47 Cakes

Happy Birthday!  Is it?!!!  It’s quite basically an obligation to feel good.

I had to wish someone happy birthday today.  He is about my age, and I hope he didn’t give a crap if I said it or not.  He probably didn’t want me to acknowledge it, but since I work with him on a daily basis, it’s better to be on the safe side of the cake.

My birthday always felt like Thanksgiving. That’s what it really was.  Thanksgiving was my favorite holiday and my birthday transformed it to a relatively easy Thanksgiving for my mother. German chocolate cake, and shake and bake chicken for everyone.  Wish granted.

Growing up as a hillbilly, we didn’t have parties.  We didn’t have ho downs  We had two cows, Ferdinand and Issabella, sniffing at our screen door waiting for their dessert. As the youngest of 13, the only rule was to wait for the candles to ignite and then blow them out to defuse the potential catastrophe.

Don’t get me wrong.  Or, maybe you can. There’s nothing wrong with taking an adventure to Sir Charles of the Cheddar Cheese Factory or dry heaving to the smell of dirty socks on your birthday.  Just don’t invite me.  The last one spent with Chucky was for one of my many nephews, Quinn.  Someone invited to the party was a neighbor who had her nose recently bitten off by a dog.  She was a foul and angry cuss.  The party guest, not the dog.  (That’s not funny.  That’s not funny at all.)  Actually, it was a little funny because she showed up to the party wearing a costume….according to the other guests who thought they missed that memo.  Fully recovered from the injury, it did leave scars.  The doctors replaced her nose with a clown like prosthetic.  It was a chunk of flesh they took from her hind side.  That’s not funny either.  However, this not being the merriest of neighbors, she would lecture the dog daily about staying out of their yard.  She did it in such a fashion which eventually would lead to her nose’s demise and embarrassment.   Ultimately, after the settlement, she was furnished with a new house, a car and a dose of vanity.  One guest at the party walked up to her and, unknowingly, said in the dimmed lights of Chucky Cheese’s palace for hungover adults, “I didn’t know this was a costume party”.  She thought the victim was dressed as a clown.  According to my brother and I, evidently, clowns can make you chuckle.

I was invited to many of these parties only costing me fifty dollars a pop donated to a child I didn’t even know.  Crappy pizza, flat beer, and awkward conversations with the guy dressed up as a mouse wishing me to pour a beer down his dirty costume was just downright uncomfortable.

I feel sorry for the guy who is turning 47 today, because it will be the fourth birthday he must celebrate this year with his two children and wife.  All he wants for his birthday is a nice dinner at a decent restaurant.  He never gets to choose where this restaurant is, because his wife can veto any of his choices, resulting with them going a restaurant of her choice.  Poor bastard.

It’s his birthday penance.  He told me once he personally suffered during his own B-Day party at the age of ten.  He had an uninvited brother, age 8, sneaking into his special party.  After embarrassing his brother with insults and “get the hell out of my party, you twerp.  Scram!!”  in front of his friends, my friend was beckoned by his father to join him upstairs for a private meeting of the buns.  He was wailed on 10 times, and then told he would be the age of 50 if he didn’t welcome his younger brother to participate with kindness and respect.  End of story.  As the youngest of 13 children, I never was surrounded by this environment.  My older siblings were too busy eating and drinking their presents to even acknowledge my presence.

The last birthday I thoroughly didn’t enjoy took part in a classroom.  My middle school students, their parents, and other relatives decided to interrupt our class by surprising me with a party.  No beer, just cookies, soda, cake and students too strung out on glucose crack to participate with further lessons.  It did teach me a lesson.  Never tell a middle school student which day your birthday lands on the calendar.  If you wish to torture a fellow teacher, tell one of his or her students that tomorrow is his or her birthday, even if it isn’t.  They will never forgive you, which was my plan in the first place.  I paid my dues.  Let them pony up as well.  Mayhem results and spite usually conquers all.

Happy Birthday….even it’s belated, or early….even better!

My next complaint will be to the editor.  It is with regards to the Lord of all Sins: Surprises.

 

 

Thank This

Everyone hold each others’ sweaty hands.  We must give thanks and pray.  blachch…

All of you will have your turn at the table to release your souls and “out loud” tell us all what you are most thankful for this evening.

Gravy!  No.  Good gravy.  That’s all I’ve got.

