Sit Down Comedy … November 15th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Life is like a bucket of bolts without a wrench.

Of course, it isn’t. It’s just one of those attempts at cleverness by an over-reaching writer trying to capture your darting attention to his overwrought work.

It’s kind of like when one of these hacks writes:

If everything has purpose, then God is one sick mofo.

You see what I mean? Trying to walk that fine line between street language, to make you think that he or she, typing the words, is in step with present-day pop culture, while also making you wonder if what’s being expressed is a squirt of agnosticism or a splash of raging against religious profanity.

Of course—maybe it’s just dumb.

Because I will tell you:

I saw an ant pushing a crumb of bread back to his hill. I thought, why doesn’t he eat the damn crumb, and then come back to his buddies and say he couldn’t find anything?

Ah, yes.

A gaggle of giggles to gurgle up an emotion emitting from every man, as alliteration is always alluring.

Of course, it isn’t really. It’s just an overuse of a practice that could benefit from some underuse.

Truth is: Life is a bowl of cherries that somebody already ate, leaving you the pits.

Yet we must not be too critical of those who at least try to make us smile while simultaneously offering food for thought. Granted, the food for thought is often Cheetos and candy bars, but as we all know, those can do quite well in a pinch.

Don’t you sometimes feel like standing on a mountain, or maybe a small hill in Kansas, and scream:

Excuse me, life! It’s your turn to have a good attitude!

But does the author really feel that? Or is the penner of the words merely pointing out that life is taken too seriously for how ridiculous it ends up being?

Because talking to a friend the other day, he said this to me: Life is meeting a beautiful woman and suddenly remembering you are gay. (Of course, this didn’t happen. I don’t have any gay friend.)

Now, there was a surprise, right? And the line is pretty funny. It might even tickle the bone until funny comes forth.

But my discovery is: Wisdom is when knowledge stops planning and starts working.

Wow. This kinda reads like the phrase a philosophy teacher might write on the chalkboard during the first class on the first morning of the first semester of the first year of an overly lengthy education.

So what is life? Or should that question even be asked? Is posing it just a setup for over-inspirational ideas or sardonic punchlines?

Does it cause us to come with a phrase like: Life is like getting a knee replacement and then breaking your leg.

At least there are layers. Gives you pause. Makes you twinge a bit in sympathetic agony.

One of my favorites is: Life is a beautiful bouquet of flowers that smells like poop.

Now, that could get some conversation going if you were really bored, had nothing to do and happened to be hanging out with a geek.

I don’t know—what do you think works? Do I really care—what works, and what you think?

Would you agree with me that we can’t be trusted on our own?

Human beings are too intelligent to be released with their flakey attitudes.

Here’s what I think:

We need a god if for no other reason than to keep us from worshipping ourselves.

And all the people said, “A-men.” (Did you say it out loud? Do you now feel stupid because I asked you?)

Our journey is a strange one.

Quite candidly: Life is a fork when you’ve been given a plate of peas.

Yes. That’s somewhat like it, isn’t it? Not.

Life is like a railroad, except there’s no train of thought and it’s hard to get on track.

Huh. I guess it’s not like a railroad at all.

 

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Jesonian: Reverend Meningsbee (Part 27) Carpet Bombing … October 30th, 2016

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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You can’t have valleys without mountains. It’s the beauty of the landscape of life.

In the midst of the sludge of mundane activity and the alarm of tragedies, there are everyday decisions which either tickle the funny bone or leave us with a tiny ball of aggravation which tends to growl for weeks after the infestation.

Mike and Maggie had been wed for thirty-two years. They were married at the Garsonville Church. They had served on almost every committee, and faithfully performed the duties of nearly all positions. Although they loved each other dearly, they rarely agreed when it came to matters of what should be done with the sanctuary.

Ten years earlier, they had a huge conflict–long before Meningsbee arrived–about carpet.

Maggie was a traditionalist, a woman whose grandparents came to America from Ireland during the potato famine. She had fiery red hair, now streaked with gray, and possessed a Catholic passion with her Protestant faith.

Her husband, on the other hand, was a progressive–well, as progressive as you dare be in Garsonville, Nebraska. He nearly convinced a majority of the church board to sell the organ to put a down-payment on a project to build a gymnasium, so the local kids could come and play games on Saturday, with the intent that they might decide to stay over for Sunday services out of curiosity.

The measure lost by one vote. Maggie’s.

Even though the two loved each other faithfully, they rarely agreed on God’s will for Garsonville.

So when it was time to purchase carpet ten years earlier, Maggie insisted the only suitable color for the sanctuary was red. She had two reasons. Red carpet was a sign of welcoming and also a tribute to the blood of Jesus.

Mike strongly disagreed. He contended it was “just too red.” He led a group which desired cranberry carpet from Dalton, Georgia. Amazingly, this time, unlike the gymnasium, the “cranberries” won.

So the sanctuary was covered with cranberry carpet, much to the chagrin of Maggie and her crimson cohorts.

Now, recently…

There had been complaints that the cranberry carpet was looking dingy and needed to be cleaned, so it was agreed to find a contractor to remove all the pews so the carpet could be shampooed. It was quite a job.

Several local carpet cleaners bid on the job but it was the Garsonville Bubble-Uppers, a new firm in town, which underpriced the competition and was given the contract.

Arrangements were made to hold services elsewhere for two weeks so the cleaners could have full access to the church and be able to do a great job.

Everyone was elated. Maggie thought cleaning the carpet might make it more red, and Mike was convinced that such a cleansing would restore the original beauty of his cranberry vision.

But no one was prepared for what happened.

One of the young men working with the Bubble-Uppers thought it might be a good idea to add a little bleach to the concoction which was traditionally used by the company. He didn’t inform anyone of his decision–just poured it in.

So they scrubbed the carpets faithfully, only to discover when they returned the next day that the cranberry carpets had been transformed.

They were orange.

Bright orange.

The Bubble-Uppers were very apologetic, and refused to charge the church for their services, but a very shocked and bewildered congregation restored its pews on top of a carpet ablaze with bright fall-colored pumpkin.

Everyone was afraid to say too much about it–they knew there was no money in the budget to get new carpeting.

So for the first time ever, Mike and Maggie came to consolation.

Mike decided that orange was better than red and Maggie was convinced that it was closer to red than that horrible cranberry.

 

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