Jonathots Daily Blog
(4084)
A. Though demonic, the children can not be killed off like zombies.
B. An empty toilet paper roll is not grounds for murder.
C. Picky eaters don’t really ever pick.
D. Lack of hot water removes your shower of blessings.
E. Family never tip for services rendered but will gladly offer a poor review.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(4077)
A. Don’t eat your children.
Cannibalism destroys their self-awareness.
B. Do wear pants to the dinner table.
The kids should enjoy their chicken instead of viewing your bird.
C. Don’t murder their mother.
She smells better.
D. Do pay the bills.
The little ones find it difficult to shower with Coca-Cola.
E. Don’t make fun of the shape of their head.
Maybe they will grow into it.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3952)
It took Iz and Pal a good solid two minutes to figure out where they were when they woke up in the desert, and another good five minutes to negotiate what direction to roll, to untangle themselves from their cocoon.
It was already hot.
Sweat was beading all over their bodies, and after two days absence from bathing, odor was aplenty. After all, when stink is near, grumpy will appear.
“You roll this way and I’ll stay still.” Iz was already sporting some attitude.
Pal objected. “I don’t know what you mean by ‘this way,’ because you have no hands to show me. They’re stuck in the tent.”
Iz heaved a deep sigh. “Look at the direction my head is nodding.”
“Would that be roll towards your nod, or opposite your nod?” replied Pal with a bit of whine.
Iz was done giving direction. He began a series of frantic twists, turns, shimmies and shakes, until the tent ripped, and he slithered his way to the safety of freedom.
Pal was angry. “Now look what you’ve done. You ripped it. What good is a ripped tent?”
“What good are two guys trapped in a tent?” Iz said, standing to his feet.
Pal wiggled two or three times and stood up as well. “You stink,” he stated.
Iz rolled his eyes. “That’s good,” he said. “It was difficult to believe you were producing all the odor.”
They jumped at each other and commenced to wrestling, at first with a bit of anger, and then, as the heat took over, with more pure silliness. They finally fell to the side in choked laughter. Pal was gasping for air.
“Oh, yes, this is really smart,” he said. “When you stink, don’t have any water, it’s always good to wrestle, get sweaty and thirsty.”
“I have a little water left,” said Iz coyly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” shouted Pal. “Where is it?”
“I wasn’t holding out,” said Iz defensively. “I just didn’t know how to divide it. I don’t know when we’ll get water again.”
A quiet fell over the boys. How could they continue their adventure without food and water? Yet how could they ever go home without looking weak and stupid?
Iz considered. “Maybe your parents will bring some water.”
Pal shook his head. “It’s just my father. And as I told you, my father will never come here.”
“I really don’t want to die,” said Iz with a whimper.
Pal patted him on the shoulder. “Let’s just make a plan for the water.”
What followed was a rather in-depth discussion on the difference between a sip and a gulp. After finally overcoming the semantics, Iz and Pal determined that they had fourteen sips and eight gulps left—perhaps enough for the day, if they stopped wrestling and were not trapped in any more tents.
They tossed the ball back and forth and just talked as the hours passed. They saw no one. Perhaps no one saw them—unless lizards counted.
The day wore on and hunger pangs set in, with aggravation not far behind. Still, they focused on talking, living, loving and matters that concerned them as young boys.
But after a particularly long moment of silence, Iz presented a new topic. “Mine’s different,” he stated slowly.
“Your what?” asked Pal.
“It’s because I’m Jewish,” explained Iz.
“I know you’re Jewish,” said Pal. “But your what?”
“Think about it,” said Iz, lifting his eyebrows.
So Pal did. It took a moment or two, but he finally came up with the answer. “You mean circumcision,” he said proudly.
“So you know about that?” Iz was a bit surprised.
“Yes,” said Pal. “I guess that’s one of those many things that our religions fight about.”
Iz frowned. “Why do they make such a big deal about that?”
“Why do you think God wants you to do it?” Pal challenged.
“Why do you think God doesn’t want you to?” countered Iz.
“Geez,” said Pal. “I feel stupid even talking about this. Grown-ups make such a big deal about us not touching it or talking about it, or even naming it, and then they end up making it one of the big parts of religion. Which is it, Iz? Is it dirty, or is it holy?”
“I know what you mean,” said Iz. “I remember, in my house, I didn’t know what to call it. You know…what we’re talking about. Like, when I was talking to my Pada, how should I refer to that thing? So I decided to come up with a name, and he got really, really mad at me because I said the name out loud.”
“What was the name?” Pal asked with vigor.
“Oh, it was stupid,” Iz replied shyly.
“Even better,” said Pal. “What was the name?”
“I once found a pet snake,” said Iz. “And before Pada made me get rid of it, I named the snake Ulios.”
Pal frowned. “Ulios? What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” said Iz.
“Exactly,” agreed Pal.
Iz continued. “So once, in front of Pada, I made mention to him of my ‘Ulios’…”
Pal paused, letting the idea sink into his brain, and then burst into laughter. “My father was so nervous,” he said, “I mean, about discussing it with me, that we finally decided to refer to it as my ‘man-dilly.’”