Start thinking about it.  You only have a couple weeks to go before Thanksgiving judgment day.  I’m ready.

I’m thankful for paper towels.  I keep them with me, especially on Thanksgiving, like a man carrying his gun in his holster.  Spills will fly and herbs and spices will be splattered.  Since I am cooking here, that’s what I’m thankful for this evening.   I don’t care about the drunk uncle telling terrible stories at the child’s table.  I’m not thankful for him.  That may have been me a time or two.  I’m also thankful for my wife who is a septic inspector.  Not a fun job, but she has to earn the meals I provide her.

Fully loaded for Thanksgiving.  That turkey will pay for his sins.

Easter (The Holiday Trinity)

In the spirit of resurrection, I thought I’d resurrect this piece from Easter 2014.  It only took me five years.  – Ben Gannon

holyweek

I’m going Holy on my readers’ butts today.  Don’t change that website.  Not to worry, there will be no preaching.  That’s not my style.
As many of you know, this week is considered Holy Week for those believing in the resurrection of Jesus Christ.  Looking back upon my Catholic upbringing, believe it or not, I enjoyed this week, concluding with Easter Sunday, more than Christmas. Palm Sunday is where it all begins.  Unlike Christmas when it is traditional for some to unwrap one gift on Christmas Eve, you receive a gift on Sunday, a full week before Easter proper.  The congregation meets outside for a prayer and all parishioners are given a palm representing the greeting Jews provided Jesus when he arrived in Jerusalem.  According to the bible, they waved them like banners at a ballgame, then respectfully laid them on the ground before him like a green carpet while he began his journey to crucification.  Don’t worry, I’ll try not to provide anymore misinformation regarding the bible and I’m certainly not becoming a Catholic Missionary.  These are just fond memories when I actually learned and appreciated the finer points of attending mass.

Faithfully, I showed up and participated for over thirty years without missing a Sunday, even while we were on vacation, and even more miraculous, when I attended college at Washington State University.  This was especially miraculous because my father and mother weren’t there to force me to go.  Prayer and tithing, even if tithing consisted of a two for one Burger King Whopper discount coupon, were the only two reasons I graduated from a University annually placed in the top ten list of the nation’s leading party schools. (Quite a dubious honor.)  One of my roommates was Catholic, so we would attend Saturday evening mass and then proceed to defile ourselves until two or three in the morning.  I digress.  Let’s get back to this Holy Week.

Once you receive your palm, you enter the church and proceed to follow along with the same readings you have heard the last ten years of your life.  However, it was simple to avoid the Sunday Snooze because you held this palm in your hand.  Traditionally, you and your brothers and sisters would spend the next hour in the pew fashioning a cross from the palm’s strips.  It was a fun competition to see who could create the finest cross someone could die upon.  Mine would commonly turn out looking like the letter X draped with seaweed.  Even Jesus would have taken exception to carrying this thing around.  “Uhh, yeah, I don’t mean to complain, that’s really not in my nature to do so, but is it possible I die on something a little more…..well, cross like instead of cross eyed?  Great.  Thanks.”  Those crosses, mangled or not would adorn our mantle for the year.  They would then be burned and used as ashes for Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the same day one is asked to give up something significant, like beer, for forty days.  This made Easter Sunday, the day Lent ends, especially sacred for the adults who tackled this forty day sacrifice. After Palm Sunday Mass, you then began thinking about Easter Sunday and the hunt.

Before Easter Sunday, there is slight speed bump referred to as Good Friday.  This is the day Christians commemorate the passion, or suffering, of His death on the cross.  Didn’t seem so good to me.  As a youngster, I didn’t understand the Holy Day’s name, and I am still a bit confused.  After Good Friday has passed, you picture Easter Eggs so big they’d make ostrich eggs look like gall stones.  One more day of planning your strategic backyard hunting scheme.  This was basically how I could outwit my two older brothers.  Stay as far away from them as possible. That was my only hope.  They were bonafide egg thieves.

