Jonathots Daily Blog
(4139)
A. Recovering from bird seed overdose
B. Too nervous for petting zoo
C. Hates being called a “rat with a fancy tail”
D. Does all its shopping at a department store called Wal-Nuts*
E. God damnit! I’m not squirrely!
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4138)
Can you play the game?
What is the game?
People interaction. Intimacy. Give and take.
The “get-along-ism” of the human prism.
Does it bother you that it’s a game? Shouldn’t it be called a mission, a ministry or an odyssey?
A little piece of optimism, don’t you think? Some sort of idealistic drivel promoted by theologians. Generous and compassionate, but in its own way, foolish.
And it would be ridiculous to ask people to “love their neighbor” if that was exactly how the commandment was phrased. But it isn’t.
Actually, it’s a very cynical concept. In other words, since you’re madly infatuated with your own comings and goings and can’t pass by a mirror without glancing into it, might you consider sharing some of that concern with the people in the world around you?
Jesus wasn’t hoping we would become angelic while praying that we would avoid devilish. He was merely asking us to play the game. The game is very simple:
Perhaps not as eloquent as “love your neighbor as yourself,” but nevertheless, a practical paraphrase.
And by the way, be prepared for a five-to-one ratio. In other words, for every five minutes you’re willing to listen to someone else, they will probably return a minute of attention.
If you’re foolish enough to say that’s unfair, then you’ll end up with nothing.
If you decide you don’t give a shit about anyone, that’s fine, but you’ll discover that nobody gives a shit about you, and worse, they’ll probably try to find a way to get back at you because you didn’t give a shit about them.
Let’s tip our hat to President Trump. It’s obvious that he doesn’t care about anyone else. He is very interested in himself, and you can have a delightful conversation with the man as long as you’re willing to discuss Donald, and not “trump” him in any way.
On the other hand, the Democrats are less truthful. They pretend that they care about the farmer in Iowa who’s struggling with the loss of his soybean profits, while posting over and over again on the Internet the need for more donations—hoping to rise higher in the polls to make the next debate.
If you understand it’s a game, you can keep from being cynical.
If you think it’s supposed to be spiritual, moral or ethical, then you will find yourself broken, despondent and left with faith drained from your body.
Even within my own family, the interest level they have for me is limited and only comes forth when I first send out a query about their efforts and wishes.
Are you willing to take the five-to-one ratio?
Or do you think that if it’s not completely pure, that it has no heart?
It’s time to decide. If you can play the game, you will win.
If you can’t play the game, you will not only lose, but you will turn everyone who interacts with you into losers, too.
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(4137)
1. I am so stressed out.
2. I am really, really busy.
3. I am sure I’m right.
The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation for this inspirational opportunity
Jonathots Daily Blog
(4136)
art by smarrttie pants
The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation for this inspirational opportunity
Jonathots Daily Blog
(4135)
We are overjoyed to announce the initiation of our weekly segment on Jonathots Daily Blog, entitled Not Long Tales. Each and every Tuesday, we’ll be offering you a short story for your enjoyment.
Loneliness is a confinement requiring solitude, a commitment without companion.
It had been one year since Mrs. Windermoot had lost her beloved husband of forty-three years, Baris. Even though she had two grown sons who loved her, she found herself very lonely, like a bride left behind on the dock of the honeymoon cruise.
Her sons, Benett and Burgess, were responsive and certainly concerned for her health, but fell short of touching the tender spots of her well-being.
She was alone, which left her lonely. She’d never anticipated being quite so submerged in the sense of absence, but since she had moved into the much smaller two-bedroom townhouse just west of the city, she was constantly battling the pangs of self-pity and the ache of separation.
She did not know any of her neighbors. Several of them had made a visit—but they were all so much younger—and though they promised to return, none did.
Mrs. Windermoot tried to plan activities for herself—making a special dinner, watching a movie. She even scheduled a weekly tea, where she set out all the fixings, including a dozen of her famous chocolate chip cookies. Although it was somewhat entertaining, in no time at all, she was just an old woman sitting in a room nibbling treats.
She never reached the point of desperation—that being sharing her complaint with others. Most of the time she sat very still in her home, wondering whether it was too soon to have another nap.
One day she noticed that a city bus stopped right in front of her house. She had never paid any attention before, but on this particular morning, maybe the sun was shining just right, or she just happened to look out at the correct moment.
But there it was—big as life. 9:31 A. M. It was back again the next day, and faithfully returned the third morning.
