Off-the-Shelf

The Holy Potato Chip

My research on the poet McSheey has produced the following:

Taken from a pamphlet handed out at a recent Nutty New England Poets of the 20^th Century lecture held at Stoneycliff University

Thomas J. McSheey (1899-1935) was the author of several volumes of poetry, many published articles regarding his ideas on God and the nature of the universe, a handful of short stories, and a To-Do list that never seemed to get completed.

McSheey was constantly at work on a number of writing projects that never reached fruition, thus prompting him to spend most of his time puttering around in his garage smoking a pipe and trying to look busy. In terms of religion, he believed in God, per se, but felt He was quite a bit shorter than depicted in renaissance paintings.

As for the nature of the universe in general, McSheey believed it would all end someday, probably on a Tuesday, right before noontime, so he advised that we all eat a big breakfast that morning.

In the end, McSheey choked to death on a piece of dark chocolate, although some scholars believe it was milk chocolate, while others believe caramel was present.

The Holy Potato Chip of South Braintree, Mass.

In McSheey's personal journal there is mention of a particular autumn afternoon spent at a small luncheon spot along Washington Street in South Braintree Square, at a period in his life of spiritual disillusionment, during which time he was believed by scholars to be dabbling in paganism and the occult. Either that, or he just liked doodling pentagrams in the margins of his notebook.

Arriving well after the noon hour, he was alone as he entered the establishment and approached the counter to order a BLT, a bag of potato chips, and a bottle of Moxie. After a bit of a wait while the young woman behind the counter prepared his sandwich, during which time the two made the usual small talk -- mostly centered around possible theories concerning the origins of the universe and whether or not there is enough matter contained within to cause the cosmos to gravitationally collapse back in on itself some billions of years into the future ... you know, the usual playful banter between two members of the opposite sex -- McSheey eventually took a seat at a small round table in the back. There he unwrapped his sandwich and poured out his potato chips upon the awaiting wax paper. (Editor's note: As if wax paper were incarnate! Humph!)

After a couple of bites of his sandwich, and a swig of his tonic, he noticed an odd-looking potato chip staring up at him from the center of the wax paper. (As if a potato chip possessed a soul! Humph!!)

Picking up the chip, he held it to the light to reveal that at its center was an image clearly resembling a crucifix.

"Holy cow!" he exclaimed, causing the young woman to come out from behind the counter, wiping her hands on her apron as she approached the table. Upon seeing the potato chip she immediately blessed herself with the sign of the cross.

McSheey, seizing on the woman's apparent piety, presented the holy potato chip to her ... and then asked for her phone number. She at first balked at the potato chip, saying that he had found it and should be the one to keep it, but then she finally accepted the chip, displaying it upon a shelf over the cash register. And eventually, with a little prodding, she forfeited her phone number.

A few afternoons later the two met along Washington Street and went for a short autumn stroll down to Sunset Lake. There they sat upon a bench before the still, reflective waters and talked further about the origins of the universe and their respective religious beliefs. It turned out they were both raised Catholic, although McSheey admitted he had recently left the church after an argument with a local priest over the Nicene Creed, citing in his side of the argument the Creed's numerous text changes over the centuries dating back to the Council of Constantinople in 381 A.D. and culminating in the 17^th century Book of Common Prayer version, thus rendering it inconsistent with earlier doctrine. The priest countered by dousing McSheey with holy water and running away!

Meanwhile, word had spread throughout downtown South Braintree of the miraculous find, and neighboring shop owners and people from off the street flocked into the small eatery to see the holy potato chip. The owner of the eatery -- the young woman's father, it turns out -- placed the chip inside a miniature glass case, and then placed the case back on the shelf next to a small statue of Our Saviour, yet hidden behind a small red curtain. He then charged people 25 cents to view the chip, which enraged the local parish ... not so much because he was profiting in the name of the Lord, but because his enterprise was cutting into the weekly church collection.   

Yet, the miracle of the holy potato chip of South Braintree was short-lived. One afternoon, as the young woman stepped into the back storage room to retrieve a jar of mayonnaise, someone snuck behind the counter and stole the chip. The culprit's identity was never revealed, but it was rumored that the blessed chip was consumed one Sunday morning during Holy Communion at the 10:00 mass.

