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Totally and Completely Politically Incorrect Names to Give to Elves
A. Shortbread
B. Little Hands
C. Tinker Bill
D. Brief
E. Grounded
Cracked 5 … December 7th, 2019
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Things Santa Claus’s Therapist Could Certainly Tell You
A. He wears a beard to cover his leprosy scars.
B. He refuses to accept that the red costume makes him look fifty pounds heavier.
C. Reindeer smell bad and attack black kids.
D. He never married Mrs. Claus. (It’s a long story.)
E. Can’t leave him alone for more than five minutes at a time with small children.
Cracked 5 … November 30th, 2019
Jonathots Daily Blog
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Mistakes Often Made on Thanksgiving Day
A. Asking Grandma what she’s thankful for—right before we’re supposed to start eating
B. Saying, “The ham is good but nothing ‘trumps’ the turkey.” (Politics begins…)
C. Pointing out that the Pilgrims were illegal immigrants.
D. Asking what the calorie count is on each dish that comes your way.
E. Telling Aunt Minnie you like her Jell-O salad with the carrots—and she keeps passing to you over and over again.
Quatrain of the Yam… November 18, 2014
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I rhyme with ham
Also with roast lamb
Sliced, candied, with marshmallows
What’s a sweet potato?
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The Sermon on the Mount in music and story. Click the mountain!
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Untotaled – Stepping 26: (April 6th, 1966) Hello, Dollie … August 9, 2014
Jonathots Daily Blog
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English class.
Right before lunch.
Four days before Easter.
Since everyone was giddy, ready for spring break, the teacher intelligently surrendered to the atmosphere, forsook all nouns and verbs, and instead, posed the question: “What are you doing for Easter?”
Everyone joined in enthusiastically with their plans.
“Ham.”
“Church.”
“Family.”
“Trip to New York.”
“Dinner with friends.”
“A cantata.”
And then, out of nowhere, a young girl who was normally pretty quiet and reserved, piped in:
“I’m waiting for the Easter bunny.”
There were a few chuckles, since the majority of the room believed that such a proclamation was impossible to take seriously.
Now, this young girl’s name was Dollie. She was tall, gangly, bespectacled, often escaping into her own thoughts, but dressed very fancy because her family was loaded. She was a fair student, a little silly, and now, suddenly, with a full spotlight on her in an adolescent English class, found herself the sole advocate for the Easter bunny.
The teacher, attempting to get Dollie off the hook by changing the subject, posed an additional question to the entire class: did they like pineapple on their ham, or raisin sauce?
Yet Dollie persisted, oblivious to the social cliff looming in the near distance.
“The Easter bunny lives in a hole in my back yard.”
She nearly sang it. Yet to the classroom, the idea was off-key.
We were all stalled. We glanced around the room at one another in horror and disbelief, when all at once, the most popular cheerleader laughed out loud. Everyone, feeling license to participate, joined in heartily.
Dollie sat, nearly in tears, perturbed and perplexed that everyone had selected an agnostic position concerning the Divine Easter Bunny who slept in her back yard, awaiting the opportunity to bring candy to all the good little boys and girls.
Fortunately, at that point the inquisition was interrupted by the ringing bell announcing lunch period. Everyone leaped to their feet and headed to the door, still giggling and whispering.
Dollie remained in her chair, stung, emotionally bleeding and bewildered that her faith in the Great Rabbit had been marched into the coliseum of public opinion and slaughtered by the lions of ridicule.
I felt compelled to do something–but I was just a kid. So I walked over and patted her on the shoulder and said, “You know, that’s really dumb. There’s no Easter bunny.”
That was the extent of my empathy.
I then walked from the room, leaving her alone to her thoughts.
It wasn’t the last time I would have an encounter with Miss Dollie.
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Untotaled: Stepping Four (April 28th, 1964) … March 1, 2014
Jonathots Daily Blog
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(Transcript)
The Gospel Tones.
They were a singing group that visited our church on April 28th, 1964–actually, three friends of our pastor, who used to sing together back in college.