So Mrs. Windermoot made a plan. On the fourth morning when the bus appeared, she would get on the bus, and ride as far as it went through the town, and at least have the ability to see other scenery—and maybe even converse with new people.
She dressed for the occasion—one of her best Sunday frocks, and made two dozen chocolate chip cookies, which she tucked away in her purse. She eased her way out the door at 9:15 so as not to miss the arrival and was standing there patiently when the bus pulled up. Not familiar with the route or process, she carefully climbed on as the driver impatiently waited for her to place her money in the slot, allowing her the privilege of being toted about.
She was smart enough to know to bring exact change, but her fingers were not very fast, and finally the bus driver, heaving a huge sigh, took the coins from her hand and completed the job.
Once legally paid for, she inched her way back four rows and sat down. There were only two other people on the bus, and she was nowhere near them, and felt foolish to be on a journey with no apparent purpose.
After a couple of stops, with additional people arriving, she felt better. When someone sat in the seat next to her, she finally worked up the courage to greet the stranger. Her words were met with a bit of kindness, so she offered the young man (obviously on his way to work, because of the uniform he was wearing) … well, she offered him a chocolate chip cookie. He was so grateful, explaining that he hadn’t eaten breakfast, and usually didn’t take the time for it.
At the next stop, while people were getting on, the bus driver walked back to Mrs. Windermoot. He seemed huge. His nametag read, “Mickey.” He leaned down to Mrs. Windermoot and whispered, “Listen, lady. I can’t have you giving out food on the bus. I don’t know where it came from. You may be a nice lady and all—you certainly seem alright—but I could get in a helluva lot of trouble if you were poisoning people.”
When Mrs. Windermoot heard the word “poison,” she flinched—a reflex. The whole idea of her being a sinister murderer seemed absolutely ludicrous, if not offensive. The young man who was still chomping on his cookie interrupted. “Listen, they taste great. You should try one.”
Before Mickey could consider the idea, Mrs. Windermoot was holding one to his nose. Beautiful chocolate chip cookie.
Maybe it was a desire to salve the old girl’s ego, or maybe it was Mickey taking responsibility—taste testing to ensure there was no danger. Or maybe Mickey had missed a breakfast, too. But he grabbed the cookie and chomped away. His expression changed from austere to delight.
Realizing that the bus driver was now eating chocolate chip cookies, which seemed to be coming from the frail lady sitting in the seat, three or four people made their way up the aisle to receive a treat of their own. Everybody was grateful, and the bus driver (still maintaining a bit of his authority) told Mrs. Windermoot that if she brought them again, to “make sure he could check them out before they got passed around.”
Thus began a ritual. Four times a week—Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday—the lonely woman climbed on the bus with her chocolate chip cookies and rode around town, sharing treats and meeting new folks, turning Bus #572 into a friendly wagon of confection.
Once Mrs. Windermoot realized the chocolate chip cookies were a hit, she brought some little finger sandwiches, Rice Krispies treats—well, almost anything that came to her mind that she could make quickly for at least fifty people. Yes—it didn’t take long for the sweet old woman to gain a congregation of fifty admirers for all of her offerings.
A week passed. Two weeks. A month. Two months. Gradually, Mrs. Windermoot learned the story of Mickey, what the young man she originally met was hoping for his future, and the life stories of a dozen or more fellow travelers. It actually seemed that the bus was beginning to grow in attendance, if such a thing were possible. And everyone always seemed to be in a better mood once they boarded Bus #572 and headed off to pursue their responsibilities.
Then one morning, Mickey pulled the bus in front of her house and Mrs. Windermoot was not there. It was Wednesday. Mickey knew it was the right day. He was concerned, as were four or five other people, who stared out their windows, desperate to see the old lady emerge with her kindness and generosity.
But she was nowhere in sight.
Mickey was on a schedule, but his curiosity overwhelmed him. Where was she? Then his imagination went wild. Why wouldn’t she be out there? Was she alright? Did the old lady die?
It was right after this last question crossed his mind that Mickey decided to climb off the bus and go knock on her door. He did not notice that three or four other people joined him, apparently feeling a similar concern. Mickey knocked, and he knocked again. He peered in the window. There was no movement.
He reached over, tried the doorknob, and it opened. How foolish of the old lady not to lock her door, he thought.
But motioning to those who had trailed behind to “stay back!” he stepped into the house to investigate. Human nature being what it is, of course nobody listened to him, and they followed him through the door like a little train of detectives.
