Sit Down Comedy … May 17th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

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ROLY-POLY WITH JUICES

I am so roly-poly with the creative juices of exhilarated existence that I can no longer sip on the drip provided by a religious system which offers me exercises in worship, while robbing me of my strength, leaving me anemic and weak.

PLUMP WITH PURPOSE

Likewise, I am plump with purpose, and can no longer sit around with the abstract questioning of politicians who only pursue the trap and the snare rather than allowing themselves to use their position to reconfigure the world.

CHUBBY WITH MERCY

I am chubby with mercy and will not constrain myself to go on a diet of selfish, judgmental decisions against those who are created in the image of the one I say is my Father.

OBESE WITH HUMILITY

Yes, I find myself obese with the humility that chokes the heartless part of me that would pridefully believe I can follow some sort of continuing, narrowing path, and never find my steps to those in need.

ROTUND WITH CAPITAL

I am rotund with capital. Yes, money sufficient to care for my own self, and still coins and dollars left over for those the Spirit of God might bring across the pathway of my humanity.

FAT WITH ABUNDANT LIFE

I am too fat with abundant life to ever starve again on the leftovers provided by those who fear death so much that they can’t live.


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G-Poppers… December 5, 2014

  Jonathots Daily Blog

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G-Popper

Discovering that he was heading for Florida to spend Christmas with family, one of his sons asked G-Pop if he was going to miss the snow.

G-Pop: Snow is most beautiful when viewed from the window of a 72-degree, well-insulated house.

Having the full attention of G-Pop, the son continued by asking him what he felt about Santa Claus after all these years.

G-Pop: Santa Claus is the only fat man never laughed at by children. The message? The obese should always arrive with a bag of toys.

“How about winter, G-Pop?”

G-Pop: For old people, it’s the threat of a broken hip. For the middle-aged, the possibility of a heart attack while shoveling snow, for younger adults, it’s sliding off the road in your car because you have bald tires, ending up in a ditch and discovering that your AAA has lapsed. The only payoff is for kids … snow days.

Finally, the son inquired of G-Pop about his feelings concerning Christmas.

G-Pop: Christmas is our next, best chance to birth a great idea, shepherd it to newness and end up looking like wise men.

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*****

Check out Mr. Kringle’s Tales…26 Stories’Til Christmas

The Best Christmas Stories You’ll Ever Read!

Click on Santa to browse "Mr. Kringle's Tales ... 26 Stories Til Christmas"

Click on Santa to browse “Mr. Kringle’s Tales … 26 Stories Til Christmas”

UNTOTALED: Stepping 7–Tackling Laziness (September 4th, 1965) … March 22, 2014

Jonathots Daily Blog  

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(Transcript)

Starting the seventh grade scared the crap out of me.

Actually, that particular cliché doesn’t fit very well because when you’re entering junior high school in a new building, the idea of any sound or bodily fluid coming out of your being is completely terrifying.

You want to simultaneously be invisible and also appreciated, which of course, is not only socially impossible, but scientifically implausible.

I had spent the week before school began begging my mother to allow me to go out for the football team. She was afraid I would get injured. This was a maternal prophetic sensation, long before the recent onslaught of concussions and head injuries. What was comical, though, about this assertion on her part was that I was nearly six feet tall and weighed three hundred pounds. The coach joked with her, when trying to solicit her support, that it would be more likely that I would hurt other children.

I whined, cajoled, pleaded, promised, praised, complimented and cleaned my room up enough to get her to agree to allow me to try out for the team.

So September 4th, 1965, was not just the first day of horror in the new junior high school. It was also my first day to go out after school and practice with the football team.

The trials continued when they were unable to find a pair of football pants to fit me.  (This was the era when men’s sizes stopped at extra-large, and anyone who needed anything bigger must order it from the sheep herders of Tibet.) So I wore a pair of tennis shoes and blue Dickey work pants to work out with the other guys, who were in suitable apparel. (They did find a helmet that fit my head, since the term fat-head is merely an urban legend.)

