Cracked 5 … December 15th, 2018


Jonathots Daily Blog

(3886)

Cracked 5

Things to Do When They Start Singing “The Twelve Days of Christmas”

A.  Fake a heart attack

 

B.  Belch out “Five Golden Rings”

 

C.  Mess with the words so they send you out of the room

 

D.  Clap your hands like there’s a beat

 

E.  Vomit

art by smarrttie panntts

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


Buy Mr. Kringle's Tales

Click the elephant to see what he’s reading!

 

G-Poppers … July 20th, 2018

G-Pop was nine years old when Bobby moved into the village and started attending the little elementary school.

At first the parents thought he might be a Negro, since he had skin a couple of shades darker, and curly hair. But on careful inspection and tracking down some details, it was confirmed that he was Italian. This allowed him to be suitable for playtime and interaction.

But Bobby was different.

He wasn’t like all the scared children from our burg who were frightened to death to displease the grownups who held the key to play-time and candy. Bobby didn’t care.

When the teacher came into the room, the rest of the students fell silent–like attending a funeral. But Bobby just kept chattering, glancing up at the teacher and smiling back at all the other terrified third-graders.

He was the same way during recess. He played hard, rough and mean. But at the same time, he was sweet-talking to the girls, so they liked him. In no time at all, he developed a reputation among the teachers, staff and some of the parents of being a brat.

Yes. Bobby the Brat.

What concerned them most of all was that there seemed to be a breakdown of discipline across the board–because other students began to feel the liberty to be curt, selfish and overly aggressive.

There was so much pressure on Bobby that when the time to begin fourth grade rolled around, he was gone. His parents left town.

Bobby the Brat had departed, so things went back to being orderly. Even though we all denounce the blandness of being orderly, disorderly comes with a nastiness which spews out poison which has been deposited in our “mad hole.”

Yes. All God’s children got a mad hole.

It’s a space deep inside where we stuff all of our frustration, misgiving and prejudice, thinking it’s a garbage can–but really, it’s just a container where our bigotries decay.

And then one day, we reach a point of rage when this poison is vomited out of our mouths.

It’s a mad hole.

It’s never cleaned out–ignored.

People try to freshen it–try to put a lid on it, so to speak, but as long as it exists, it will eventually erupt.

G-Pop wants his children to know that the truth is, you can’t get provoked unless you’re already pissed.

Nobody pissed you off. They just provoked you until you finally spilled all the putrid contents of your mad hole.

Often all it takes is for Bobby the Brat to come along and tease us with the notion that we aren’t crazy and we should speak out our stupidities loud and clear, for everyone to hear.

So we do.

Civility dies, kindness is mocked, being nice is deemed weak and the only distinction we have seems to be in the horror of our mad hole.

Mad hole

In my soul

Take it in

Make it sin

First the hate

Of your fate

Rots your brain

With things insane

It’s begun

Load your gun

Me against you

Us against them

Don’t wonder if it’s true

Repeat it again

Mad hole

Leaves a space

For me to despise

The human race

Donate Button

 

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

 

Catchy (Sitting 28) Mikey … December 24th, 2017

Jonathots Daily Blog

(3531)

Matthew lost track, but it certainly was several dozen phone calls before he was able to coerce the information to find out where Jo-Jay was. Details were sketchy and information was limited by red tape, but from what he was able to gather, it seemed that half an hour outside of Dulles International Airport, on Flight 451 from Brasilia, the cockpit had radioed ahead that a violently ill patient was on the plane, and they needed emergency assistance upon landing.

The patient was Jo-Jay.

It seemed that during the flight she had begun to vomit, spiked a high fever and her skin turned blood red. She was delirious and was terrifying all of her fellow travelers.

Upon landing, an ambulance immediately took her to Walter Reed Medical Center, where she was quarantined, placed on a drastic regimen of antibiotics, and presently lay helpless, limp and unconscious.

Matthew didn’t waste any time. He drove over to Walter Reed Hospital, rehearsing a cock-and-bull story about being related to Jo-Jay, only to discover upon arrival that they were so glad to see anyone who knew her that they embraced him with both questions and information.

Actually, the latter was lacking. There was not much they could tell Matthew about her condition.

Except that she was dying.

All her organs were beginning to fail, and she was under a death sentence from an unknown virus from the Amazon. She was surrounded by people in paper and plastic garments, moving in and out, diligently trying to care for her still frame.

