I could get the chips and dips ready and clean my waiting room toilet, today, in honor of the annual NFL parade of Sexuality, Aggression and Ad Campaigns that support our (type of) Economy. As I've aged, I do tend to have certain idiosyncratic holy days ... days set aside for particular purposes. July 4th is my decision day. I sit as still as I can and make those decisions that are reasonably decidable/makeable. How many hours a week shall I work? What does the house need? The office? Is late term abortion REALLY too late when your kids are 38, 47 and 48! .... Ah! That was a little joke ... I'm gonna hanging out occasionally with spawn and grandspawn till I'm -- as they say -- called home.
Having lived a life in seminaries from early on and in very religious environments, I didn't find out about this particular holy day till the late 1970's when a colleague and his wife, Bill and Joanne, invited us to something called a Superbowl Party. There was food and much good cheer. The first year, we brought a bottle of good scotch and -- out of my discomfort with this bit of secular Americana -- I drank a good deal of it. Another Bill in attendance, a Presby Minister, made the mistake of getting me started on talking about commentaries on the Scriptures. Poor Bill! I must've bored him to death and intruded on his passion for the game. Well, those of you who read my meanderings chances are know how ponderous I can be. There ARE some people who should never drink ... DWB ... Drinking While Biblicizing just ain't fair to others.
There were more such parties until my colleague, Bill, began losing some of his previously sharp grasp on things and, together with Joanne, moved to Texas. While I hear from them from time to time, Bill is apparently no longer able to speak on the phone. The Fourth Quarter has the most fortunate among us a bit addled ... and we are sad for those less fortunate. Minister Bill left, too -- maybe with one of his congregants -- and we've lost touch with the other Superbowl Party attendees.
Zo! M and I are not only orphaned of our parents, but Superbowl orphans, as well. We'll go to see a play at a local theater with Milt and Ruthie, but by the time we get out and eat dinner, it may well be bedtime. M and I will head home to watch parts of the game with GuntherDog, but neither Gunther nor I knows whose playing.
I do know Payton Manning is no longer where he was but is playing well on one of the championship teams .... and I do know that the Toiletbowl in the Waiting Room bathroom will be cleaned and ... I am confident that Chris Christie of New Jersey (and Federal) Heat fame will do his best to repeatedly sack David Wildstein, .... still, once more.
Oh! I, also, know that I'm supposed to (and chances are won't) make a hoagie or a submarine or a hero sandwich and to get pissed if my team loses. Hate to ruin the atmosphere, but what would the Prophet Malachi say about the Superbowl? Ah! He'd chances are bore the hell out of poor Minister Bill, just like I'd love to, again.
Happy Holy Day to all.
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