I loved the hunt almost as much as the deviled eggs mom would fabricate shortly after.  As for the Easter Bunny, I never believed in that crap.  I didn’t want to.  Since we were coloring the eggs, I figured it out pretty quickly.  Mom and Dad would never let some creepy rabbit in our house to gather our eggs and hide them in our backyard.  If a large bipedal rabbit did enter our house, one of my brothers, having a midnight snack, would grab a shotgun and go Elmer Fudd on that rabbit’s ass.  The only rabbits in our house were made out of chocolate.  For my brother, Tom, those chocolate rabbits had to be solid.  As our resident chocoholic, Tom refused to eat the ones which were hollowed out of bounds.  That was too chocolate ghetto for him. This is also followed by a feast which would include ham, turkey and all the necessary fixings.  We had mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, gravy, hot rolls, fruit salad, stuffing, and I need to stop, because I am now feeling Catholic guilt and shame remembering so many other families in our humble neighborhood who didn’t have the means for this.  Crap.  Thanks Catholicism.

Now, if you think about it, to solidify my point, I felt like this was the trinity of holidays.  It wasn’t just the Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit, Amen.  It was Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving all rolled into one.  There were gifts, there was a phony character called the Easter Bunny, there was an enormous feast, there was family, and there was Sunday Mass where Deviled Eggs were dancing in your skull.  Can you want or wish for anything more?  Yes, you can. Once you grow old enough to be the one hiding the eggs, rather than hunting for them (always a proud moment for the youngest in the family), you realize how fun and satisfying it is to hold the hand of the youngest niece or nephew helping them find enough eggs to rival their elders.  We always tried to keep the competition fairly equal to avoid any tears.  There will be NO crying on Easter!  You know why?  BECAUSE THERE’S NO CRYING ON EASTER!  (Thanks, Tom Hanks.) All these children were so wildly happy…..and all just to find a few eggs.

Ultimately, when you grow to investigate the true meaning, or story if you wish, it is as inspirational of a story one can read and disbelieve, read and question, or read and believe.  I choose to believe.  It gives you hope when you are down.  It gives you faith when you have fallen.  It gives you the genuine will necessary when your life seems to have spiraled out of control and you feel lost and thus beaten.  But, then, you ponder this story and think, “For crying out loud, this dude rose from the dead!  I think I can get off this dirty floor before the count of ten and keep fighting for a better life for myself and others.”  Or, you may just find that your head is up your ass for an unusually large amount of time.  If that occurs, think about the Resurrection of Jesus, grab a great big wad of your hair, if you still have some, and pull your head out.  Maybe, just maybe, that’s what Easter is all about.

Happy Easter

Want alerts for the latest Wildman posts?  Follow Swing Like A Wildman (@bengannon13) on Twitter via https://twitter.com/BenGannon13.

Easter (The Holiday Trinity)

In the spirit of resurrection, I thought I’d resurrect this piece from Easter 2014.  It only took me five years.  – Ben Gannon

holyweek

I’m going Holy on my readers’ butts today.  Don’t change that website.  Not to worry, there will be no preaching.  That’s not my style.
As many of you know, this week is considered Holy Week for those believing in the resurrection of Jesus Christ.  Looking back upon my Catholic upbringing, believe it or not, I enjoyed this week, concluding with Easter Sunday, more than Christmas. Palm Sunday is where it all begins.  Unlike Christmas when it is traditional for some to unwrap one gift on Christmas Eve, you receive a gift on Sunday, a full week before Easter proper.  The congregation meets outside for a prayer and all parishioners are given a palm representing the greeting Jews provided Jesus when he arrived in Jerusalem.  According to the bible, they waved them like banners at a ballgame, then respectfully laid them on the ground before him like a green carpet while he began his journey to crucification.  Don’t worry, I’ll try not to provide anymore misinformation regarding the bible and I’m certainly not becoming a Catholic Missionary.  These are just fond memories when I actually learned and appreciated the finer points of attending mass.

Faithfully, I showed up and participated for over thirty years without missing a Sunday, even while we were on vacation, and even more miraculous, when I attended college at Washington State University.  This was especially miraculous because my father and mother weren’t there to force me to go.  Prayer and tithing, even if tithing consisted of a two for one Burger King Whopper discount coupon, were the only two reasons I graduated from a University annually placed in the top ten list of the nation’s leading party schools. (Quite a dubious honor.)  One of my roommates was Catholic, so we would attend Saturday evening mass and then proceed to defile ourselves until two or three in the morning.  I digress.  Let’s get back to this Holy Week.

Once you receive your palm, you enter the church and proceed to follow along with the same readings you have heard the last ten years of your life.  However, it was simple to avoid the Sunday Snooze because you held this palm in your hand.  Traditionally, you and your brothers and sisters would spend the next hour in the pew fashioning a cross from the palm’s strips.  It was a fun competition to see who could create the finest cross someone could die upon.  Mine would commonly turn out looking like the letter X draped with seaweed.  Even Jesus would have taken exception to carrying this thing around.  “Uhh, yeah, I don’t mean to complain, that’s really not in my nature to do so, but is it possible I die on something a little more…..well, cross like instead of cross eyed?  Great.  Thanks.”  Those crosses, mangled or not would adorn our mantle for the year.  They would then be burned and used as ashes for Ash Wednesday, the beginning of Lent, the same day one is asked to give up something significant, like beer, for forty days.  This made Easter Sunday, the day Lent ends, especially sacred for the adults who tackled this forty day sacrifice. After Palm Sunday Mass, you then began thinking about Easter Sunday and the hunt.

Before Easter Sunday, there is slight speed bump referred to as Good Friday.  This is the day Christians commemorate the passion, or suffering, of His death on the cross.  Didn’t seem so good to me.  As a youngster, I didn’t understand the Holy Day’s name, and I am still a bit confused.  After Good Friday has passed, you picture Easter Eggs so big they’d make ostrich eggs look like gall stones.  One more day of planning your strategic backyard hunting scheme.  This was basically how I could outwit my two older brothers.  Stay as far away from them as possible. That was my only hope.  They were bonafide egg thieves.

I loved the hunt almost as much as the deviled eggs mom would fabricate shortly after.  As for the Easter Bunny, I never believed in that crap.  I didn’t want to.  Since we were coloring the eggs, I figured it out pretty quickly.  Mom and Dad would never let some creepy rabbit in our house to gather our eggs and hide them in our backyard.  If a large bipedal rabbit did enter our house, one of my brothers, having a midnight snack, would grab a shotgun and go Elmer Fudd on that rabbit’s ass.  The only rabbits in our house were made out of chocolate.  For my brother, Tom, those chocolate rabbits had to be solid.  As our resident chocoholic, Tom refused to eat the ones which were hollowed out of bounds.  That was too chocolate ghetto for him. This is also followed by a feast which would include ham, turkey and all the necessary fixings.  We had mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, gravy, hot rolls, fruit salad, stuffing, and I need to stop, because I am now feeling Catholic guilt and shame remembering so many other families in our humble neighborhood who didn’t have the means for this.  Crap.  Thanks Catholicism.

Now, if you think about it, to solidify my point, I felt like this was the trinity of holidays.  It wasn’t just the Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit, Amen.  It was Easter, Christmas and Thanksgiving all rolled into one.  There were gifts, there was a phony character called the Easter Bunny, there was an enormous feast, there was family, and there was Sunday Mass where Deviled Eggs were dancing in your skull.  Can you want or wish for anything more?  Yes, you can. Once you grow old enough to be the one hiding the eggs, rather than hunting for them (always a proud moment for the youngest in the family), you realize how fun and satisfying it is to hold the hand of the youngest niece or nephew helping them find enough eggs to rival their elders.  We always tried to keep the competition fairly equal to avoid any tears.  There will be NO crying on Easter!  You know why?  BECAUSE THERE’S NO CRYING ON EASTER!  (Thanks, Tom Hanks.) All these children were so wildly happy…..and all just to find a few eggs.

Ultimately, when you grow to investigate the true meaning, or story if you wish, it is as inspirational of a story one can read and disbelieve, read and question, or read and believe.  I choose to believe.  It gives you hope when you are down.  It gives you faith when you have fallen.  It gives you the genuine will necessary when your life seems to have spiraled out of control and you feel lost and thus beaten.  But, then, you ponder this story and think, “For crying out loud, this dude rose from the dead!  I think I can get off this dirty floor before the count of ten and keep fighting for a better life for myself and others.”  Or, you may just find that your head is up your ass for an unusually large amount of time.  If that occurs, think about the Resurrection of Jesus, grab a great big wad of your hair, if you still have some, and pull your head out.  Maybe, just maybe, that’s what Easter is all about.

Happy Easter

Want alerts for the latest Wildman posts?  Follow Swing Like A Wildman (@bengannon13) on Twitter via https://twitter.com/BenGannon13.

Lent

Growing up a bad Catholic, I was encouraged to give up something for forty or forty six days during Lent. Drinking, gambling and Whoppers were always options, but I chose to give up swearing one year. The former three were just incomprehensible.   I F–ed up the second day regarding the swearing.  I was forgiven on the next day.

One of my best friends is a Lutheran.  Lutherans celebrate Lent and abstinence somewhat different from Catholics.  Other than ashes, I asked him what he is giving up on this year.  He replied, “My Marriage.”  The papers are being filed as I write.  I guess guilt is not an acquired taste for Lutherans.  God Bless them.

The Seven Year Old Itch

The love of money and Ding Dongs are the root of all evil.

KidNewspaperGambling had consumed my life by the time I was seven years old.  The transition from horse racing to gambling on football was far too smooth.  It should have raised red, white and blue flags for friends and family.  Yet, at age seven, when you are betting candy bars, one dollar bills, one hundred pennies, twenty five nickels, excessive yard work, or even a trade for a better school lunch, it almost seemed both trivial and fun…….which is exactly what is best about gambling.  Unless you are a professional, it better be about the fun.

In 1980, I won a Super Bowl bet with my first chump.  Years before I turned seven, while recognizing I was losing bets against elders, I decided to pick on some of my peers.  It was the first time I made a bet on a team I wasn’t rooting for, but Vegas knew more than me or this other clown only betting on numbers and colors.

The Philadelphia Eagles were playing the sinister Oakland Raiders, with the Raiders being favored by 6 and a half.  I didn’t like the Raiders, but I knew they were better than the Eagles.  My friend, Brian, loved the Eagles and didn’t know they’d probably lose to the Raiders. This is the seven year old’s conundrum.  How do you bet someone with no money at the age of seven?  Our only collateral was food.

Bless my mother’s loving heart, Brian’s mother was always on the cutting edge of sack lunches where as my mother was more interested in a proper lunch withholding dessert. His mother placed items in his lunch making his sack look like a brown bag Frito Lay/Hershey factory. My lunch was white bread, mayo, and processed Buddig chicken, turkey, beef, or whatever kind of Fisher Price meat one could only carve with an exacto knife.  She tossed in some veggies as a chaser.

Never a bully, I wasn’t just going to steal Brian’s lunch, and he wasn’t willing to trade his Ring Dings or Cheetos for celery sticks.  My mother had maintained this strange notion that my lunches should be healthy and the snacks we had at home be reserved for special occasions such as the Super Bowl and other phony holidays.  Therefore, I thought, with a few embellishments, I could score some of his midday delights.  It took gambling to make that work.  Although we did have Ding Dongs at home, and depending on the weather or amount of people coming in and out of our house, it was never a sure bet you’d get one before mom had to make her weekly run to the store.  So, when I told my friend I would give him two ding dongs for his package of Doritos, (something we never had) he needed proof.  He needed to see the Ding Dongs before we solidified the bet.

The Wednesday morning before the Super Bowl, just before receiving a kiss on the cheek from my mother on the way to school, I created a diversion by spotting two chickadees in our backyard.  My mother is a sucker for birds.  On her way to get some seed, I snatched two Ding Dongs before she could wave goodbye.

At school, Brian asked me if I had the goods.  Opening my denim jacket revealing two silvery encased snacks, he was more than satisfied.  The bet was on.  As a good Catholic boy, I didn’t succumb to temptation that day.  The Ding Dongs were properly replaced upon returning home.  Eating them before the bet would have pissed off the gambling Gods.  Bad Karma.

My betting team, the Oakland Raiders, ended up cruising to a victory over the Philadelphia Eagles, 27-10.  That next Monday morning, my friend was there with the Doritos.  I knew he would be good for it.  He saw me flashing my Ding Dongs around to other cats in our elementary school the week before, and he knew some pencils might be broken if he didn’t pay up.  That’s really when it started.

By the time I was in the fourth grade, Frito Lay was making different brands of chips never available at home.  Still winning, I began doubling down on empty Cool Ranch bags just to display my playground credibility.  Those sandwich sized bags were easy to hide and could be found all over any grocery store littering complex.  I probably could have made more money off of recycling.  A guilty conscience has no room for a successful gambler.  After a four year run of winning Super Bowl bets just to satisfy my savory tooth, I began feeling remorse as they were not in my league.  It was like taking Doritos from babies.  When you describe the point spread to someone knowing nothing about the point spread, it’s just not fair.  I was getting 20 points when my team was favored by 3 and the hook. (The hook is the half point separating the winners from the losers.) I couldn’t lose.

Sometimes, when hobbies lose their luster, you get bored.  Gambling lost its luster when I began playing games competitively.  Win or lose, the scoreboard provided satisfaction after a ballgame.  And, it was always fair, even when we’d come out on the losing side.

Post college, when I began earning my own money, I dabbled in gambling once again.  Winning and losing….(mostly losing)….. I had some fun and ruined some remote controls along the way.  It’s been years since I’ve been to Vegas or Reno, but I have fun betting with a brother or friend, or even playing fantasy foolsball.  I don’t enjoy betting in groups.  It dilutes the party.  One on one gambling is fun, because it usually involves a good lunch.

I’ll be giving points this weekend while rooting for the Atlanta Falcons over The Tom Bradies.  Win or lose, I’ll be eating well somewhere, and it won’t be just a bag of chips.

 

 

 

 

Overrated

Without disclosing how I voted, I find certain observations by the person who will hold the highest position in the world relatively overrated.  That doesn’t mean I necessarily agree with some people, places and things he believes to be overrated or fake. I just think some of his true comments are funny.  So, let’s laugh for the next four years before I run for President…….of some undisclosed or, “fake” nation.

 

“Midwestern ice storms are overrated.”

“Christmas is way overrated.  Who is this Jesus guy?”

“Carrots are overrated.  They don’t improve your eyesight.  Just ask Bugs Bunny.”

“Chess is overrated.”

“Gandhi should have eaten more.”

“Cassius Clay was clearly overrated.”

“I’ve never heard of Babe Ruth, but I bet he was overrated.”

“Lou Gehrig was a phony. That disease is overrated.”

“Great White Sharks are overrated.  Jaws was fake. Just look at the footage.  It’s comical.”

“Rocky is real.”

“The Moon doesn’t exist ……respectfully, for those who thought they walked on it.”

“Hacking, unless properly utilized, is overrated.”

“Bigfoot does exist, just in case you were wondering.  I can’t prove it.  I can’t prove anything.”

” And lastly, and most critical, Cheetos are overrated.  The mascot is not Tony the Tiger.”

Only because he will destroy our country, or make it better, as an American voter, I will root for him, but I won’t kiss his lucky tower.

This puny world can exist without Barnum and Bailey’s elephants, but we can also exist without this clown.

 

 

 

The Revolution

Just to let everyone in cyberspace know, the New Year doesn’t officially begin until the college football National Champion is proved to be worth the wait.  Therefore, don’t worry about your phony resolutions until Tuesday, the ninth of January.  Wipe that sweat off your brow, and live it up for two more days.  I’m making stew.

Let’s Make One Beer Funny Again!

Companied with beer, my mother always said “Laughter is a great chaser.”  In her mind, “chaser” was the medicine.   Approaching one hundred years of age, I’ve stood at ease listening to her glorious laughter for decades, but I’ve only witnessed her drinking one beer.  She should have been more specific with the ratio of beer to laughter while providing this advice to some of her spawn.

Have a safe New Year, and then more to follow.

 

Resurrection

Resurrecting a story should be reserved for those who are canonized in literature or paleolithic history…….I guess.  Charlie Brown Specials, The Grinch, Frosty, and some of those claymation documentaries about Rudolf and Santa should remain frozen in our holiday television sets.

That being written, I may be so bold as to resurrect one of my most sacred of holiday blogs.  It’s a favorite of the blasphemy blog section.  I hope it’s one of yours.

While traveling along the highway somewhere in Spokane, Washington going to Anywhere, Washington, amidst a flurry of snowflakes, a friend of mine and his dad witnessed something special.  It was an icicle laced billboard displaying an image of HIM…. Jesus, or God, or whatever floats your arc, raising His hands in glory to the sky.  The sign read, “Jesus Christ is Christmas.”  Despite your faith, the sign might resonate to some forgetting the true meaning of Christmas.

Fortunately, for our own nostalgia, my friend’s father misread the billboard.  He bellowed with terrific irreverence, “Jesus Christ, it’s Christmas?!”

Trying to park at Target, CostCo, or even a 7-11 this time of year may manifest that phrase  in even the most pious of us all.

Jesus Christ.  It is, indeed, almost Christmas.

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