Straight To Hell

Allow me to begin by pointing out that I am not an overtly religious man.

While I do enjoy church and have no trouble with the concept of organized religion, I'm not the kind to wear my faith on my sleeve. I don't walk around God-Blessing and Praise-Jesusing every cute little child I see, and I'm pretty lapsed when it comes to the idea of prayer. If God is all-knowing, then I don't need to bother sending off some private ethereal text message detailing what I want and why. He already knows.

The problem I have now is the same one I had when I was five years old -- lack of concentration. You could say this is more of a life skill problem than a religious one, but for some reason it stands out more clearly in church.

Perhaps it's because everyone else around me seems so determinedly intent on reciting the Lord's Prayer, or singing that hymn with the ridiculously complex melody. Seriously, what do they think we are, classically trained? Can we at least stick to a single octave so I don't have to modulate between sounding like a lead in the Vienna Boys Choir one minute and that "Oom Poppa Mow Mow" guy from the Oak Ridge Boys the next?

We hadn't even got ten minutes into the service last Sunday when I found my eyes darting around the room, checking for cracked paint, familiar faces, and bad toupees. The Italian, even more distracted than I, was flipping mindlessly through his hymnal when I caught glimpse of a hymn titled "Jesus Took a Towel."

Jesus took a towel?

"Jesus Took a Towel" might be a lovely hymn. It might be the most beautiful, spiritually-inspired verse ever put to music. Angels might sing it in their sleep at the end of their happiest days, but that won't change the fact I kept picturing Jesus poolside at some beachfront resort taking one of those cheap white towels with the broad blue stripe down the middle from a giant rolling bin. Or worse, Jesus nabbed for shoplifting at the home goods department of Walmart.

What, you think Jesus never went shopping?

It must have struck Our Daughter's funny bone similarly when I pointed it out to her, which made me feel a little better about myself. As we stood to sing the first hymn of the morning, I leaned over and whispered to her.

"What hymn are we going to sing now, 'Jesus Bought a Loofah?'"

There was no recovering after that. I'm probably going straight to hell in the fast lane, but if there's no sense of humor in heaven then that suits me just fine.




© 2012 Mark Feggeler

Easily Distracted

This may mean nothing to anybody -- and, really, it shouldn't -- but there are times when I crack... my... self... up! Back in the recesses of my brain are these squishy little bits that find the stupidest things hilariously funny.

I may be walking down the street waiting for the dog to do her business, or putting an envelope in a mailbox, or sitting in my office trying to pay attention to a conference call, when a disassociated thought about nothing important becomes dislodged and tumbles like a boulder onto the rural mountain highway of my consciousness.

I try to ignore it but there it is, huge, demanding my attention, requiring that I deal with it before I can continue on my way.

Just this morning, for instance, my lovely wife explained her anxiety over having to present awards at the elementary school graduation ceremony while a stray thought worked hard to derail my focus. As she read out loud the script provided for the day's exercises, I couldn't help thinking how amusing it might be if she spoke in the voice of the jack-in-the-box from the Island of Misfit Toys. You know, the character from that Rankin & Bass Rudolph Christmas special from 40 years ago? But she should speak that way only when reading the scripted words, changing back to her normal voice when not reading from the script.

Pay attention, I told myself. She read on, unaware of my internal struggle.

Maybe the voice of Mr. Haney from Green Acres would sound funnier. She could walk up in her pretty summer dress, clear her throat and start right in with it. "Good morning, Mr. Douglas, and to all you fine ladies and gentlemen. Now I want to tell you about the greatest award ever handed out at this el-lee-mentary school..."

Pay attention!

Yep. That's how it works. I know I am supposed to be listening, being supportive and telling her she will do a great job (and I do tell her this). I just can't get around those pesky boulders.

My being equal measures assinine and infintile, many times the boulders in my way are nothing more than remembrances of flatulence. Mine, yours, someone else's, someone else's dog's, doesn't matter. Flatulence is funny. If flatulence weren't funny, most lucrative comedic ventures as we know them would not exist. And flatulence as a punch line is more well-regarded than you might think.

Did you know that Mark Twain, in an effort to amuse a friend, once wrote a story about Victorian-age stuffed shirts sitting around a table trying to figure out from which backside the horrible odor wafting across the room emanated? And why did he write this story, giving it the same loving care he gave to all his writings? Because fart jokes are the cornerstone of comedy.

Find someone who has never laughed at flatulence and you will have found a soulless drone.

So, the next time you think I'm paying attention and you suddenly notice a far-off look in my eyes, you can either tell yourself that I am concentrating hard on what you're saying or you can accept the fact I am more likely thinking of the last time you broke wind and tried to pretend it wasn't you by looking around for the source of the noise like an unpainted mime.

If I giggle inappropriately and for no apparent reason, that's a dead giveaway you should consider the latter option to be the case.



ⓒ 2010 Mark Feggeler