As for the young woman, she lost interest in the lakeside spiritual discussions. It all ended one Tuesday afternoon after an argument over the Parable of the Lost Sheep, in which Jesus tells the tale of a shepherd with 100 sheep, "and one of them be gone astray, doth he not leave the ninety and nine, and goeth into the mountains, and seeketh that which is gone astray." (Matthew 18:12)

She felt the parable symbolized the redemption of the soul, and the everlasting love of God - the Good Shepherd - who abandons all to find that which is lost. McSheey disagreed, feeling the shepherd was just being greedy and should have felt fortunate to still have 99 sheep in his flock.

McSheey concluded his side of the argument by "agreeing to disagree." The young woman, on the other hand, concluded her side of the argument by agreeing never to see McSheey again as she stormed off.

The young poet sat there upon the bench, doodling with the stick of a tree branch in his left hand, etching a cross into the dirt, which he transformed into a pentagram inside a circle, eventually erasing the image with the sole of his shoe.

Arising, he considered St. Matthew's next verse: "...he rejoiceth more of that sheep, than of the ninety and nine which went not astray." (Matthew 18:13)

"I still think the shepherd was just being greedy," he said aloud in a sort of concluding rebuttal as he reached down to pick up an acorn, one of perhaps a hundred acorns resting there upon the ground, and tossed it lazily into the lake where it bobbed  lost and lonely and searching amongst the ripples of the cosmos. (As if the acorn were self-aware and representative of the plight of humanity!! Humph!!!)

A-men.

Jack Sheedy

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Diabolus Imbibo

Researching 20^th century lunatic poet Thomas J. McSheey (1899-1935) has consumed all my time of late, causing me to spend long hours in the library at Stonybrook University – where all his papers are kept. The university also keeps all his No. 2 pencils … in a beer stein emblazoned with the creed Scientia est Diabolus imbibo (Translation: Knowledge is the Devil's drink).

Here is some of what I have come across in my studies:

Pavane pour une Maniaque Poete

McSheey was truly a lunatic. For instance, as an undergraduate student he went on for a score of pages writing about two beloved pieces of classical composition – Mascagni's Cavalleria Rusticana and Ravel's Pavane pour une Infante Defunte – comparing and contrasting their moods and tempos, providing detailed biographies of the two composers, who their influences were, and arguing in great detail the artistic value of their musical pieces to the world of classical music. Until, on the final page, he realized he had confused Ravel's Pavane with Fauré's Pavane, concluding the paper with the short sentence, "Oh, never mind."

Incidentally, he received a failing grade on the paper, not because it was sloppily researched or poorly written, but because he had written it not for a Music Appreciation class but instead for a Modern Sculpture class, leading his art professor to write atop the first page, "What the hell did you write all this for?!"

Not surprisingly, McSheey's failure and subsequent embarrassment left him with a lifelong phobia of modeling clay.

Cow from Uxbridge

Further to the above, McSheey wrote a poem entitled Pavane pour une Insect Defunte, set to the music of Ravel's work, which was an ode to a fly he once dispatched at a summer picnic. The poem climaxed with the lines:

The cursed fly landed on my plate,

right next to my potatoes – mashed,

if there is one thing I truly hate,

so I swatted him – smash, smash, smashed!!

McSheey entered his Pavane in a poetry competition held at a local agricultural festival, winning second place honors. He was runner up to a poem entitled There Once Was a Cow From Uxbridge, which went on to win state honors, praised by the panel of judges as being "so descriptive in its depiction of New England farm life that you can almost smell the cowpats."  

Autumn Garden

One rainy autumn day, as I pored through a folder of McSheey writings, I happened upon a short poem handwritten upon a yellowed piece of paper. The page, which displayed words and stanzas crossed out here and there, showed the process of writing and of how the poet's thoughts moved from earlier drafts to edited drafts to a finished draft … and then finally to a To-Do list. The finished poem reads as follows:

Autumn garden, dead, wilted,

deprived, dejected, deceased, jilted,

killed by a chilling night and a waning sun,

dry, rustling of a corn stalk,

this damn, blasted writer's block

with patience, the torrent of words will at last come.

Nature's seasons come and go,

summer's gardens die and grow,

days and nights travel at their celestial pace,

moonbeams phase from full to new,

worlds melt down in autumnal hue,

to unravel like a ball of yellow yarn,

deep out into the pitch of space.

This final version deviates greatly from the original draft of the poem, which initially began with the lines: "Roses are red / Violets are blue / Actually, they're not really blue / They're more purplish in color, wouldn't you say?"

