...all about a Monday morning

I don’t care who says that time travel is physically impossible, the guy seated third from the right in The Last Supper is me. I can't figure out how DaVinci painted it fifteen hundred years later and captured my image so perfectly, though. Maybe he knew about time travel, too. In retrospect, if I had it all to do over, I think I would have had him draw me to look a little more like Christopher Walken.

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I have absolutely no idea why B.B. King and his band decided to burn my house down (with me still in it)... but as a blues fan, I’m pleased that they brought their instruments along with them. Their music helped pass the time as we waited for the paramedics to arrive. There’s something special about the dulcet tones of “The Thrill Is Gone” while one is being loaded onto an ambulance gurney.

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Knucklehead State University (College of Braggadocio) is proud to announce an addition to its spring semester course offerings:

Hyperbole 101
Instructor: B.R. Church, W.G.A.D. Meets T, Th, Su (2:30 a.m. to 6:15 a.m.) at Denny's

Requirements:

a) Extremely twisted sense of humor
b) Ability to perform complex tongue-twister exercises while mildly intoxicated
c) Poor eyesight or facility to overlook instructor’s somewhat-grotesque personal habits
d) Willingness to contribute large sums of money to instructor’s relief fund. (Note: Attractive females may have any or all requirements waived, dependent upon attitude, at instructor’s discretion)
e) Like a thousand pencils or something


Sample discussion text:

At the doctor’s office:

“Mr. Church, your blood tests show that your cholesterol, lipids, and electrolytes are all fine… but I am concerned about your highly elevated chutzpah levels. Kindly crawl off Nurse Buffy, and we'll discuss it."

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This morning hasn’t started out great for me. I’m dizzy, I can’t feel my arms or legs, my mouth is dry and pasty, my tongue’s numb and I can’t see my hand in front of my face… plus, judging from the wetness, I’d take 8-to-5 that I just peed my pants.

I’m starting to believe that hindsight is always 20/20, because if I had it all to do over again, last night I wouldn’t have drunk that second bottle of furniture polish.

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To every thing there is a season, or at least, so Ecclesiastes proclaims. For the past six years is has been our time to kill, our time to cast stones it would seem.

Evidently there is no price too dear for our avaricious appetites, no sacred trust inviolable in our quest for vengeance, no commandment so stringent that we will not forsake it to mollify our sense of political outrage.

Statesmen, if they exist at all, now cower in the weeds of political expediency, waiting until the air is once again sweet enough to lift their heads and determine which way the winds blow. Once-stalwart beings capable of balancing justice and mercy with equal fervor now surround themselves with like-thinking accomplices intent upon forcing their ideology down the throats of others suffering the shock and horror of their presence.

Negotiation skills are taught in a classroom accompanied by car bombs and air strikes, as if a point of view is best heard in the wake of screams. Ecclesiastes also said there is a time to mourn and a time to weep. These days, the tears could fill a dry ocean bed or turn the deserts green... with no end in sight.