Matthew just sat, looking through the window in total disbelief. How in the hell did this happen? What was Jo-Jay doing in Brazil?

There was no way to ask her. She was comatose.

Matthew noticed one of the nurses coming out of the room toting a purse. He recognized it as belonging to Jo-Jay. He needed that purse.

Distracting the nurse with a question about the medical chart and alluding to the fact that he might be able to give some added input, she set the purse down and slipped away for just a few moments–long enough for Matthew to reach inside the bag and pull out Jo-Jay’s “brain.” That’s what Jo-Jay called it.

It was a notebook she had kept since college, filled with ideas, feelings, recipes and little quips she had picked up to remind herself about better aspirations. Grabbing the treasure, Matthew hurried away to an empty room, entered, shut the door, turned on the light and sat down to read.

Total disappointment. For some reason the book was empty.

No pages.

As Matthew peered down at the binding, he realized that the pages had been carefully cut out of the book, probably with a razor blade. There certainly had been something inside that someone did not want anyone else to see.

Matthew was startled by a knock at the door. It was the nurse, who had discovered his hiding place. She held up Jo-Jay’s purse.

Matthew readied himself for a rebuke, but instead she asked him to rifle through the purse, to see if there was anything he might identify which might help them with a diagnosis. He had no idea what to look for.

The purse was full of nothing recognizable–except there was a powder compact in the bottom of the purse, partially open.  Matthew lifted it out and unlatched it. There, on the small mirror, written in what appeared to be lipstick, was one word:

“Mikey.”

 

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

 

Jesonian… April 29th, 2017

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3291)

jesonian-cover-amazon

I’ve done enough.

Had enough, given enough, loved enough, lived enough.

Prayed, worked, cried…

ENOUGH

Laughed enough, cared enough and decided enough.

Tepid.

The temperature of America.

Ninety-eight point sick of buying, crying, lying, sighing, trying, vying…but in no hurry for dying.

Somewhere along the line, lukewarm has been presented as a virtuous temperance. Matter of fact, in our religious communities–especially Christian churches–the concept of pursuing, believing, striving and reaching has been discounted in favor of “immeasurable grace” that seems to cover a multitude of misunderstanding.

Yet the GPS of the Gospel is definitely set for the second mile.

Jesus had a disdain and dislike for anyone who was trying to glide through life without offering full commitment. From the manger in Bethlehem, where shepherds were beckoned from their work and wise men were required to travel hundreds of miles to follow a star, to the Book of Revelation, where Jesus tells one of the new churches that they were so noncommittal that they made him vomit, we see a Savior who wants us to be involved in saving ourselves.

It is the woman who touched the hem of his garment who was healed.

Another lady crawled across the floor so that she could stand upright and walk.

The blind man screamed at the top of his lungs for healing, even though the crowd thought he should shut up.

A centurian broke all protocol to ask a Jewish teacher to heal his servant, while admitting he was not worthy to have the Master come to his home.

It was the thief on the cross, who expressed faith in a “fellow criminal” hanging by his side, who achieved Paradise.

We are lying to people when we tell them that simply showing up will get them “up for the show.” The mere presence of praise songs in a church service does not promote worship–unless the people’s hearts are ablaze with gratitude.

Clever teaching of the Gospel with insightful stories falls flat unless it is heard by human beings who are looking for reasons to be energized.

The Pharisees hated Jesus because he was passionate. He ate, he drank, he fellowshipped, he interacted with all cultures, while never condemning anyone unless they condemned others or sat idly by, waiting for life to get better.

Don’t ever forget his words to the Jewish elder, Nicodemus: “You must be born again.”

And don’t ever think that you can tiptoe up to Jesus with a tepid, American attitude, feeling you’ve already done your part–and ever get his attention.

 

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

The Sexiest Thing … December 29, 2012

(1,744)

GE DIGITAL CAMERA

Everyone thinks they’re sexy. If you don’t believe me, just challenge their prowess in the bedroom between the sheets on the magical bouncy bed. Total and complete prudes will turn into defensive, cornered animals at the notion that they lack any ping in their pong.

I remember counseling a minister a few years back who had fallen from grace by having an affair. Actually, he had fallen ON his secretary, Grace, causing quite a scandal in his congregation. He was in tears. He was contrite. He wanted to make a new start with his wife. And then I asked him to explain how the relationship had flowered. Suddenly he transformed into a sixteen-year-old boy, telling a tale of romance and first love with complete detail, including the lavish compliments his lover had heaped upon him for “rocking her world.”