Incidentally, the page concludes with the following from his To-Do list:

• Wash windows
• Rake leaves
• Fix kitchen sink
• Buy more No. 2 pencils

Recipe for Diabolus Imbibo (Devil's Drink):

Mix 3 oz of your favorite hard cider with 3 oz of Diabolus mixer, available at most fine spirits shoppes and at all Witches' Sabbaths. Add 3 oz of bitter made from the mandrake root, preferably harvested at midnight beneath the pale light of a waning moon rising in the east. Garnish with lemon juice, limejuice, apple slices, apricots, cinnamon, nutmeg, honey, the wing of a bat, the sweat of a toad, and (now this is really important) 18 whole cranberries – which is the sum of 6+6+6 … 666 … the sign of the Diabolus. Add ice. Shake. Remove ice. Pour into a sturdy, fire resistant cup. Set ablaze. Extinguish. And enjoy … to the music of Liszt's Mephisto Waltz No. 1 playing on the turntable.

Jack Sheedy

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Born in Boston

Those who have followed this blog over the past few years (all three of you) have been subjected to my curious interest in a rather obscure New England writer-poet-essayist-short order cook named Thomas John McSheey, who lived from 1899 until his untidily death in 1935 when he choked on a piece of dark chocolate in his very messy apartment.

Presently, I am at work on a biography about this strange, secular, scribbler of sentences, who throughout his short life found himself questioning the meaning of life, the meaning of death, and the meaning of all that which lies in between.

In my research at Stoneycliff University, which holds the papers of T.J. McSheey, mainly because no other college or university wanted them, I came across a number of the writer's journals. I provide here an excerpt from one such journal, it being the 110^th anniversary of McSheey's birth.

The following was written in 1934, the year before his death, in pencil on a pad of yellow lined paper ...

"I was born in Boston, Massachusetts -- Dorchester to be more specific -- on September 4, 1899, at 10:44 in the morning, just in time for brunch. If I recall, I had the vegetarian omelet with home fries and rye toast, and a small orange juice. The coffee, if my memory serves, was cold.

"My father was a seamstress, and my mother was a professional wrestler who went by the name "The Sultan of Southie." Or perhaps it was the other way around. Father spoke four languages, all of them being English. Mother wrote poetry, but did not believe in the "th" sound, which caused havoc with such words as "the," "think," "thank," and "thiophosphate."

"I was an only child until I reached the age of twelve. During that year, upon one morning, as I went down the hall to use the bathroom to brush my teeth before school, I discovered the bathroom door shut and locked. It was then that I realized I had a sixteen-year-old sister. I never saw the inside of the bathroom again.

"Meanwhile, my father, concerned about the complete lack of crime in the city, decided to move our family to the suburbs. There I had a paper route for a number of years, but by some mistake I always delivered the previous day's newspaper.

"My first interest in writing manifested itself during my 15^th year. My uncle, a farmer by trade who lived in the neighboring town, was killed in horrible fashion when he was trampled to death by his prize turkey. Investigators discovered his body outside the barn, with the telltale word "Tommy" etched into the dirt. A manhunt, or rather, a turkey hunt commenced, and Tommy was eventually apprehended along Washington Street hitching for a ride. At his trial, Tommy claimed temporary insanity brought on by the nearness of Thanksgiving. A jury of his peers -- three turkeys, two roosters, five hens, a warbler, and a grouse -- found him guilty of first-degree murder. Whether or not he was guilty in the first-degree remains uncertain, but he certainly was delicious!

"So, after my uncle's death, I wrote this little poem, which first displayed on paper my questioning of life, death, God, and my fascination with the written word (and the letters which form such words):

Saw a hearse along the byway,

It was travelling due west,

Into the setting sun,

Wearing his Sunday best.

For we are just a short trek,

Down the road to the village plot,

In the Creator's mind,

We're just an afterthought.

For we are nothing more than,

Mortal flesh upon mortal bone,

Adrift and all alone,

Upon the cosmic sea.

We're just an alphabet of life,

An alphabet from A to Z,

And sometimes the letter Y,

And, of course, I before E,

Except after C."

Jack Sheedy 

Next time: McSheey abandons his Catholic upbringing to become a pagan after he falls for an oak tree.

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Knuckleheads of Genesis

The Book of Genesis is brimming with great biblical characters - Adam, Eve, Noah, Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph.

And, of course, we cannot forget Ham, Jā'-phĕth, and Shem - the three sons of Noah.

Before Moe, Larry, and Shemp, there were Ham, Jā'-phĕth, and Shem, affectionately known throughout the Holy Land as the "Three Knuckleheads of the Book of Genesis." Their slapstick antics and moronic wordplay are sprinkled throughout the pages of Genesis, from the Great Flood to the Tower of Babel.

