1 Thing You Can Do This Week to Improve Your Chances

Stop Complaining

I know you’ve heard this many times—even by this simple writer.

But I would like you to consider it as a personal life choice and a means of procuring survival.

Complaining takes a very ugly route—a four-step decline into stinky doo-doo.

  1. Life sucks.
  2. You suck.
  3. God sucks.
  4. I suck because I’m stuck.

As you can see, with each new step, deeper and deeper depression sets in, until finally the complete sense of doom makes us feel we’re at the mercy of all circumstance.

Now, simply telling someone not to complain is like encouraging a friend on a diet not to eat too much. It often increases the temptation, and therefore sinks the ship of possibility.

I’m not trying to get you to stop complaining cold turkey.

I’m telling you to back your way out of it.

When you start thinking “you suck because you’re stuck,” just change the complaint to a statement—a simple one:

“This is the crux of what is really bothering me.”

You will be surprised, if you chase the bird to the tree, how much easier it is to see it.

So once you’ve made the statement—and it does not have to be happy or friendly—then change that statement to a memory.

In other words:

“Maybe God doesn’t suck. Maybe there was a time I was in just as bad a state as I am now and survived it. When did that happen? Do I have a memory of being victorious in any situation that was as horrible as this?”

If you can come up with a statement of what’s bothering you, deciding that you no longer suck, and then spark a memory of when you overcame, then therefore God doesn’t suck—and you might be able to change that memory to sharing.

Find one person among all those people that you think suck and tell him or her about your predicament.

Share about your complaint, how you found out what was at the heart of it, and how you came up with a memory of something you pursued before which succeeded—hence, “you’re not a little weenie.”

Yes, take the memory of being redeemed and share your hope.

So change your statement of dissatisfaction into a memory of overcoming your dilemma, and present that memory to another human being.

After this, you just might be ready to change your sharing into planning.

Said plainly:

“It turns out that life doesn’t suck. It just picks on people who expect everything to come their way.”

So you find yourself complaining: “Life sucks, you suck, God sucks and I suck.”

Here’s the counter:

  • Change that complaining to a statement
  • Statement to memory
  • Memory to sharing
  • And sharing to launching a great plan.

Complaining.

Best suggestion? Back off.

That’s often really good advice.

And not just for when you’re out chasing a serial killer with a squirt gun.

 

Not Long Tales … January 14th, 2020

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4489)

23.

Gerzie and Roach Boy

(Warning: Adult Stuff

No Children or Mosquitos)

by Jonathan Richard Cring

Gerzie sat quietly in her room. She was surrounded by two hundred and forty-eight square feet of monotony.

Three months earlier, she had moved to New York from Eugene, Oregon, to pursue a career in theater. She was shocked to discover that not only were living spaces limited but priced at a rate that deserved a giggle—as if the real estate agent was kidding.

It was all catching up with her.

The lack of space. The dismal surroundings. The repetition of food.

Matter of fact, the only unique thing she had come up with to eat was adding vegetables she found discarded in the trash can from the People’s Market to her ramen noodles. She didn’t do that very often—but whenever she did, she referred to it as her “healthy night.”

The cattle calls for the plays would not be nearly as depressing if she didn’t have to come back to such a tiny space and eat from a dumpster like a racoon.

She was trying to learn.

Growing up in Oregon, she had no comprehension whatsoever what it was like to live in an international city like New York. She was born Geraldine Collier Shemansky. She’d always hated the name Geraldine, so when she was in the fifth grade and did a book report on cows and mentioned the Jersey variety, her friends started calling her by that name—Jersey. This delighted her and eventually evolved into Gerzie.

However, it was impossible to think she would become famous with a name like Gerzie Shemansky. So she changed her last name to Stills.

Gerzie Stills.

It wasn’t great, but it was better.

Matter of fact, that’s the way she felt all the time. Nothing was great, but it was better than sitting around Eugene, Oregon, waiting for some boy to decide to pick her to impregnate.

This week had been particularly depressing.

She was up for a part in an off-Broadway play which offered little to no finance but was going to be performed at a theater the stars often frequented out of curiosity.