Inside there was an eerie silence. No sound.
There was one light on in the house, which appeared to be coming from the kitchen. Mickey inched toward the light, listening carefully for any movement. He was frightened—afraid of what he might find. He turned to those following, holding a finger to his lips, demanding that they remain quiet. He walked slowly to the opening of the kitchen, and as he rounded the corner he looked. There she was. It was Mrs. Windermoot.
She was sitting in a chair, peeling eggs.
She turned around, surprised to see Mickey in her home, and gasped. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
A good question. He didn’t know how to explain that he was expecting to find a body, not an egg peeler. “When you weren’t out there for the bus, I got scared, so I decided to check on you.”
Mrs. Windermoot glanced over at the clock that sat on the stove. “Well, you’re two hours early,” she explained.
Mickey looked at the same clock. It read 7:40. Leaning down and peering at it, he reported, “Ma’am, for some reason, the clock stopped. It’s 9:37,” he said, looking at his watch.
Mrs. Windermoot turned red with embarrassment. She looked behind Mickey and saw that there were six other people in the house, staring at her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I thought I was ahead of my time! You see, I got up this morning deciding to boil eggs to make egg salad for our trip today. I wasn’t sure whether to hard boil them or soft boil them, so I decided to go in-between. But when I got to the in-between time, I thought how terrible it would be if they were runny, so I boiled them again.”
There was a pause, then everyone laughed.
Mrs. Windermoot was not certain why she was so hilarious, but she appreciated the affirmation. Mickey patted her on the shoulder and asked, “How long would it take you to finish your project?”
Mrs. Windermoot crinkled her brow, thinking intensely, as if pondering the national debt. “I should be ready in twenty minutes,” she said.
Mickey looked back at the passengers in the room, cleared his throat and said, “Well, I’ll tell you what. I shouldn’t do this, but there’s no reason why I can’t make four or five more stops, and then come back around on Johnson Street and pick you up—as long as NO ONE TELLS ON ME.” He raised his voice at the end.
Everybody nodded their heads in agreement. Mrs. Windermoot looked up at Mickey and said, “I’m sorry to have been so much trouble.”
Mickey patted her on the shoulder. “You’re no trouble at all. Matter of fact, a lot of trouble has left since you came along.”
Mickey corralled all the souls and they headed out the door. As they streamed back to the bus, Mickey realized he was taking a big chance by changing the schedule. What if someone noticed? What if there was a new customer who complained to the company about the delay? What if this was one of those weeks when there was a spy on the bus, evaluating his ability and performance?
As he reached the steps to climb into the bus, he scratched his head. He glanced back at the house, wondering if he should run and tell the old lady that he had changed his mind. Then…
Mickey shook his head and chuckled. “What the hell,” he said to himself. “No one’s gonna care. And I sure do love a good egg salad sandwich.”
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Please don’t forget this.
In the midst of all the insanity, there is a tendency to talk until we cheapen ourselves, and debate to debunk the ignorant.
Although it may be dramatic to crinkle one’s face and produce crocodile tears about the tragedies of shootings and the general unrest in our communities, we achieve nothing through our furor of discourse.
Then we start using our words to slur others.
I am sure many Americans would consider it insulting to allow good cheer, wit, cleverness, optimism and mirth to rule the day.
Yes, mirth. There’s a word we don’t use much anymore—probably because it means amusement that brings laughter. What could possibly be uplifting or comedic about the horror of El Paso and the victims of Dayton?
Nothing.
But we can keep our sense of humor by realizing that this is a nation of 350 million people, who have been told they have the right to do too much and have been slammed together from cultures all over the world, in a climate of permissiveness. We might ready ourselves for some conflict.
For to compare our country to other nations is a farce. No other group of people must tolerate such diversity—and do it promising to initiate “peace on Earth, goodwill toward man.”
We need the common beer of humor to sooth us and give us a reason for chatting again instead of yelling.
The whiskey of politics, religion, corporations and ego will do nothing but make us completely oblivious to anything but our own ideas.
I find humor—not jokes and laugh-out-loud sketches, but instead, poking fun at ridiculous ideas instead of pretending they have merit. For instance, attempts to get rid of guns, or stances to protect them, are equally comical. Joining in “the blame game” and pointing fingers like little children only proves what babies we are.
We need humor.