In fact, it is believed that these three morons actually caused the Great Flood during one sidesplitting episode (entitled "I Smell an Ararat") in which they played a trio of inept plumbers repairing pipes at the exclusive Mt. Ararat Country Club & Spa.

And some theologians believe that not only did the building of the Tower of Babel by these three idiots result in the confusion of tongues, thus confounding the language of the people, and thus scattering the peoples throughout the earth, but that this particular episode (entitled "Tower of Rabble") also ended in a good, old-fashioned pie fight.

So, here is their tale - Ham, Jā'-phĕth, and Shem - taken from Genesis Chapters 6 thru 11, "when men began to multiply on the face of the earth, and daughters were born unto them." God help us all!

{Musical accompaniment: "Three Blind Mice" on violin}

*****

A black and white scene opens upon three, short, funny looking biblical men all asleep in one bed, snoring. The narrator saith:

"And God saw that the wickedness of man was great in the earth ... And the Lord said, I will destroy man whom I have created from the face of the earth; both man, and beast, and the creeping thing, and the fowls of the air; for it repententh me that I have made them. But Noah found grace in the eyes of the Lord ... Noah was a just man and perfect in his generation, and Noah walked with God." (Gen. 6:5-9)

"And Noah begat three sons, Shem, Ham, and Jā'-phĕth." (Gen. 6:10)

The alarm clock's ringing awakens the man sleeping in the middle, Ham, the one with the bowl-shaped haircut. He sits up in bed, rubs his face, and then looks down at his two sleeping brothers snoring on either side of him. Finally, he bops both of them on their foreheads with his two fists, accompanied by a pair of sound effects resembling a hammer striking a piece of steel pipe.

"Come on you two, wake up!" he barks. The other two men, Shem and Jā'-phĕth, sit up in bed, nursing their sore foreheads.

"Gee, Ham, what did you do that for?" asks Jā'-phĕth, who, though bald on top of his head, has a full crop of curls along the sides.

"Because today is the day we've gotta start building the ark."

"Ark?" replies Jā'-phĕth, "What ark?"

"The ark that we bought all that wood for yesterday!" barks Ham as he reaches out and rips free a handful of Jā'-phĕth's hair.

"Ouch!" cries Jā'-phĕth.

"Hey, you shouldn't do that!" says Shem, the brother with the face like a worn catcher's mitt.

"You're right," says Ham. "I guess I should have done this instead!" With that, he pokes Shem in the eyes with two fingers.

"Owwww!!" cries Shem.

"Come on you two!" orders Ham as he pulls his brothers out of bed by their hair.

*****

Later, at the job site...

"Gee Ham, how big are we supposed to build the ark?" asks Jā'-phĕth.

"I don't know. Let's ask Shem. He has the blueprints."

Looking over at Shem, they see him eating a sandwich wrapped in some sort of papyrus.

"Enjoying your sandwich?" asks Ham, smiling ... and then slapping Shem across the face.

"Hey, what gives?" asks Shem.

"That papyrus you've wrapped your sandwich in is the blueprint for the ark, you idiot!" barks Ham.

"Oh, so it is," replies Shem. Ham grabs the papyrus away from Shem and hands it to Jā'-phĕth.

"Here genius, you figure it out."

"Hmmm," says Jā'-phĕth, "Let's see, it says here: And God said unto Noah ... The length of the ark shall be three hundred cubits, the breadth of it fifty cubits, and the height of it thirty cubits." (Gen. 6:14-15)

"Three hundred cubits..." says Ham, rubbing his chin as if in deep thought.

"Hey, Ham," blurts Shem, "What's a cubit?"

"What's a cubit, he asks," says Ham, shaking his head and looking at Jā'-phĕth. "How the heck do I know what a cubit is." He then slaps Shem in the face, gives him a fist to the belly, and bops him in the forehead.

"Hey Ham," says Jā'-phĕth, referring to the papyrus, "It says here that one cubit equals two spans."

"Oh, is that so," replies Ham, smiling. "And what is a span?"

"A span equals three palms," announces Jā'-phĕth.

"Oh, now we're getting somewhere," says Ham, smiling and nodding his head. "So, professor, what is a palm?"

"It says one palm equals four digits," says Jā'-phĕth, feeling confident about himself.

"And what, exactly, is a digit?" asks Ham with arms crossed.

"It don't say," says Jā'-phĕth.

"Oh really ... well how about you pick two digits," says Ham, offering his hand.