It became obvious to me immediately, on that small practice field, what I liked and what I didn’t.

  • I loved the game.
  • I loved tackling.
  • I loved thinking about what was going to happen next.

On the other hand, I hated exercise in all of its contorted, convoluted and fastidiously constructed forms. After all, every exercise program is really geared to skinny people–even the ones which insist they are trying to appeal to the obese. Their speculations always exceed our limitations.

I hated sprints, calisthenics, too much running of any type, and all the drills which they insisted were essential for becoming a great football player.

I endured the sport for three years, but finally my laziness regarding exercise overtook my love of the gridiron.

Maybe if I’d had the right kick in the pants from an authority figure, or perhaps mercy at the right moments and toughness at others, I might have continued playing the game. I don’t know.

But because I didn’t tackle laziness on the football field, it took me too many years to overcome that gooey, drippy vice that drags one down, draining off potential.

So the next time you run across a kid who has ability, but not much drive, please don’t assume that you should leave him alone.

I was left alone. And fascinatingly enough–it was just lonely.

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Enough to Live, but … January 23, 2014

Jonathots Daily Blog

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buffet Chinese …not enough to enjoy.

I’ve gone through a serious transition over the past month, discovering that a rudimentary concept in my mind has been faulty since I was a child.

The realization crept into my consciousness about three months ago when I was eating at a Chinese buffet and I looked around the room and saw that all the patrons, just like me, were egg-shaped–and I don’t mean Foo Yung.

It was a location where people had come to eat–to have fun. For after all, isn’t that the message? “All you can eat.” In other words, tap the greatest desire for your appetite for food, envision how much that might be, and then go for it.

I also discovered an interesting thing about myself at this  feeding trough. I started off by going to the buffet bar on my own, until I got so stuffed that I was too gorged to get up from my chair. So then I sent someone else to acquire additional “fun” to eat–all the while convinced that I was having the time of my life. Until, that is, I had to get up from my chair and waddle to my car, nearly breathless from the excursion, having ravaged my digestive system with over-abundance.

At this point I did not incriminate myself. I realized it was quite simple. Food, which was meant to be fuel, I had turned into fun. Just for the record, food is not supposed to be fun. It is intended to be fuel. And then, once we understand that it is offered to us as “enough to live but not enough to enjoy,” we can find our good cheer in the planning instead of through overeating.

Food was never meant to be spontaneous–and if we make it a split-second decision we will get busy and start looking for fast food.

So as I realized that food is not meant to be fun, but instead, fuel, I found that planning my food, making really neat choices when I go to the store, is the true fun.

Yes, I am allowed to have fun at the store so that when I sit down to eat my portion, I am partaking of fuel.

We wonder why America is becoming obese. Let’s consider this: sex, which was meant for enjoyment, is now viewed as life. And food, which was meant to be life, is our source of entertainment. Yes, many people would rather eat than have romance.

The same thing is true with spirituality and education. We’ve flipped it. Spirituality is meant to be a rejoicing in our soul, permeating our entire being, while education is the knowledge that allows us to function better.

We’ve done a switcheroo. Spirituality has become austere, a learning process, while we are trying to make education more fun for the kids and ourselves.

I am not saying that what was meant to keep us alive cannot become a source of contentment. But this state is derived by gaining control through selection, purpose and discovery.

And I’m not saying that which is fun in our lives does not have intrinsic value. But this is tapped when we understand that feeling energized does not need to eliminate the possibility of learning.

Today is my twenty-eighth day of my food regimen. It revolves around the realization that eating is intended to be enough to live–not enough to enjoy.

My radical pleasure in the experience comes from planning, considering nutrition and from amazing myself with the types of food that are available to satisfy me without killing me.

So the next time you start a project, ask yourself, “Is this to live, or enjoy?”

If it’s meant to be enjoyed, suck the experience dry and then take the passion from that endeavor into your next venture.