It was so gross. (But as a counselor, you have to listen to such nonsense while nodding your head and choking back the gag reflex.) Our society is the worst. Somehow or another, women have begun to believe there are magical men out there who have cornered the market and know how to “oom-pah” better than other polka performers. It’s embarrassing.

Here’s the truth: sex is just as good as the excitement we feel prior to it with the person we’ve decided to include in our personal fantasy. If you’re not excited over the person, the magnitude of the thrill of the roller coaster diminishes greatly. That’s why I’m going to briefly share with you the sexiest thing I’ve ever done.

I was seventeen years old and had invited my girlfriend over for Thanksgiving dinner. We barely made it through dinner, which included turkey, dressing and all the trimmings–each one prepared in some way with Mazola corn oil, which my mother was convinced was the least offensive to heart health. We stayed at the table as long as our young hormones would allow, finally excusing ourselves to trip down the stairs to our basement, where our “couch of love” awaited.

Now, we didn’t have sex. What we did was every contortion, exercise, endeavor and passionate move that was permitted to us while still allowing us to sport the chastity card printed for the senior high youth group at the local Church of Christ. The whole marathon of lovey-dovey was exhilarating and exhausting, especially on a full meal. After about an hour of pursuing the odyssey of carnality, I pulled away, fully satisfied that I was Mark Antony and she, Cleopatra.

She, on the other hand, looked a little green. The first words out of her mouth were, “I feel nauseous.”

My thought was how cool I was to be dating a girl who used the word “nauseous” instead of “sick to her stomach.”

The second proclamation from my dear girlfriend was, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

This was immediately followed by her fulfillment of self prophesy. She vomited all over the basement floor. It wasn’t very sexy. It was nasty, and I was hoping that no one upstairs caught ear of the process. My girlfriend was embarrassed–mortified.

I glanced down at the ever-expanding circle of ick, and nearly got sick myself. There were only two things I knew at this point: (1) God, I wish I was somewhere else; and (2) somebody will need to clean this up–quickly.

I didn’t want to do it. But on the other hand, I thought it really cruel to make my girlfriend get on her hands and knees and scrub up her own urpings. So I did something really sexy. I grabbed a bunch of paper towels and Clorox, and I cleaned it up. In the background, as a soundtrack to my project, was a chorus of varied apologies from my make-out partner.

But I did it. It was then that I realized what it means to not only love somebody on the outside, but to love their insides, too–even when the contents are the unnerving remains of a Mazola-oil-soaked Thanksgiving dinner, digested for only one hour.

It was sexy. And even though that girlfriend of mine, who is now my wife of forty-two years, probably doesn’t remember everything I’ve done or said, I guarantee you that she will never forget the night I got on my hands and knees and instead of proposing marriage, cleaned up the remains of her tummy-wummy.

That’s sexy. It’s not pleasant to relate to you, but it is sexy.

Sexy is when we realize that somebody is willing to see us naked without laughing or later whispering her personal disappointment to her girlfriends.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

Take a Second to Give Me a Minute for My Hour of Need… April 20, 2012

(1,490) 

He was thirty-two years old with a birthday coming up soon. He got up early in the morning, not because he was that type of person, but because experience had taught him that life starts early and people who are working are going to be moving around. He was interested in people. He had learned to be a “people person,” even though, like every other human being, a bit of trepidation always gnawed at the corner of his mind about interaction with others.

He came to the marketplace to eat his breakfast, sit around with folks and talk before the work day beckoned everyone to tuck away in their nooks and crannies. He had just finished telling a particularly good joke about seeing a blind man leading a blind man when the pleasant conversation was interrupted by the arrival of constables and lawyers, thrusting to the forefront a frightened woman, who was obviously there against her will, at their behest.

The scene had changed. The authoritarian horde had kidnapped the moment with an agenda and they were about to transform a quiet morning of conversation into a deadly discussion of law and judgment. It seems the woman had committed a capital crime–adultery. They reiterated to the young thirty-two-year-old that such a transgression was punishable by death. They were curious about his verdict on the matter and insisted on hearing his immediate reaction to this horrific situation, demanding that he give a judgment on her fate. (By the way, his name was Jesus, and I guess what I’m trying to tell you is that they were looking for “the passion of the Christ,” expressed in a Mel Gibson tirade.) What should he do?

