Cracked 5 … August 17th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

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Cracked 5

Little Known Facts About the Life and Times of a Squirrel

 

A. Recovering from bird seed overdose

 

B.  Too nervous for petting zoo

 

C.  Hates being called a “rat with a fancy tail”

 

D.  Does all its shopping at a department store called Wal-Nuts*

 

E.  God damnit! I’m not squirrely!

 

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Jesonian: Reverend Meningsbee (Part 26) A Psalm of David … and Jack – October 23rd, 2016

 Jonathots Daily Blog

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Reverend Meningsbee

David was one of the young host who invaded the Garsonville Church, sitting near the front altar on a vigil for a lost friend.

After that eventful Sunday, he and two other members of the high school started to attend.

He was what nicer Nebraskans refered to as a “soft boy.” He seemed to favor activities with less dirt and muscle. Now, the more aggressive Nebraskans, many attending his school. called him a queer–a fag.

David didn’t argue–just adopted many of the mannerisms and catch phrases of the gay community, not necessarily because he was born with that sensibility, but because he was only fifteen years old and welcomed any identity.

David immediately found a place for himself in the body of believers. He made it his mission to ensure that every Sunday morning, the holy foyer was filled with art–paintings, as it were–some masterful knockoffs and others done by the third grade class from the Wintermute Elementary School.

His displays played to mixed reviews among the congregation. Some of the pew-sitters felt it was inappropriate, and others actually joined in and brought some of their own made-up drawings.

David was faithful.

David was searching.

David was a sponge looking for a wet spot.

Jack was an adorable alcoholic. That’s what his family called him. He was one of those drinkers that got happier the more the liquor moved toward his liver.

And move it did–so much so that during one binge of whiskey and gin, he was rushed to the hospital with alcohol poisoning, and after many tests they discovered he was in the midst of liver failure and in need of a transplant.

This seemed to scare the hell out of Jack, leaving a hole ready for Jesus, so Meningsbee was called to come and witness to the once happy-go-lucky town drunk.

Meningsbee didn’t say much of anything; actually, Jack did the talking. And like many sinners who are eventually saved by grace, hearing his own story out loud, for perhaps the first time, sent him into a fit of weeping and a season of repenting.

Jack was born again in Room 315 of the Garsonville Community Hospital, with tubes poking out of almost every orifice on his body.

Jack never got strong enough to attend church. He was given the good news that there was a liver available for him, and before he knew it, was on the operating table, praying for a fresh start.

These two souls of God, David and Jack, collided one night in the same hospital at the same time, in similar conditions.

David arrived because he had been invited to a party, and in a moment of weakness, trying to make friends, overdosed on a cocktail of drugs which had been tossed into a punchbowl and dissolved, for the consumption of teenage fools.

His heart stopped three times on the way to the hospital and he was now on life support.

Jack’s operation was successful, but he fell victim to a serious and potentially lethal infection, which had him back on the table, doctors desperately trying to save his life.

Meningsbee sat in the waiting room on a hard, yellow, plastic chair, purchased during the Eisenhower Administration.

Both families, empty of words, had taken their leave and gone to the chapel to pray.

Meningsbee was alone with his thoughts. It was always on such occasions that he wondered if there really was a supernatural order directing a plan.

Was God really in the room with His angels, watching over the frail forms of David and Jack?

Had the Angel of Death arrived along with the Angel of Mercy, to take them home?

Or was it all just some sort of collage of grace, medical technology and just pure dumb luck determining the outcome?

Meningsbee found contentment that there was no answer. Just as an ant never discovers what is beyond its own hill, human beings likewise have much freedom but little insight.

The hours passed. It was touch and go.

At first they thought David still had good brain function and feared that Jack had lost too much blood to survive the repair.

The night wound on.

Five minutes after all the prayer warriors discovered that Jack had pulled through and was going to barely make it, they were told by the doctors that David had been assessed as brain-dead.

Two families stood side-by-side, digesting different news.

Jack’s family was careful not to express too much elation and relief, knowing that David’s mother and father were on the verge of collapse. Lacking words, fatigued by prayer, hampered by doubt and in the human state of confusion, they simply turned to one another and embraced.

David’s mom and dad made the agonizing decision to pull the plug and let him go home. He lived for ten minutes.

Reverend Meningsbee had one last prayer.

He hoped David would be granted a great space in the foyer of heaven…to display his art.

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Jonathan’s Latest Book Release!

PoHymn: A Rustling in the Stagnant

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PoHymn cover jon

 

I’m Looking For… A Cool Cat January 31, 2013

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cats

I don’t like cats.

I find them to be finicky, fussy–portraying great promise, with very little evidence of actual worth.

I grew up with them. My mother loved cats. There were always at least three or four hanging around our house. A case could be made that I’ve overdosed on the furballs, but the truth is I’ve just gotten to know them so well that I no longer find their peculiarities to be cute, but rather, obnoxious and arrogant.

They don’t really like people. Now, I’m sure your pet cat is the exception to the rule, but if you’ll allow me to analyze the species as a whole without feeling that I’m attacking Muffin, here are the things about cats that I don’t like:

  1. They use people when they need them and discard them at will.
  2. It is necessary to de-claw them because their jungle instincts come out only in disdain for your furniture.
  3. They never love when you need love, only when their psyche personally requires it.
  4. They leave the house and kill birds–actually, an estimated three and a half billion last year.
  5. They don’t make eye contact. They walk at a distance from you, looking askance.
  6. They don’t come when you call them. They interpret this as independence when it is actually overwrought self-worth.
  7. They will occasionally just walk out of the house to never return, leaving no note behind explaining their departure.

Please understand–I think cats have a greater potential in physiology and even attitude for FAR surpassing the dog in viability to the human family. They just don’t care. They are not interested in the propagation of our race or the whims and desires of our needs.

Cats aren’t cool.

So I am looking for a cool cat. Yes, I mean this in the sense of the feline, but also the “we-line.” Here are things I think would help make cats cooler:

  1. Stop playing so hard to get. They may refer to you as a Persian cat, but it doesn’t mean you’re royalty.
  2. Be grateful that somebody’s calling you, and walk across the room to respond to their beckoning.
  3. Never scowl or spat at those around you, even when they come up behind and surprise.
  4. Bury your crap a little deeper in the litter and stop being offended because people are not impressed with the residue of your stinky.
  5. Stop disdaining the dogs around you and realize that you’re not better just because you’re a cat.
  6. Enjoy the food set before you, even if it’s not presented in a fancy glass dish and garnished with a bit of parsley.
  7. Maintain the dignity of your claws–just don’t use them on people you love or the things they own.

There you go. Today, I feel like I have rebuilt the cat–and in the process, maybe I, myself, can learn to avoid the choice of being a lap dog … by learning how to be a cool cat.

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