The play was about Abraham Lincoln—but not from 1865. More or less the story of what would happen if Abe Lincoln was born today. She wanted the role of Mary Todd, his wife, who ends up stripping because Abe keeps flunking the bar exam.

Gerzie was down to final call—just her and another girl. She lost the part because the other girl was sleeping with the assistant director. (At least, that’s what Gerzie believed. She saw them necking behind the building, and the next thing she knew she was back out on the street with the other cattle, waiting for the call.)

All at once there was a scratching sound. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even persistent. It happened just once and then stopped. It was like someone took a set of car keys and ran it across a kitchen counter.

Even though the interruption did not continue, Gerzie was spooked. She was pretty sure it had come from her bathroom (which, by the way, her landlord referred to as a latrine).

Gerzie had to make a decision. She hated decisions. After all, she had decided to come to New York. How could she be trusted?

Unnerved but unwilling to sit without knowing what was going on, she slowly rose to her feet and inched the three steps to her bathroom. She peeked around the corner and jumped back, screaming.

Sitting in her miniature tub was a young man—one of the small varieties—with mounds of curly hair threatening to bush. He was dressed all in black, and peered at her sheepishly, seemingly terrified that he had been discovered.

Gerzie turned to grab her phone and call the police, then realized she had left her cell at the coffee shop down the street. (Another chore she needed to take care of today.)

She glanced at the window, wondering if she could raise it and scream for help. But she had heard such screams in the middle of the night, and not given them a second thought.

“What in the fuck are you doing in my room?” she asked loudly and slowly, emphasizing each word.

The young man—probably in his mid-twenties—replied with widened eyes, “I was investigating.”

Having no idea what he meant by that, Gerzie grabbed a hanger lying on the sink and hit him on the shoulder. He grabbed his arm, moaning. “Why’d you do that?” he asked.

Gerzie heaved a huge sigh. “Because you’re in my bathroom and I don’t know who you are. How’d you get here?”

She glanced over at the front door. Still shut.

All at once the man leaned up on his knees in the bathtub, excited. “You see, I crawled through the wall space that runs through this whole building, and I ended up here—at your vent.”

He pointed behind him. “I pushed ever so slightly on it, and it opened up and lifted out. So I just…” He paused. “I just came in.”

As the fellow talked, Gerzie felt that he was not volatile, and maybe not dangerous, so she put down her weapon—her hanger of choice—and said flatly, “Okay. Well, now you need to leave. You may use my front door.”

He held up one finger. “Before I go,” he said, “would you mind if I explain to you why I am investigating behind this wall space, and why I ended up here with you today?”

Gerzie was unnerved. His soft manner was unnatural. She was accustomed to young men his age being aggressive, silly and overbearing. A soft-spoken gent was not really human.

She shook her head, but he continued. “My name is Richard,” he began slowly. “I am a Huco.”

Gerzie frowned. Noticing her confusion, he elaborated. “I will tell you what a Huco is in a second, but first I want you to understand that I’m not crazy—just inventive. I’m not mentally ill—just mentally expanded. Do you know what I mean?”

Gerzie shook her head again and replied, “Those all sound like the things a crazy person would say to prove they’re not nuts.”

“I don’t want to go into all of my story,” Richard cited, ignoring her comment. “It would be rude to take up so much of your time. But let me just say that I am part of a very important experiment that was begun by my mother, Maxillena, who, for twenty-five years has been a belly dancer down at the Arabian restaurant—the Middle Feast.”

Gerzie almost smiled. It was the first thing she had understood. “I know that place,” she commented. “I’ve eaten there a couple of times. They have a soup night or something—where you can eat for two dollars.”

“Tuesday nights,” said the young man. “What’s your favorite?”

Gerzie shook her head. “I’m not going to have a conversation with you about soup.”

Persistent, the young man continued. “As I said, my name is Richard, and even though I may appear to you to be part of the species Homo sapiens, just like yourself, I am actually a mixed breed.”

Gerzie was worried again. The soft, easy tone of his voice could quickly change to a maddening roar as he reached up to slit her throat. “Listen,” she said, “I know you probably have an interesting story. Maybe you should write it down. Slip it under the door. I’ll read it. I’ll even edit it. I’m in theater, you know.”