He had learned one valuable lesson–that a gut reaction is never right. (Let’s be honest. Even in the natural world, an immediate gut reaction is either vomit or diarrhea. Even the human stomach needs time to digest.) Anyone who wants you to give a response in this second has become your adversary. Don’t hate them–give them the greatest blessing you can. Ignore them. There is no such thing as a good split-second decision. Every preempted human reaction is always a revenge from our last disappointment. In other words, if you ask me to give an answer right now, my response will be colored by the residue from a previous encounter. You deserve better than that–and more importantly, so do I.

So even though the lawyers and constables were pushing Jesus for an “off-the-top-of-his-head” answer, he refrained. Instead, he turned his back on them, stooped down and fiddled in the dirt with his finger. What was he doing?

Taking a minute.

Everything accomplished in a second would be much better thought out if we took a minute. It’s what the Bible means by “lean not to your own understanding.” It’s talking about those jumping-to-conclusion-decisions that we make and later regret.

He fiddled in the dirt … he was thinking.

In the process of thinking, he also drew attention away from that frightened woman and cooled the heat of the atmosphere to a temperature for reason instead of rage.

Take a second to give yourself a minute. If it really demands that much hurry, it may just be out of your hands anyway.

Of course, these frenetic accusers continued to push him, trying to acquire a quick resolution that they knew would more than likely be flawed. He just kept fiddling in the dirt.

You see, in your minute of contemplation there is no real reason to rise to the occasion until God, your brain, your experience, the spirit or just good, old-fashioned common sense gives you a bit of holy inspiration for the hour. What did Jesus come to during that minute of fiddling?

1. These constables and lawyers had no power to put anybody to death. They were under the thumb and watchful eye of Big Government, which controlled their every move. They were speaking of deadly practices in theory. Not that this made it any less nasty–just not quite so lethal.

2. Since it was early in the morning, had they really “caught” some woman committing adultery? Before bacon and eggs? Or was she really caught the night before and detained as they drafted a plan to try to cause him to stumble? Or was she just a plant–an actress hired to play the part of an adultress? Any way you looked at it, it was fishy.

3. Where was the man? After all, it does take two to tango–and also to do this thing deemed worthy of death. And the law they were quoting did require that both parties be put to death. So why did they decide to just bring the woman and not the pair?

You see, all of these questions had time to percolate  in his brain–because he didn’t react in a second, but instead, took a minute. I imagine some of the ideas that popped into his head both made him smile at how stupid they were and also caused him to be angry because these officious fools were willing to gamble the life of a woman to make a point.

Well, here’s what he came up with. Since the problem was theirs and not hers, he suddenly got a burst of inspiration. Put it back on them.

So because he didn’t react in a second and took a minute to reason out what was going on, he was given inspiration for the hour.

He eased to his feet, turned to the red-faced, huffing crowd, and said, “If you want to kill her, you should only do so if you know that you haven’t done anything equally as bad–that would make your life worthless and therefore make you the next candidate to be put to death.”

He didn’t wait for a debate. He turned back around, stooped down  and fiddled in the dirt again. His message was clear: if you don’t have any sin, then fo ahead and rock her world. If you do, you might want to avoid getting stoned. 

What a brilliant turn-around–one that no human being could come up with in a second, but required a minute of thought for an hour of inspiration.

Because Jesus decided not to be frantic, giving an immediate gut reaction, a woman left the marketplace that day in peace instead of pieces. Let us remember his strategy:

A. In that second–when everyone wants you to give an answer–don’t react. (If you’re the pilot of an airplane and it is suddenly unresponsive, don’t start steering until you find out which direction is salvation.)

B. Take a minute to fiddle in the dirt–to understand the problem and tap your better resources. (Turn into a host of your own solution. Yes, be Ryan Seacrest on American Idol, juggling judges and contestants with smooth transitions instead of jerky movements)

C. Wait for God and wisdom to give you inspiration in your hour of need. (If you move out on your instincts, the depression you have from previous disappointments could cloud your judgment. You need God to clear away your own overcast before you’re prepared to clear the skies.)

It’s a life-saving decision. It only requires that we don’t trust the festering in our hearts, but instead, get a good bucket of Godly provision.

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

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.

<span>%d</span> bloggers like this: