I could never accomplish such things in a world inhabited by Republicans, then you are unclear about the Office I'm running for, and I suggest you do your research.

Just trust me. I will do these things. Once I know I've earned your trust, I will provide further, even more impressive promises.

If I am elected, members of the Legislative Branch will work for the current federal minimum wage and pay for their health insurance as if they were one of their constituents. Furthermore, it will be a felony to begin a sentence with "This is no time to politicize." 

Furthermore, any member of the Legislative Branch who offers thoughts and prayers to families who have lost loved ones due to that Branch's greed and incompetence will have the tooth of his/her choice removed without anesthesia by a plumber nearing retirement and will have to watch in its entirety the film version of Heaven Is for Real.  

If I am elected, there will only be one attack ad in the primaries, probably. Why? Because the first candidate who dares depict an opponent in grainy black and white still shots accompanied by ominous background music or who digs up some crusty, faded, dubious piece of smut dating back to when the targeted candidate was still doing no more drugs than the rest of his/her constituency; or when the aggressor in any fashion makes mean-spirited comments about his/her fellow party member(s), he/she will be removed from the race.

Furthermore, if the smut turns out to be false, that candidate must work the rest of his/her career as a roofer in Florida during the summer.

If I am elected, Rick Scott must send a personal note to every Floridian he thinks might possibly still support him, informing that potential voter that he, Rick Scott, was once in the Navy, and from the day these notes are mailed, he must never wear his goddang Navy cap again.

He must've been in the Navy

Should he violate this order, he can only wear Navy caps that have been rubbed all over a colony of feral cats suffering from ringworm.

If I am elected, citizens of Oviedo will continue to be free to sell their property, but the buyers will not be allowed to touch any of the trees on said property. The buyers may build whatever they please, including yet another dental office, but they must squeeze it in among the natural homes of songbirds, squirrels, owls, hawks, tree frogs, moss, gray rat snakes, etc.

If I am elected, Sarah Huckabee Sanders must undergo a rigorous series of polygraph tests, and if the results indicate she has knowingly told the American people even a single lie, she will be carted off to a prison so foul it will make the one in Orange Is the New Black look like my Southern Baptist grandmother's sewing circle, minus the snuff.

If I am elected, the nice people who put on those seemingly weekly wonderful Oviedo-in-the-Park festivals, the music of which rattles the windows of all houses within at least a two-mile radius, usually during Jeopardy, must play only the early works of Leonard Cohen. And no covers! Only the ones Cohen sings himself. 

Only Leonard, no one else

If I am elected, whoever decided to put those damn speakers around the pretension pond at Oviedo in the Park must personally, on a steamy summer afternoon, dig up every stinking one of them so that humans may walk around that body of water without being reminded that any sort of electrically fabricated jangle may pass for music and that every living human must be subjected to its clamorous, cacophonous, uh, clamorosity!

For now, I will say goodbye. I will not say "God Bless America," because if I am elected, I will outlaw that bit of bromide in the first hour, but bring it back in a flash as soon we prove there is a god, one who doesn't mind being called God, and even then I will add a qualification after "America," something like, "if You don't mind" or "if You can find the time" or "as long as You bless all the other countries, too."

My staff of volunteers are working on it. Or is working on it. If I'm elected, it will be legal to use either "is" or "are" in that construction.

Tally, Witches and Sirens

As his students filed into class Thursday, Dr. Belligerine Pugili CapraPan (aka, D-Bell), struck a professorial pose, actually a professorial pose in motion, as he paced back and forth in front of the white board, hands joined on the top of his hip, his head frowning downward, his brows furrowed in profound thought.

He was trying to remember how to pronounce "in medias res," because he didn't want to begin today's class with the Big Bang or the Garden of Eden, and it would sound really erudite and perhaps solidify his credibility if he could rattle off with confidence, "We will begin our class like the epics of yore: in medias res," followed by a manly, rumbling chuckle.

Maybe next time, damn it!

The course, described in great detail here, examined how the depiction of women in grownup, legitimate culture and in shallow, mindless pop culture casts them in junior-varsity roles that fetter and shackle them to this day.