The southern gospel quartet–bass, baritone, lead, high tenor–an interesting blending of a musical circus atmosphere mingled with the sanctity and sobriety of the Gregorian chant.
I remember that night well. I had never seen our preacher so alive. He usually had a somberness which accompanied his sermons, granting him the authority to be holy.
But on that night he was moving around and singing low bass notes on the RCA Victor microphone which had been placed in the middle of the platform.
I got excited. Honestly, it was a little corny, but still had enough fun in it that I participated.
After the show everybody processed to the fellowship hall for cookies and punch. I grabbed three of my friends and we headed off to a Sunday School classroom which had an off-key Wurlitzer piano, and started pounding out some songs of our own. We didn’t sound very good but we were totally enthusiastic.
Right in the middle of an exhilarating screech, one of the church elders stuck his head in, rebuked us and said we were bad children because we weren’t joining in with the rest of the church. My friends were intimidated by the austere condemnation and left to go eat their cookies, but I stayed in the room. I played and played; I sang and sang.
That night changed me. I realized I liked music. I liked entertaining.
I regathered my three friends shortly after that evening and we began to sing everywhere–nursing homes, school talent shows, street rallies, coffee houses–and later, when my buddies paired off and got married, I kept it up.
In the process I worked with the Blackwood Brothers, the Rambos, the Happy Goodmans, the Imperials and the Oak Ridge Boys.
I became an egg. Whether I was scrambled, fried, poached or put in an omelet, I was an egg. You could use me to make a cake, a souffle, or even to hold your meatloaf together.
I was not a ham and certainly not a crab.
On April 28th, 1964, listening to the Gospel Tones, I chose to become an egg. Over the years many people have tried to get me to fit into their box, but I’m an egg.
I was built for a carton.
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A Creeky Encounter … January 12, 2013
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It was a stream of water that ran by the road in my hometown. It was no more than four feet deep at its braggart’s point and so narrow in some locations that you could step across it on four rocks protruding from the water. Most people didn’t pay much attention to it. For some reason, they named our local high school after this brook–Big Walnut.
Most of the good white folk stayed away from it because it was a hangout–well, it was a place where some of the “negroes” from nearby Columbus would come to congregate on the weekends. There were a few fishermen’s shacks which had been erected near the water, where these darkened visitors would sleep and relax as they cast lines into the nearby flow, seeking to capture a particular style of varmint called a sucker. Now, a sucker was an ugly fish–big huge mouth, with what looked to be thick lips and humongous, bulging eyes. Yes, the good white folks of our town were very careful not to spend much time on the banks of the Big Walnut, or to ever even consider consuming a sucker.
I occasionally went down to look at the water because it wound its way through a very pastoral setting of trees and rocks. On one of those occasions, when I was gazing from the bridge down at the creek beneath, an older fellow saw me and motioned to me to come down and join him. I was terrified, surprised, frozen and intrigued, all at the same time. For you see, he was a negro.
I was fifteen years old and had never spoken with a negro. I had seen them. I had even tackled one in a football game with a nearby city school which was intergrated. But I had never had an actual conversation with anyone of that color persuasion.
He motioned to me again, and because he was an older chap and I felt deep respect for folks of that ilk, I picked my way down the hill to join him at the waterfront. As I arrived, he got a bite on his hook and right then and there, pulled up one of those ugly sucker fish, which looked to be nearly a pound and a half in size. He gave a hoot.
Negro: Would you look at that, son? Halleluia! I have supper for tonight.
(I pulled back in terror at the sight of the ugly fish.)
Negro: Have you ever eaten a sucker?
Me: My dad says they taste terrible and have too many bones.
Negro: Well, I probably have too many bones, and I’m not so sure I taste good, either. But if you smoke ’em, they are delicious.
(I must have had a comical, perplexed look on my face because he laughed.)
Negro: Do you know what smoked is?
Me: Cigarettes?
(More laughter.)
Negro: No! You’ve eaten ham, haven’t you? Smokin’ meat is like puttin’ it near the fire instead of on the fire, and lettin’ the hickory flavor do the cookin’.