Iz laughed uncontrollably. Gaining some breath, he cited, “It’s all so stupid. They tell us that what we feel and believe is the most important thing, and then they make such a fuss about… Well, you know. Ulios and man-dilly.”
Pal became serious. “Maybe that’s why things are messed up. If grown men are so nervous about such a simple thing, how do they ever expect to understand more important things?”
Iz took a quick sip of water. “I don’t care what you call it. I don’t care what it looks like. I don’t care if it’s circumcised. I would trade it all in right now for a big, cold frosty bottle of Coca-Cola.”
The boys nodded in holy agreement. Then they sat in silence, a bit uncomfortable over their discussion, but also wiser from what they learned.
The heat pressed down as the time passed. There was a great temptation to change sips into gulps, but amazing restraint was maintained. They breathed deeply, looking at the surrounding desert.
Never would they ever have such experiences again.
Never would friendship be so precious.
Never would it ever be so hot.
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Jonathots Daily Blog
(3117)
Little Hector McDougal was just fifteen days old when his mama and papa, Jessie and Marty, brought him to the Garsonville Church for an official baptism. The parents were so grateful for little Hector that they could not wait to see him sanctified in all the right spots.
Yet there was some sadness mingled in with their joy. Although Hector was born with all of his digits in place, immediately after his arrival he developed a severe bacterial infection in both of his ears, which left him deaf. No one was sure if it would be permanent, but the hospital certainly wasn’t prepared to offer much hope.
So even though Jessie and Marty had a baby, they had resigned themselves to the fact that he would never be able to hear the praises they so wished to heap upon his ears.
Now, Reverend Meningsbee was not very experienced at baptisms, so he had reviewed the liturgy and pageantry feverishly. He even bought himself a bright-colored tie with Mickey and Minnie Mouse on it, having read somewhere that children were nearly hypnotized by the bright colors.
So you can imagine how surprised the pastor was when he dipped his fingers in the water, placed it on the baby’s head, and the child began to scream and holler like a wounded animal. Everybody immediately turned and stared at the preacher, wondering if he had somehow pinched, shocked, poked, stabbed or wounded the hapless repenter.
Meningsbee just stepped back in horror.
The baby continued to scream with hellish decibels–so much so that Mama felt it necessary to hurriedly leave the sanctuary to tend to her little one. Daddy trailed behind, holding a blanket in one hand and a pacifier in the other.
This left Meningsbee standing there in his Looney Tunes tie, sheepishly looking at the congregation, feeling like he had hexed the young fella.
The screaming continued.
Attempting to be clever, Meningsbee suggested that the gathered sing “Brahms’ Lullaby,” only to realize that nobody knew the words. A nervous, tenuous, but meaningful humming ensued. It did not calm the raging storm which had burst across the brow of Hector McDougal.
As a precaution, a decision was made to rush the little one to the hospital to see if the medical field could somehow remove the screaming curse.
Needless to say, the morning’s worship service was shortened–and considerably less appreciated by the folks who had hoped that their minister would be much more successful on his christening journey.
Stranger still, four hours later the phone rang at Meningsbee’s house and Jessie McDougal, with motherly tears, explained that the little boy had been squalling because he could hear. Apparently it was quite a surprise to him, and set off the onslaught of his throat alarm.
Yes–after testing Hector, the doctors found there was a healing, and he was now able to hear just as well as any other fifteen-day-old infant.
The news spread quickly.
It became known as “the miracle baptism.” Matter of fact, three days later at the Wednesday night “Stay and Pray” service, many of the congregational members contended it was God speaking to the church–to become an international center of healing. They suggested that the whole outreach of the Garsonville Church should be using the sacraments of baptism and communion as vehicles for God to intervene–healing the sick and maybe even raising the dead.
After all, they explained, Meningsbee wanted it to be a Jesus church–and what could be more like Jesus than a “hallelujah healing?”
Meningsbee did not know what to say. He was not sure how they came up with such a conclusion based on Hector’s experience, but he also did not want to dampen their hopes and dreams.
“Folks, it could be that what happened to Hector was meant for Hector and Hector alone. Just his personal piece of God.”
Everyone was baffled at Meningsbee’s ignorance. Certainly God would not give his grace to one poor little boy, and not intend it to be offered to the masses.
Meningsbee persisted.
“I’m just saying, maybe it’s not like Coca-Cola, to be bottled up and served over the counter to anyone with a dollar-fifty who needs a magical elixir…”
No one was listening. Meningsbee was not shouted down. It was worse. He was ignored.
Complicating matters, a news organization–one of them with all the letters in its name–called and wanted to come and do an interview with the church folk, pastor, mayor, city elders and even teenagers, to discuss the strange and bizarre happenings in Garsonville, Nebraska. You see, they deemed that with all the church splits, a suicide, drug overdose and now deaf ears being opened, it was quite a feature story, and the news division felt they could market it pretty well to their listening audience.
Reverend Meningsbee was against it. But the church council saw it as a wonderful chance to share the faith and vision, and show people on the West and East Coast that God truly did favor the prairie.
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