If it’s meant to give life, then allow it to do so, and find your good cheer from pursuing the angles, choices and revelation that make you feel really smart and powerful.

Will I succeed in my latest adventure?

As long as I can keep life and enjoyment in perspective, I’ve got a fighting chance.

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Click for details on the SpirTed 2014 presentation

Click for details on the SpirTed 2014 presentation

Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling SpiriTed in 2014.

click to hear music from Spirited 2014

click to hear music from Spirited 2014

Day Forty-Five… April 10, 2012

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Sometimes it’s merely a passing glance in the mirror. Maybe a brisk walk across a shopping center, requiring a few minutes of rest on a bench before continuing. It could be a flutter in the chest–illusions of a palpitation foretelling of activities within. Of course, there is that bit of embarrassment of being at a swimming pool in front of a bunch of little kids who have not yet learned proper manners. It can be a hundred things–reminders of the fat that has beset me.

What next? For people who have lived a life flirting with “slender,” the answer seems simple–similar to what I emote to individuals who are trying to quit smoking. (“Just stop buying cigarettes!”) Or, in the case of those who surround me: “Come on, brother! Just eat less!”

That’s because they think it’s about losing weight. Losing weight is for people who go on vacation, eat too many calzones, come home and just stop eating calzones, shedding any pounds they garnered in the process of over-eating. My job is not to lose weight. I’m losing a body. It is a body I’ve had since I was twelve years old. It demands an entirely different process–one which is not necessarily better enacted on shows like The Biggest Loser. I suppose if we all could go off to some farm and do nothing but exercise and eat a pre-prepared diet while being screamed at by individuals who have always been skinny, we, too, might be frightened into some drastic de-pounding. It doesn’t work that way.

No, it’s different for those who are obese, and nothing will happen in their lives until that fact is realized. There is a three-step process, each step requiring ninety days. Please forgive me for the audacity of stopping off here at day 45, when I am still in the midst of the initial burst. But perhaps the information and also the testimony of my experience will encourage both you and me to press on.

You can’t lose your body until you stop trying to lose weight. To lose your body, you have to put out of your mind any notions of feeling better or looking better. Those are two requirements that create the despair that causes obese individuals to give up. On Day 45, I have no concerns whatsoever about feeling better or looking better. Those are goals for the future. My aspiration, in the first ninety days, is to:

1. Do better. What does it mean to “do better?” Every discovery of doing better has a two-pronged outlet–eliminate and include. Once you target what to eliminate and quickly replace it with inclusions that are equally as tantalizing, you will inch towards doing better–one day at a time. Here’s the truth–suppressing my appetite doesn’t mean anything because I don’t eat because I’m hungry. I eat because it’s fun. And since I am never going to stop eating because it’s fun, my goal is to eliminate fun choices that are killers, but include equally fun choices that are life-giving. To “do better,” I have to stop listening to skinny people who don’t know anything about being fat. Instead, I need to learn myself.

For instance, last night I ate catfish and summer squash. I like both of them. Here’s what I eliminated: neither one of them was fried; neither one of them had butter on them and neither one was drenched in sauces. I eliminated tartar sauce as my side dip, but I included a little bit of catsup. I challenged myself to find out if I enjoyed the taste of catfish and summer squash, or if I just actually favored the flavor of grease in my mouth. Amazingly, the catfish, summer squash and a little bit of catsup was  satisfactory to my taste buds and my needs.

Yes, in the first ninety days, you work on doing better. And two of the ways I do better go against dietary wisdom–I do not get on a scale. When you are an obese person, weighing yourself profusely is discouraging. It is trying to jump from “doing better” all the way to “looking better.” You don’t get to do that. You didn’t get fat in a week and you’re not going to get better looking in seven days either. I don’t need a number to tell me that I’m doing better, and sometimes the number is misleading and therefore, frustrating.