(I nodded my head–not because I understood, but because I was bored.)
Negro: Do you like to fish?
Me: Yeah, kinda. My dad and older brothers are nuts about it. I like to catch fish.
Negro: Me, too. By the way, my name is Marsh.
Me: Pleased to meet you Mr. Marsh.
(I was speaking to him from a distance of about six feet, so as to give myself the first fruits of an excellent exit. He stuck his hand out across the distance.)
Negro: No, it’s not Mister. Just call me Marsh.
(I was staring at the hand of a Negro. It was big. I could see callouses protruding from every knuckle. I quickly glanced down at my hand, which more resembled a medium-sized, damp white terry wash cloth. What was I going to do? He kept his hand extended, determined to make connection. So I cautiously inched forward and shook his massive paw.)
Marsh: You come down here often?
Me: No–because …
(I stopped in mid-sentence. I almost let it slip–that the community generally considered this to be reserved for Negroes and not available to the whites.)
Marsh: (interrupting) Let me guess. You don’t come down here because people who look like me seem to own this place, right?
Me: We call it Monkey Hollow. At least that’s what my dad said.
Marsh: He did, did he? Well, we people of a different point of view call it Goshen’s Point. Do you know the story of the place?
(I shook my head.)
Marsh: Tale is that an escaped slave arrived here with his wife and didn’t feel it was safe for him to live among the white folks, so he settled here by the creek, built a cabin and started to raise a family. He called it Goshen because that was the land where the Jews were safe from the Egyptians.
(Once again I nodded my head. I wasn’t really interested–just fascinated by being in the proximity of this aged Negro. I stepped a little closer–honestly, just to find out if he smelled different. I was told they did. He ended up smelling like fish and the residue of earth worms, which was not unusual for people who frequented the sport.)
Marsh: What is your name?
Me: Jonathan.
Marsh: That’s a good Bible name. Jonathan–the best friend of King David. A good young man who got himself mixed up in family loyalty. Instead of siding with his friend, David, he followed his dad…to death.
(I crinkled my brow a bit because I knew the story, but found it more interesting coming out of the mouth of this wrinkled alien.)
Marsh: Is this the first time you’ve ever talked to a nigger?
(My expression must have been worth a million dollars, because Marsh laughed like he had just discovered a treasure.)
Marsh: You have heard us called niggers, right?
Jonathan: Well, once or twice, I guess, but never … near one, if you know what I mean.
Marsh: I do, son, I surely do. Usually they call us Negroes, right?
Jonathan: I guess. If that’s all right.
Marsh: I guess there’s a name we call every person to their face and another one we use behind their back. What do you think, Jonathan? What would Jesus think about that?
Jonathan: I don’t know. Are you a Christian?
Marsh: I sure am. But not like you.
Jonathan: What do you mean?
Marsh: You see, Jonathan, I’m a Christian because I need to be one to survive and get along in this world. You’re a Christian because there’s a church down the road where your friends go, that has some mighty good pot-lucks from time to time.
(I was offended.)
Jonathan: I believe in God.
Marsh: I know, son. I know. It’s just that my faith allows me to believe that God believes in me, too. That God somehow or another is able to escape staring at my color and sees right down to the tiptoes of my soul.
(I frowned, making him smile. Marsh held his freshly caught fish up to his face)
Marsh: Don’t you think this sucker looks just like me? Big lips and bulgy eyes?
(I didn’t know what to say.)
Marsh: You run along. I sure have enjoyed our conversation. I just hope you know that we Negroes–niggers, or monkey, or whatever you hear us called–are able to talk and really don’t bite or hurt nobody.
(I bit my lip because I couldn’t think of an adequate retort. Marsh turned around and started fishing again. I wanted to say something meaningful, warm or profound, but ended up pulling myself up the hill in silence.)
Marsh was the first Negro I ever talked to. Since then, I have purposefully had thousands of other conversations in honor of my initial “creeky” encounter.
I also have grown up and left my small-town, both in location and in thinking. Truthfully, I never did eat a sucker, smoked or otherwise.
But I did somehow manage … not to become one.
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