Having not fully prepared for today's class, he would use the Socratic method (called maieutics by the learned) and draw with probing questions knowledge from his pupils the poor little bastards didn't even know they knew.

In the spirit of the course, he would direct his first query to the class's only female, Tally Dolcet:

"Ms. Dolcet, what parallels do you find between 'Hansel and Gretel' and the Sirens of Greek lore? Just take your time, no hur--"

"Okay, both stories see Women as temptations or, put another way, women as temptresses. Both the witch and the Sirens lure people to their death. The Sirens kill men, and the witch intends to fatten and eat the male, which is basically what 'Hansel' means, if my cousin Elbert is to be trusted.

Temptation in the Wilderness

"And both Hansel and Odysseus, for example, are on a journey, the latter literally headed for home, the former -- along with his sister Gretel -- metaphorically searching for a shelter more protective, more nurturing than that which their parents offer."

"Thanks, Ms. Dolc--"

"Wait! I just thought of something else! The witch appeals to the very bottom of Maslow's now archaic and sexist Hierarchy of Needs. 

"To witch, I mean to wit, she lures them with something they most desperately need, food their mother withheld from them, symbolizing for Freudians the traumatic weaning process that most of us struggle through and survive before kindergarten, even though some men never do.

"The kids are deprived even of the crumbs' from their mother's table, so they must sally forth into the Forest to eat, and I capitalize 'Forest'* intentionally because I allude to its mythic properties. 

"While generalist literary scholars -- speaking of the base of a pyramid! -- claim that eating in literature represents a communion to some degree, often in purely ironic fashion, Hansel and Gretel must eat away from the home, the hearth, the altar, one might say, while simultaneously eating away the witch's home attempting, in fact, to eat her out of house and home.

"Consequently, through no fault of their own, they resemble Eve munching greedily and selfishly on an apple without the company of her partner Adam, in stark contrast to the disciples breaking bread with Jesus --"

Suddenly, D-Bell remembered the correct pronunciation! 

"Ms. Dolcet, I regret interrupting you in medias res," and here he releases his pent up masculine chuckle, "but your exegesis may well have unmoored itself from Odysseus' ship and strayed from Hansel and Gretel's trail of crumbs, so now I'd like to call on Mr.--"

"Keep your shirt on just a sec longer, D-Bell, because I never made an adequate connection to the Sirens! On the one hand, the Sirens seduce the sailors with spellbinding songs that saturate the senses on a singularly aesthetic level, and the human capacity to be moved by beauty ranks well above the primal needs that rest at the nadir of Maslow's outdated pyramid.

Found here

"On the other hand, the Sirens' songs are significantly sensual and sexual, grasping and groping the grunting Greeks' groins, crooning a far more tantalizing ditty than 'I'm Having Your Baby.'"

"Miss Dolcet, I dare to demand you desist or diminish your deliberate display of disquieting, disagreeable alliteration," demanded D-Bell.

We pause here to make an intrusive observation through a fourth-wall peephole. Many narrators would now point out how remarkable it is that Tally seems suddenly engaged in this subject when she was practically forced into the class by her husband's fear that she thought too lowly of her womanhood and of her sex in general. 

We find such an intrusion trite and extraneous. Any thinking reader could reach that conclusion on her own. It's obvious that Tally's value train is preparing to switch tracks and, if it does, she will have much, much more to say relating to the depiction of women everywhere.

We personally look forward to it!

And let us make an observation about our audience while we're in the midst of a mini-metafictional spot: We imagine that many of you in this Great Nation of Ours, gathering around the archetypal water cooler of the workplace, are lamenting the absence of Margaret Atwood's poem "Siren Song" since we've been promising its appearance for roughly three installments.

Sirens in their bird stage, already irresistible 

First, be patient. We imagine the poem will make a stirring appearance and difference in the soon to be published next installment, tentatively entitled, "The Sirens Have their Say: Three Badass Bird Ladies Lament the Role Assigned to Them by Males and Exact at Least a Measure of Revenge."

Second, if you had the patience to sit through the never-ending torture-fest of Amazon Prime's elongation of Atwood's succinct dystopian novel The Handmaid's Tale, you sure as hell can wait another day or so for her poem.

*D-Bell could not hear the capitalization, of course, but Tally's point is still well taken.