"One, two," says Jā'-phĕth, picking two of Ham's fingers, with which the bowl-shaped haircut man pokes the curly-haired man in the eyes. A melee of face slapping, and top-of-the-head conking, and stomach punching, and eye gouging commences until their father, Noah, happens by to see the progress being made on the ark.

"What have you three morons been up to?!" asks Noah as he grabs Shem and Jā'-phĕth by the backs of their collars and lifts them off the ground.

"Hey, Pops," says Ham, standing there with two thumbs in his suspenders, "We're just about to begin work."

"I hope so," replies Noah. "God says He's going to 'cause it to rain upon the earth forty days and forty nights' - that'll be something like a billion ephahs of water."

"No problem, Pops. We'll have this ark built in no time," assures Ham.

"Well, see to it!" says Noah as he departs.

"Okay, you knuckleheads, get building!" barks Ham to his two brothers as he slaps each on the back of the head.

"Hey, Jā'-phĕth," says Shem, as he picks up a long timber of hewn wood, turns, and accidentally strikes Ham with it on the back of the head, knocking him down, "What's an ephah?"

"Well, it says here," says Jā'-phĕth referring to the papyrus, "An ephah equals three seahs, and one seah equals three-and-a-half omers, and one omer equals one and four-fifths cabs..."

"That's enough you two morons!" barks Ham, back on his feet and rubbing the back of his head. "Get to work!"

With that, he swings at their faces with the palm of an open hand. SLAP!! SLAP!!

Jack Sheedy

Next time: "After the waters were abated," with the ark resting at Mt. Ararat, Noah sends forth a dove, which returns with an olive branch in its mouth, only to drop the branch in Jā'-phĕth's nest of hair and then bites Shem on the nose in a classic episode entitled "40 Daze of Rain."

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Loaves & Fishes, With Dip

In this blog entry, I follow up my earlier entry in which I clear the decks of fragments of ideas which have haunted me over the past year, ideas which began with promise, yet which never quite reached fruition, dying on the vine, one might say.

I provide them here as a sort of literary cleansing of the soul.

So I can move on with my life.

And get some shut-eye.

{Musical accompaniment: Puccini's Nessun Dorma}

***

Poetic License

A certain obscure New England writer used any opportunity to let the public know he was a poet. In fact, one time he sped around the streets of his hometown until finally he was pulled over by a police officer. The officer approached the man's car and demanded to see his license and registration.

"Of course, officer," said the man as he handed him his automobile registration and a laminated card that displayed his photograph, his name, and beneath his name, the title "Poet."

Pointing to the card, the officer asked, "What the hell is this?"

"That, sir, is my poetic license," he replied.

Clearly not amused, the police officer swiftly wrote out a $125 ticket: $100 for speeding, and an additional $25 for flagrant use of a poorly executed witticism along a public road.

***

Loaves and Fishes

It began as a typical summer Sunday of mowing the lawn and washing the car, when suddenly people from my past and present began to arrive at my front door. First to arrive was my old college roommate, and his new wife, and her three children from a future marriage. Next was a buddy from high school, who brought along a woman he met recently at a demolition derby competition (apparently she was the driver of Car #6 -- a 1977 AMC Hornet).

My mailman arrived with a letter he forgot to deliver on the previous day. My old woodworking teacher from high school arrived, dressed in overalls, with a sketch in hand of a new and improved napkin holder he had come up with. And my priest from the local parish arrived to ask why I had not been in church that morning.

Then, one by one, family members arrived, some of which I had thought dead for years. With all the commotion, neighbors began to mosey by to see what was going on. The last person to arrive was my tax accountant, yelling to me above the din that I was not withholding enough federal tax and would have to file an estimated tax payment in the third quarter.

With all these people milling about, perhaps two or three hundred people, and with it being the noon hour, I realized that I would be expected to feed these folks or else risk a social faux pas. Weaving my way to the kitchen, I found half a bag of potato chips on the counter. In the refrigerator I located three beers, a nearly empty bottle of chardonnay, five hot dogs buns, and two hot dogs. Knowing this was not enough to feed the crowd now invading my house (and spilling out onto my front lawn and back yard), I remembered from my childhood CCD classes that Jesus once faced a similar situation when he was expected to feed the multitudes while preaching near the sea of Tī-bē'-rĭ-ăs.

So I made my way into the living room, to the bookshelf, and located the Holy Bible. Flipping to the New Testament, I read from the Gospel of John, the chapter in which Christ feeds the five thousand with five loaves and two fishes, and then I turned to address the crowd in my house, saying unto them:

"I am the bread of life: he that cometh to me shall never hunger; and he that believeth in me shall never thirst." (John 6:35)

"That's great, Jack," replied my former college roommate, "but I could really go for a hot dog and a beer."

So I tried again:

"I am the living bread which came down from heaven: if any man eat of this bread, he shall live for ever: and the bread that I will give is my flesh, which I will give for the life of the world." (John 6:51)

"How about if you at least put out a bowl of chips and some dip for starters," said my high school buddy.

"And I'd like a glass of merlot!" barked his demolition derby date.

I tried one last time:

"Whoso eateth my flesh, and drinketh my blood, hath eternal life; and I will raise him up on the last day." (John 6:54)

"Hey, Jack," called out my woodworking teacher, "Where do you keep your napkins?"

Realizing that they would not be fed, the whole crowd eventually filed out and very soon I was left alone with my tax accountant. So I asked him:

"Will ye also go away?" (John 6:67)

My tax accountant replied as he departed, "Thou hast the words of eternal life" (John 6:68), referring to the paperwork he left behind on my coffee table -- Form 1040-ES: Estimated Tax for Individuals, along with all the accompanying instructions, worksheets, and tax rate schedules.

Ä'-mĕn.

***

Greatest Mothers of All Time

I had wanted to post a blog for Mother's Day, but it never materialized. In it, I had planned to list the greatest mothers of all time throughout history, from the very beginning of the world to modern times. Well, here goes:

1 - Eve - Kind of a no-brainer, after all, besides being the mother of Cain and Abel she also is the grandmother, great-grandmother, etc. of all of humanity. When asked her reaction on being selected the Greatest Mother of All Time, she replied, "Well, it's about damn time! It has been 6,000 years you know! It would have been nice if you had recognized me while I was still alive, instead of posthumously, after I've been dead for six millennia. Humph!"

2 - Virgin Mary - For Christians, the mother of Jesus should be recognized as one of the top mothers of all time. Not only was she the mother of the Messiah, but she also volunteered for the PTA and could always be counted on to bake brownies for school fundraisers.

3 - Mother Teresa - Although not an actual mother, she was an inspiration to many, and a voice for the downtrodden. And besides, she made a wicked peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

4 - Mother Nature - Although not an actual person, per se, she is clearly a force to be reckoned with. Just ask anyone who's been through a hurricane or a typhoon or a tornado or even a rain of toads!

5 - Feodor Vassilyev - Unlike Mother Nature, Feodor Vassilyev was an actual person. And unlike Mother Teresa, Ms. Vassilyev was an actual mother. In fact, Ms. Vassilyev, who lived in Russia from 1707-1782, was the mother of 69 children - a world record (I think). She had something like 16 pairs of twins, seven sets of triplets, and four sets of quadruplets. And yet, somehow she still found time to join a bowling league.

Runner ups for the category of "Greatest Moms of All Time" include: Sarah (Abraham's wife/Isaac's mother), Jochebed (Moses' mother), Martha Washington (if George is the "father" of our country, then Martha must certainly be the "mother"), Whistler's mother, the Mothers of Invention, Demeter (Greek earth-mother goddess), Maya (Buddha's mother), and Jocasta (the mother, and also the wife!, of Oedipus).

***

Unresponsive

A recent news story told of the death of a certain fellow. His wife said she realized her husband was dead when she discovered him on the couch in the living room "unresponsive."

A husband ... on the couch ... unresponsive?! If that's all it takes to declare a guy dead these days, then three-quarters of the men in this country are technically deceased!

***

Spiritual Scores

In spiritual sports action today, Christianity beat Islam by a score of 2 billion followers to 1.2 billion. Hinduism outmatched Secular/Agnostics 828 million to 775 million. In a close match, Chinese Traditional Religion edged out Buddhism by a score of 390 million followers to 364 million. Tribal Religions/Shamanism trounced Atheists in a blowout, 232 million to 150 million. Judaism easily handled Baha'i Faith 14.5 million to 7.4 million. And Shinto and Taoism played to a 2.7 million to 2.7 million tie. While today's match between Spiritualism and Wicca was postponed due to a rain of toads. (That darn Mother Nature!)

^{(Source: www.religioustolerance.org)}

Jack Sheedy

"Nessun dorma, nessun dorma"

(Translation: "None shall sleep, none shall sleep")

(That is, not with my 12-year old dog Lucy and her weak bladder waking me up to go out at all hours of the night!)

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