When I’m subpoenaed to testify before congress, as we all know is inevitable, my plan is to don a nice suit and come with prepared statements that I deliver with complete earnestness. But deep down in my heart I’ll be totally goofing on the senators interviewing me.
Because who can resist goofing on senators? Not even God can’t resist goofing on US senators.
Did you know that when US senators die they start making their way toward the gates of heaven, but instead of being greeted by a tipsy Saint Peter dressed in a Hawaiian shirt and drinking from a hollowed-out pineapple, they curiously find themselves alone in an old cemetery at dusk with the wind howling, a rusty old padlock securing the wrought iron gates?
What the heck! I wasn’t so bad, was I? What, just because I killed a gun bill or two? Or ten? That means I go to hell?
As darkness descends, pitchfork-wielding demons emerge, surrounding the dead senator. Before being fitted with a suit of flames, the old stodgy white male is brought to a podium, where he is forced to answer questions from an unrelenting British press.
But suddenly the lights come up, God struts out, and a studio audience applauds. It was all a joke. It turns out that God doesn’t send anyone to hell.
Sounds awesome, until you realize that this means that everyone you’ve ever met on earth is in heaven. Major design flaw!
I was wondering recently if my kids would be loyal to me if I really needed them to be, and I’m starting to think they wouldn’t. That’s just like kids, isn’t it? Unwilling to bend the rules for dear old dad.
“You don’t want dear old dad to go to jail, do you?”
They’re about to yell “No!” and then they think: “hmmm.”
Not that there’s anything I could possibly go to jail for. Heh heh. Except maybe that I dote on my kids too much. Always giving them chocolatey goodies whenever they want them (slight exaggeration). Constantly reaffirming that they are allowed all the ice cream they can eat until the end of time (which may not be so far into the future, by the way). But only as long as they are loyal.
Which is absolutely NOT a quid pro quo.
But here’s the thing: they totally can’t handle loyalty. They might take it from me, but they are not necessarily going to give it back.
In this respect, my children are like my cats.
I recently heard that, by and large, we humans are not consuming enough chocolate.
I’m pretty confident that I consume enough chocolate for several people, which can only mean that some people out there aren’t pulling their chocolate consumption weight. They claim to eat their fair share and sometimes even manage to, but then they slack off, and soon are failing to make chocolate an integral part of their diets. If there’s chocolate around maybe they’ll indulge, but they aren’t creative enough to think consciously about how to get their chocolate numbers up.
Guess what: that person used to be me. I know you think of me as a chocolate hero, always eating extra chocolate to account for the laggards who aren’t willing to put in the sweat-equity, always managing the house’s stores of chocolate and variety of selection, always ready with a friendly quip or adage about chocolate.
Close. I do go above and beyond, but the fact is I haven’t been ready with a quip about chocolate in quite some time. Will be talking to my life coach about this at our next session.
How long has it been since we last talked mustard?
Too long, that’s for sure. It’s like mustard isn’t even part of my life anymore, the way I never bring it up in any serious discussion on the future of human beings.
But trust me on this: it’s a huge part of my life. Rarely does a day go by when I don’t think about mustard. Or consider when I might next use mustard. Or have little droplets of mustard floating around deep down inside my subconscious mind, such that I don’t even realize I’m thinking about mustard until months pass and the media start to get all over me: Hasn’t Mentioned Mustard Yet This Year! and so forth.
Sorry, but I have mentioned it. Maybe the media just aren’t receptive to hearing it. I’ve said things like, “How come we have so damned much mustard, honey?” And the response, invariably, has been “Costco.”
My parents used to have too much mustard in their house as well, but that’s because they entertained. Needless to say, if they were entertaining, they were serving mustard. Roasted mustard, creamed mustard, baked mustard. Not to mention that some people requested it as a condiment (!).
Bear in mind that I’ve actually been consuming my fair share of mustard during this so-called “period of silence.” What, I’m going to go to a Red Sox game and not eat the free mustard they have? It’s just sitting out there in gallon-sized tubs with attachments that squirt out as much of the golden goo as you’d like! How foolish it would be not to take advantage of that.
Heading to the ballpark tonight with mustard on my mind.