“If you’ll let me continue for just five minutes,” Richard said, ignoring her, “I need someone to talk to. I grow weary of discussing my future with only my mother—and when she returns from work, she’s so exhausted… And besides, I’m really uncomfortable watching her dance at the restaurant.”

“I was born unusual,” he said.

“And remain so,” poked Gerzie.

Richard smiled. Good. Maybe she could talk him down from his ledge.

He continued. “My mother was of the belief that she wanted to have a child who was indestructible and would live—well, if not immortal, a lot longer than other humans do.”

“Isn’t that what every mother hopes?” said Gerzie.

Richard ignored her. “Here’s the heart of it. And I ask you to give a chance to get all the details before you reject.” His face darkened. “I hate it when people reject! How would they feel if I rejected them?”

His tone became increasingly hostile with each statement. Gerzie held out a hand. “Relax. No one’s gonna reject you. Have I kicked you out of my bathroom yet? No. So be cool.”

Richard sucked in a deep breath and replied dramatically, “Thank you. You are one of the good ones.”

He looked around the room. “Did you know,” he said, “that cockroaches have been on Earth for two hundred and fifty million years?”

Spooked, Gerzie also glanced about the room, wondering if some of Richard’s brothers and sisters were listening.

He asked, “Did you know a cockroach can live for three days without a head? It actually dies of thirst.”

Gerzie was speechless.

“And did you know,” Richard went on, “that cockroaches can survive under water for thirty minutes?”

Gerzie carefully reached over and patted him on the shoulder. “Richard,” she said, “why are we talking about cockroaches?”

He straightened his shoulders, lifted his head and proudly declared, “Because I am one. At least half of me is.”

Gerzie looked at the window again. Even if she couldn’t yell out it, maybe she could crawl out of it.

“There!” Richard punctuated. “I said it. You see, many years ago, my mother wanted that child of promise and power. Having studied the cockroach for herself, she decided to mingle human semen with cockroach semen, and then shoot it into her body with a turkey baster.”

Gerzie was devoid of both thought and words. But for some reason, Richard decided to pause, waiting for her to reply.

Finally, Gerzie said, “Industrious…”

Pleased, Richard continued. “She wanted to find a scientist, a genius, a musical star to provide the seed for the human part, but none were available. So for the human sperm, she had sex with Mickey, who played at the piano bar. He was very talented and wrote songs. And not really knowing how to extract the semen from a cockroach, my mother advertised on Craig’s List, requesting a sample of cockroach semen. Strangely enough, she immediately got eight calls. It cost her three hundred and twenty dollars, but she got the stuff necessary to mix together semen from the cockroach and the piano man. She put it in the turkey baster, inserted—and squirted.”

Gerzie began to imagine what condition her body would be in when the police found it. She hoped she would still be clothed. It would be very embarrassing to have strange, New York cops staring at her tits and her v-space.

Fortunately, Richard seemed comforted by telling his story, so she decided it would be best to listen—careful not to appear cynical.

“It took three times,” he said gently, “but on the third time, it worked. She was pregnant with me. She was going to have the world’s first Huco—a human and a cockroach.”

Gerzie silently weighed her choices. She didn’t want to die—but she couldn’t stand for this fellow to be so ignorant. “Richard,” she said sweetly.

He interrupted. “Most people call me Roach Boy.”

“Would it be alright if I stayed with Richard?” she returned.

He nodded.

“Richard,” Gerzie purred, “I need to tell you something. Interspecies mating is not possible, even if by some reason you were able to get your hands on cockroach semen.”

Richard frowned. “But I am a cockroach.”

Gerzie nodded her head, and then asked, “How do you know you’re a cockroach?”

Richard pulled up the legs of his pants. “I’m very, very, very hairy,” he offered, showing her his limbs. “My arms are very long, and I have a strong inclination to crawl into small spaces. And…Oh, oh!” he stuttered. “Also—people scare me when they come into the room.”

Gerzie began to speak but Richard interrupted. “And did I mention? I will eat anything.”

Gerzie changed the subject. “So,” she said, “Roach Boy, is there a reason you crawled into my life today?”

“I’ve been watching you,” he replied.

“I was afraid of that,” moaned Gerzie.

“No, I have been,” said Richard, the Roach Boy. “And I wanted to give you the honor of being the mother of the second generation Huco.”

Gerzie squinted. “What is it you’re suggesting?”

Richard became very excited. “We need to continue to improve. Evolve!”

Gerzie held up her hands to stop him. “Richard, suddenly the word ‘we’ has come into the conversation. Roach Boy, there is no we. Just you, your mother and your hairy legs.”

Richard was undeterred. “I was just wondering if you would like to mate with me, and together we could make a more human example than I am, but still possess the attributes of the Huco inside my double-helix,” he proffered.

Gerzie was tired of it. “Listen,” she said wearily. “I’m very happy for your double helix. It’s always good to have a second one, just in case. But I’m not going to mate with anyone. I’m an actor. It’s difficult enough for me to mate with enough money to pay my bills. I don’t want to be the Mama of a Huco. I know that sounds strange to you. You think you’re offering the chance of a lifetime. But honestly, it’s a chance I will never take in my entire lifetime.”

Richard sat for a moment in the bathtub. He was disappointed. He breathed deeply, gathering strength. “Would you at least like to meet my mother?”

“No,” said Gerzie. “Bellies have always scared me. Even if they’re dancing.”

He followed up. “Would you like to go out to dinner at the Middle Feast with me?”

“No,” said Gerzie, “I think, Richard, that this is going to be just a single affair.”

Richard nodded his head, leaned forward and gave her a hug. Gerzie couldn’t help but think that it felt very much like a cockroach.

He climbed out of the tub, waddled the four steps to the front door and then spoke dramatically, as if offering a proclamation:

“One day, my dear, Hucos will rule the world for the next two hundred million years. I hope you won’t be sad because you were left out.”

Maneuvering toward the door, Gerzie replied, “I don’t think so—because I’ll be dead.”

Richard stuck his head out the door, looking right and left, and then gradually exited, first with his shoulders, then the trunk of his body, his waist and finally bringing out his legs. He scurried down the hallway, certainly resembling his filthy vermin kin.

Gerzie quickly shut the door.

An unbelievable experience. She wondered if he would return. But part of her knew that he would have to be out and about, seeking his mate.

She sat down to continue her musings when it occurred to her, “This would make a great movie. Or a play. I mean, what happened here might be very entertaining if you didn’t have to live through it yourself.”

She could even use her own name. Just think: Gerzie and Roach Boy.

It would draw people like flies. She laughed at her own cleverness.

She absolutely needed to write up a treatment—something she could pitch. Maybe she could play the part of the girl.

Yet…

She would certainly have to lose some weight, get a collagen injection in her lips, and practice the accent.

Not Long Tales … October 22nd, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4205)

11.

Tuesday’s Toodle

After thirty-five years of “workin’ on the railroad all the livelong day,” Gerald McCallister retired to a tiny, two-bedroom home with purple shutters, a mile-and-a-half outside the little village of Coreyville, Georgia. He was a single man with no children and no relatives who seemed to recall the “tie that binds.”

After months of going through the desperation of trying to find a purpose for his life, he was nearly on his last breath of despair. It was especially difficult late at night, when he found himself tumbling into the deep-dark caverns of depression, dwelling with deep consideration on his demise, even the taking of his own life. In those agonizing junctures of dismay, it seemed logical to leave instead of continuing the absurdity of repetition.

But each morning the sunlight offered such a cheery outlook that he sat down at a small wooden table he had made for himself years before and relished his cup of coffee and a plateful of sliced corn-meal mush he had fried to a crisp and drizzled with maple syrup.

But it was a to-and-fro that certainly could not continue. The agony of the nighttime was consuming the hope of the new day.

Finally one night his heart was overthrown by anguish, and he made a promise to all the blackened room around him. He believed it to be a prayer, though he was not sure it had the power to ascend. “If anyone is listening,” he said, “please hear. I cannot pretend anymore. I will not fake my life. I will continue to faithfully chase the weeks and months if you will do three things. Yes — just three things. Every day I will make a simple list of people, happenings or events that I wish to see, and during my walk to town, my journey through the village, my lunch at the diner, and my return to my home, if I see those three things, I promise to you — or to anyone who’s listening — that I will not grab my hunting rifle and climb into the bathtub, tuck it under my chin, pull the trigger and blow my brains into the face of God.”

Strangely enough, this petition gave strength to Gerald’s heart, for the next morning he had a true purpose — to pick his three things. He decided to call it his “Toodle List” — short for “To Do Today.”

Gerald McCallister was not insane nor was he in search of miracles. Just connection. He was never going to place anything miraculous or outlandish on his list — nothing beyond the spectrum of what was available in his community. Just three insignificant little jobs. He figured it was one task for the Father, one for the Son and one for the Holy Ghost.

The list he made on the first morning was a request for a squirrel running by his feet, a bird singing in a tree and hearing the sound of an automobile’s honking horn. Sure enough — during the four-and-a-half hours of walking to Coreyville and back, all three were provided. This went on for weeks.

Gerald decided to do his Toodle list every day except Sunday. On Sunday he made the walk into town to attend the Glory Land Church of God in Christ. It was a black church, and Gerald was white — what you might call “china white.” He didn’t care. He loved the music, he loved the spirit, and even liked it a little bit that they stared at him, wondering why he didn’t go to the Baptist Church down the street, that was of a lighter hue.

But more than anything else, Gerald loved it when the black folks got to prayin’ and would suddenly slip out of their native tongue, into a language he didn’t understand, which he was told by the pastor was “heaven speak.”

Reverend Kepling, the minister of the congregation, told Gerald, “It’s when you get so close to God that your tongue goes heavenly and your talkin’ to just Him and nobody else.”

Gerald thought about how marvelous that sounded. He, himself, had no such dialect. But he sure loved to listen to them chat away.

There was one other white man who came to the church occasionally, but he usually showed up for the choir concerts, to tap his foot awhile to the Gospel tunes. He didn’t know about the supernal speaking that went on, from the Earthly angels.

Yet even though Gerald attended the church, he never got close to anyone, only having lunch at the Coreyville diner once a month with the pastor — more or less because they would always eventually run into each other. During one of those luncheons, Gerald worked up the courage to tell the young cleric about the deal he had made in the dark room. He was about halfway through his explanation — in the middle of describing the requests he made daily of God — when the young minister interrupted, horrified. “Thou shalt not tempt the Lord thy God!” he objected.

Gerald sat and stared at him, not certain of the meaning, but figured it was time to cease being transparent.

More time passed.

There was also an older woman at the church who expressed some fondness for Gerald, but when he finally worked up the courage to approach her about continuing their friendship outside the churchyard, she shook her head. She explained to him, “I likes you an’ all, but we lives in Coreyville, Georgia. And here I’m not a woman and you a man. Here, I’m black — and you white.”

Gerald looked at her, perplexed, but deep in his heart he knew what she was talking about, and unfortunately, he had to agree that she was probably right.

But this disappointment further fed the demon that kept trying to drag Gerald McCallister to the gates of hell. But once again, every morning came with light.

Most of the time, the Toodle list he made was so simple that the Father, Son and Holy Ghost seemed to have no problem completing their tasks. Every once in a while, the third one would be slow coming. Gerald figured that was just the Holy Ghost being new to the job.

For instance, one day Gerald asked, on his Toodle list, to see a rainbow. He thought it was plenty fair, because rain was in the forecast, but lo and behold, the weatherman was wrong. The day was brilliant and beautiful. So Gerald was on his way to leave town, a bit forlorn, wondering if he would have to follow through on his promise. All at once, he passed by the town fountain, spraying water into the air. The sun — the mighty sun in the sky — hit it just right, and suddenly there was a rainbow all around him.

Gerald felt like shouting hallelujah. He thought if he got started with it, he might even find his heavenly tongue, like the folks at the church. But looking around, he saw some children walking by. So he contained himself and instead sprouted the largest smile his face had ever known.

Today, for Tuesday’s Toodle, he had requested to see someone helping out another who was having car trouble. Secondly, he wanted the town grocer to say hello to him (which had only happened a half a dozen times over the months.) And finally, he wanted to catch a glimpse of a soul giving a donation to the homeless veteran who sat outside the hardware store. Everyone called him Sergeant Jack.

Well, the first two came quickly — so quickly that Gerald was nearly as excited as he’d been on Rainbow Thursday weeks before. But the third one — well, the third one became problematic.

Unbeknownst to Sergeant Jack, Gerald sat twenty paces away, watching for nearly two hours, as people stepped over and around the veteran, but no one gave the old soldier a single dime.

Gerald was astonished. Normally, Sergeant Jack was beloved and appreciated. Why were people ignoring him today? Was it a sign from God? Was God punching Gerald’s ticket, ready to take him home?

After three long hours, with tears in his eyes, Gerald stood to his feet and trudged his way home.

Upon arriving, he took off his shirt, removed his walking boots, grabbed his rifle and climbed into the bathtub, sinking himself deep into the tub, ensuring that most of the blood and brain matter would land inside instead of destroying the walls. He tucked his gun underneath his chin and he gently reached down to finger the trigger. He was careful not to pull it too soon — not until he was certain that the time was right.

He had one thought in his mind: A deal is a deal. He had never welched on a bet and he’d always tried to honor his promises. He could not understand why after all these months, the Father and Son delivered but the Holy Ghost was ignoring him.

Do I really want to live, he thought to himself, in a world where Sergeant Jack is ignored?

His confidence to pull the trigger was building with each moment as he realized that the only thing he had left was his integrity. After all, without it, his Toodle was just a game he played with himself, which made him not only a fool but a liar.

It was time to put up and forever shut up. He fingered the trigger, testing to see how much pressure it would take to pull it.

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. The knock was so surprising that Gerald nearly pulled the trigger accidentally. He remained quiet, waiting for the stranger to go away, but the knock came again, getting louder. It was followed by a voice — a familiar one. Reverend Kepling. He shouted, “Gerald! Gerald! Mr. McCallister! Gerald McCallister!”

He kept shouting, over and over again. Gerald was stymied. He didn’t know what to do. But he knew for a fact that he didn’t want this young man to discover him, headless. It could ruin his life and scare him away from the ministry.

So holding his finger on the trigger, letting up on some of the tension to so as not to complete the deed, he called out, as loudly as he could speak with a gun held under his chin, “In here!”

In the flash of a moment, the Reverend entered the bathroom and saw Gerald sitting there with a gun to his head. Trying desperately to maintain his calm through gulping gobs of dry throat, he said slowly, “What are you doing, Gerald?”

Gerald suddenly remembered that he had told the minister about his Toodle list, so earnestly — as rationally as he could — he explained that today’s list had gone unfulfilled. Unfortunately, Reverend Kepling did not remember quite as well. “What do you mean, unfulfilled?” he asked.

Frustrated, Gerald shifted his hands on the gun and replied, “It’s neither here nor there. I asked God to do something simple and told Him if He couldn’t, I would know that it was my Judgment Day.”

Suddenly, as if struck by the memory of an angel, the minister spoke up. “Oh, I know what you’re talking about! Wait, wait. What is it God didn’t do?”

“It wasn’t God,” answered Gerald. “It was Slow Joe, the Holy Ghost.”

Kepling nodded his head as if comprehending.

Gerald continued. “I had three things on my Toodle list today — you know that. The first two came quickly and easily. But the third one never showed.”

Kepling, grasping for inspiration, inquired, “Well, what was it, Gerald? What did the Holy Spirit fail to do?”

Exasperated, Gerald responded, “The Holy Ghost — well, the Holy Ghost was supposed to show me the sight of Sergeant Jack being blessed by a donation from one of the townsfolk.”

The pastor shook his head. Gerald, frustrated, replied, “Well, goddamn it, it didn’t happen.”

With this, Gerald motioned toward the trigger again. The minister rose to the occasion. “Listen. Listen, Gerald,” he said. “My brother, my brother — you got it all wrong. This was your fault.”

This surprised Gerald so much that he removed his hand from the trigger, taking his finger and pointing at himself. “Me?” he asked. “How was it my fault?”

Reverend Kepling burst into laughter. “Don’t you see? God can’t take your job and make it somebody else’s business. You were the one that came up with the idea to give a donation to Sergeant Jack. Not even the Holy Ghost can give your job to someone else.”

“What are you saying?” Gerald asked, confused.