So here’s to mirth. May we not only learn its meaning but begin to utilize its power.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4133)
Sitting Thirty-Two
Sergeant Minioz lay on his bunk, confined to his barracks, awaiting the outcome of the charges levied against him: absent without leave and dereliction of duty.
Plenty of time to think.
The first realization was that if he had used the time two weeks earlier to be just a little more reflective, he might not be sequestered, trying to figure out if the stink was coming from the room or from him.
Fresh in his mind was the questioning he endured from his major, a petty young officer with a jaw of granite and the disposition of a camel (if it had hemorrhoids.)
He remembered it well.
“What is your rank?” barked the major.
That one was easy. The stripes on Minioz’s shoulder told it all.
“Serial number,” came the next demand.
The sergeant had that one memorized. He also got the right platoon, company, commander and the days of the week complete and accurate.
Then the questions got tougher. The major drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, as he queried, “Have you now, or have you ever lost any military issue?”
Now there was the heart of the matter. Minioz paused for a second and decided it best for his cause to focus on the word “lost”—because certainly, he had never “lost” anything. After all, having something snatched by a little brat was not having it “lost,” right?
Minnioz spat out as quickly as possible so as not to appear tentative. “No, sir, I have never lost any military issue.”
The major spit right back. “Are you presently in possession of your entire weapon stockpile?”
Once again, the sergeant breathed a sigh of relief, thankful for the words “presently” and “in possession.” For Minioz had rectified his lack of a hand grenade by purchasing one at an Army surplus store in the city. It did not work—disarmed—and he hoped he would never have to demonstrate its purpose and power. But still, it hung impressively from his belt.
So the answer was simple. Yes, presently he was in possession of all of his military weapons. Of course, he did not volunteer the considerable span of time he was absent some hardware, which he had tracked down in the desert to two little punks who had outsmarted him and nearly killed them all.
The delay between questions was maddening. A bead of sweat broke on Minioz’s brow. He tried to stop the dribble but after all—how does one do that?
And then, the next challenge: “If you are in possession of all of your weapons, why was a report filed that you were attempting to retrieve a hand grenade which you alleged had been stolen from you?”
The brain of Sergeant Minioz exploded like a volcano. Report filed? Whom had he told? Who knew? Who had the evidence to derail him if he lied?
Of course, it’s very difficult to contemplate the correct answer without appearing evasive, so as quickly as possible, the sergeant retorted, “I know of no report, and know of no alleged charge and know of no one who would make such a claim.”
Minioz managed to stop himself before incoherency took over his reply. The fussy major stared at him but said nothing. Had he gotten by with it? Was his answer so twisted that the major was afraid to disassemble it?
But apparently, it was not enough. Obviously, the major knew more than Minioz thought he knew. Now it seemed that his superior officer was just stalling to watch him squirm.
The sergeant chose silence, limited his squirming and suffered through what was now a stream of perspiration.
After a long pause of scrutiny, the major spoke again. “So that is your answer?” he thundered.
Minioz widened his eyeballs to try to keep away some tears of fear. “Entirely, for now,” he piped back.
The major didn’t miss a beat. “So why were you absent from your post without leave?”
Minioz was not prepared to answer, but grateful to get away from the subject of the hand grenade. He cleared his throat and spoke slowly to the major. “Personal problems forbade me, sir, from arriving at camp at the designated time. Poor judgment prevented me from reporting my status, and utter stupidity kept me away a little longer out of fear of punishment.”
Sudden silence. The sergeant muted a smile. It was quite an answer, threatening truth. Matter of fact, in the history of all military justice, it might have been the best response ever offered.
The major nodded. The answer had even impressed Old Sour Britches. “One final question,” he posed. “Is there any truth to the rumor that a hand grenade is loose and available among the citizenry, which found its point of origin in our camp?”
“Sir,” said Minioz, “I do not know the whereabouts of every hand grenade in this camp. I do not want to be so presumptuous as to suggest that such an absence is not possible. All I know is that my hand grenade is hanging from my belt, and ready for further orders.”
Minnioz felt horrible. He knew he had lied. It wasn’t a big whopper, but certainly, a stinky fish laying on the dock.
But he thought to himself, “Is it really a lie, when the alternative is so dastardly and detrimental to all parties involved? Sometimes the truth is just a sword ready to behead everyone in the room.”
Sergeant Minioz was busy trying to make sense of his own failure. Whatever the answer, he was going to stick to his story. He chuckled to himself. After all, he had just purchased one dud to replace the dud the government had issued him.
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A voice writing in the wilderness