Next–a personal choice. During my ninety days of “doing better,” I refuse to look at myself in any full-length mirrors. Why? Because it makes me want to jump to “looking better,” which is the final stage of the journey, and can only create animosity in my soul over the slowness of the process. So when I find myself walking towards a mirror, I turn my head. It is too soon to demand evidence for my eyes. I need ninety full days of merely doing better. This period of time is followed by:

2. Feeling better. After ninety days of establishing making better choices, you can allow yourself the luxury of accepting a new burst of energy–an excitement which fuels your ongoing project of doing better, marching you forward towards looking better. I think it is ridiculous to assume that you’re going to feel better  until you’ve given ninety days to the cause of doing better. And the beauty of God’s grace is that each one of the ninety days of “doing better” doesn’t have to be a roaring success. As long as you keep in mind that in the second ninety days, you’re going to be feeling better, you can get up every morning and continue the faithfulness of doing better than the day before. Feeling better is the gift we receive after ninety days of doing better. And after 180 days, I fully plan on peering in the mirror and confirming that:

3. I look better. Most people give up on their goals because they cannot see where the work is taking them. Just as you can’t watch a pot boil and you can’t eat a hard-boiled egg until it’s done, you cannot gaze at yourself after twenty, forty or even 110 days and expect to peruse your new body. The final ninety days is for relishing, rejoicing and being grateful for looking better. By that time, doing better has become your life, feeling better is a fill-up at your emotional gas station, so looking better is the pay-off–the trip you’ve won to Vegas.

I have always known how this works, but sometimes I have despised the process. I have resented that such a nice and fine person as myself should have to suffer such restrictive slings and arrows to achieve better health. Yes, I can be a brat. But this time, I’ve acknowledged the truth and embraced the genius. So halfway through my ninety days, I wanted to stop off and share my joyous, but tenuous, progress. It is rich with possibility and rife with danger. But I know that unless I have ninety days of doing better followed by ninety days of feeling better, I will never be able to celebrate ninety days of looking better.

Just some thoughts from the middle of my present quest.  I hope you don’t mind this piece of self-indulgence from me.

Believe me, it’s healthier to do it in writing … than at the dinner table.

**************

Below is the first chapter of Jonathan Richard Cring’s stunning novel entitled Preparing a Place for Myself—the story of a journey after death. It is a delicious blend of theology and science fiction that will inspire and entertain. I thought you might enjoy reading it. After you do, if you would like to read the book in its entirety, please click on the link below and go to our tour store. The book is being offered at the special price of $4.99 plus $3.99 shipping–a total of $8.98. Enjoy.

http://www.janethan.com/tour_store.htm

Sitting One

 I died today. 

I didn’t expect it to happen.  Then again, I did—well, not really.

No, I certainly didn’t expect it.

I’ve had moments of clarity in my life.  Amazingly enough, many of them were in the midst of a dream. For a brief second I would know the meaning of life or the missing treatment to cure cancer.  And then as quickly as it popped into my mind it was gone. I really don’t recollect dying.  Just this unbelievable sense of clear headedness—like walking into a room newly painted and knowing by the odor and brightness that the color on the wall is so splattering new that you should be careful not to touch it for fear of smearing the design. The greatest revelation of all? 

Twenty-five miles in the sky time ceases to exist.

The planet Pluto takes two hundred and forty-eight years to circle the sun. It doesn’t give a damn. 

The day of my death was the day I became free of the only burden I really ever had.  TIME.

Useless.

Time is fussy.  Time is worry. 

Time is fear.  Time is the culprit causing human-types to recoil from pending generosity. 

There just was never enough time. 

Time would not allow it.  Remember—“if time permits …”

Why if time permits?  Why not if I permit?  Why not if I dream?  Why not if I want?  Why does time get to dictate to me my passage? 

It was time that robbed me of my soulful nature.    It was time that convinced me that my selfishness was needed. 

I didn’t die. The clock in me died, leaving spirit to tick on.  

So why don’t we see the farce of time?  Why do we allow ourselves to fall under the power of the cruel despot?  Yes, time is a relentless master—very little wage for much demand.

I died today. 

Actually … a piece of time named after me was cast away.

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