Kepling inched his way over to sit on the edge of the bathtub. “I’m saying, Brother McCallister, that when you bring up being kindly to one of the lost souls of God, He is expecting you to have the good sense to know that you’re the one to do it, not someone else.”

Suddenly Gerald had a burst of understanding. His faith had been tested. The problem was, he was asking somebody else to do his business for him.

No wonder.

God was sittin’ there, right next to him, watching to see if Sergeant Jack would get a donation. But not from a stranger. No. From Mr. Gerald McCallister.

Suddenly in tears, Gerald slowly disengaged himself from his rifle, set it on the floor outside the bathtub, and climbed out. Crying like a baby, he pleaded, “I’ve gotta go to town, Preacher. I didn’t do my part. And I’m so tired. I’m so tired.”

Reverend Kepling supported Gerald as they walked out of the bathroom, clear from the present danger. “Brother McCallister,” he said, “it would be my honor to drive you into town in my car, so you can fulfill your third Toodle.”

Gerald stopped and gave the young fellow a hug. “Thank you, Preacher Man.”

They made their way into the car, drove into town, and found Sergeant Jack, who was about to head to the woods outside town to settle in for the night. They took him to dinner at the local diner and talked about things that none of the three men ever knew about each other.

 

Donate ButtonThe producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly donation for this inspirational opportunity

1 Thing You Can Do This Week to Relieve Depression

Place Your Problems in Perspective

If you don’t do this, your daily difficulties will line up, each insisting it is more important than the other. Pretty soon, all you’ll be able to hear are your problems screaming for attention.

I like to use the number system, starting with 5 and going down to 1. Let me show you:

5 is a situation that requires immediate attention.

4 is one that can be set aside for the afternoon.

3 can wait until tomorrow

2 is in no big rush—seems to be no hurry

1 is one of those bugaboos that might just work itself out without your interference

If you don’t assign numbers to your trials, they will all start seeming to be “1’s,” until suddenly you fear them as “5’s.”

Each day has just enough time to handle the necessary aggravation.

There you go—that’s it.


Donate Button
The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly donation for this inspirational opportunity

 

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … November 22nd, 2017

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3499)

 

We Gather

We gather with chatter

To make ourselves fatter

While tastin’ we bastin’

In dreams of a tender bird

Cornbread messing

Oyster dressing

With memories we cry

And celebrate with pie

The punch we are sipping

The gravy made from drippings

Butter up the bread

The table is now spread

Little ones crowd to see

Grandpa has to pee

Who will give the grace

Do it quick with praise

Our cake is angel food

The eggs, a bedeviled brood

The beans are green and onion clad

No one’s favorite scene

But still, all in all, not that bad

‘Taters are creamy

Desserts are dreamy

Coffee is hot

And always a lot

An embarrassing feast

Feeding the humble and least

We gather together

Being thankful for what matters

 

Donate ButtonThe producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this inspirational opportunity

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … November 15th, 2017

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3492)

He Forgot

He forgot to say thanks

Accused of misuse

She ignored subtle pranks

Suffered wicked abuse

He slept through the dream

And lost a better chance

She sat on the hay

And missed the next dance

He laughed at the warning

And drowned in defeat

She snoozed through the morning

And gave up her seat

He prayed for the sinner

Rejecting the single one

She mocked the latest winner

And never birthed her son

He shouted in the hallway

And left without learning

She heeded the bitcher’s say

The world just kept turning

He forgot

She ignored

Many were shot

I implored

For wisdom is everywhere

For those who watch

And dare to care

 

Donate ButtonThe producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this inspirational opportunity

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant … November 8th, 2017

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3485)

One

One common face

For the human race

One blessed mind,

Seek, you will find

Man, woman, child

Meek, kind, mild

One Earth school

Teach the Golden Rule

One way to see

Human souls are free

One Father dear

Be of good cheer

One Son to hear

Lose all your fear

One Spirit within

Frees us all of sin

One way to truth

Our joy is living proof

One life to live

One heart to give

One sweet confession

Relieve dark depression

One trial of lies

A King on the rise

Yes, one conquering people

Gather beneath the steeple

Donate ButtonThe producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this inspirational opportunity

%d bloggers like this: