Tuesday, March 19, 2019

Road Rage Gone Wrong



Sometimes, no written words are needed. Indeed, no photos are needed at all, just the voice.




Pay attention to rules of the road. 
And, also, be sure to watch out for little old ladies.


Saturday, March 16, 2019

Hoist a Pint

A stained glass image of Saint Patrick at Immaculate Conception Catholic Church in Port Clinton, Ohio. (Credit: ‘Nheyob’, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons)
What St. Patrick can teach us.

Saint Patrick's Day: At (King) David’s Pub and Winery

(Scene opens in Heaven, at the Pub.  Seamus and Patrick are sitting at the bar.  Patrick is asleep, with his head on the bar counter.)

Seamus (St. James):  Say, Paddy, now.  Wake up, you idjit. (Slaps him on the back.)

Padraig (St. Patrick)/Paddy:  Ah, Seamus.  Can ye not leave a good saint ta a daecent sleep? (Wipes some drool from his cheek.)

Seamus:  It’s yer people there, Paddy.  They’re at it again.  (Leaning over his pint, looking down on the velvet green) Sláinte.

Paddy:  Oh, Mother of God, is it that day already? (Shaking his head.)

Maire (Mary):  Paddy, was it ye who called?  Oh.  (She looks down on Dublin.)  So.  Yer Irishmen are up and celebratin’ yer Holy Day.  (Seamus and Paddy stand up and pull out the chair by a gold-gilded table.) The day ye up and died down there. (Maire settles into the chair.) I'll be havin' ta usual, Dave.

David:  Here you go, Maire. (He places a Waterford Crystal Rosslare sherry glass filled with Harvey's Bristol Cream Sherry) 'Tis only ta best for ya, love. (She smiles and smooths her blue gown.)

Paddy:  (Looking down) So it ‘tis, Maire.  And would ye look—Chicago dumped green into ta rivers again!  As if that meant a ting, Lord help us.

The Lord God: (enters with angels singing and clouds billowing)  Was it ye, Paddy, that called m’name?  (Seamus and Paddy vacate their pub stools immediately.)    David, here, be a good man, and pour me a glass of cider.

King David:  Ta', My Lord.  The best Yer Hands ever made, here Ye go.  Have at it. (David pushes the glass over to God, who has settled down on a stool.)

The Lord God:  So, Paddy, what’s troublin’ ye, up here in heaven?

Paddy:  Oh, it’s the Irish people agin.  They’re after celebratin’ my holy day with all sorts of carryin’ ons.  And it bein’ Lent, ‘tis a sad ting ta behold.

The Lord God:  (quaffing a satisfying amount of apple cider) Well, ye know, Paddy,  People ha’ forgotten jest what I did for them, sendin’ ye to Ireland.  They were a terrible mean group, worshippin’ trees and such, ‘fore ye taught ‘em about the Trinity. Those seamro'g . Set them for ye.

Seamus:  Yer right, My Lord God.  An’ Paddy drove out dem dere serpents, and done all them miracles.  Ye did right good work, there.  (Seamus pats Paddy on the shoulder, who nods and perks up a bit.  Maire rises, holding her sherry, and stands next to The Lord God.)

The Lord God:    ‘Tis my desire that ye shake the Irish up a wee bit.  Paddy, ye go down to yer holy wells—there’s one down near Clonmel I’m partial to.  Stir the waters up a bit when ye see group there.  And, Maire, go ta some of yer holy grottoes, and send some tears down the cheeks of yer precious image.  That’ll make the Irish think a bit.  I bet ye’ll see more pious Irish at Mass come Good Friday.

Seamus:  I’ll go along with ‘em, My Lord, jest to keep ‘em company.  (The three saints exit.)

The Lord God:  (watches the saints depart, and laughs softly) Ah, there go some fine saints.  Glad I made ‘em.  (He leaves the pub in a cloud of glory, with angels singing.  David gathers up the glassware, and hums “When the saints go marching in…”  Scene ends.)

If I have offended any, please forgive me.  

This is a re-post of 2011.  

Wednesday, March 13, 2019

You're Home

open hand
Source
Patsy shivered in the new home, despite the heat and the friendliness of the other occupants and the happy sounds, despite the good food waiting for her, despite…everything.

She had never, in her whole life, been in a place where she was welcomed and where nothing was expected of her.

Someone approached her and Patsy reflexively ducked her head and curled up, waiting for the first strike and subsequent kick, over and over again.

Instead Patsy found a kind hand and quiet reassurances that she was home, that this was now her home: love, friendship, food, and a warm bed were hers if she wanted them.

If she wanted them?

Patsy licked the offered hand and gazed into the gentle eyes, with her tail wagging for the first time in a long time.

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"The way we treat our children in the dawn of their lives,
and the way we treat treat our elderly in the twilight of their lives,
is a measure of the quality of  a nation."

Hubert Humphrey

"The greatness of a nation
can be judged
by the way its animals
are treated."

Mahatma Gandi