Dear Diary: Nutri-System

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say, with me awakening on the front lawn to the pfft-pfft-pfft of the sprinkler shooting water in my face after another night of regrettable behavior.  At least, there would be regret if I could at all remember it.

“Man, this lawn is so lush and soft!  No wonder dogs mark their territory.  I wouldn’t want to share this. This is delightful!  Money well spent, Mr. McCloud.  Money. Well. Spent.”  That’s when it hit me: I didn’t have a lush lawn, or a sprinkler system, which explained the lack of a lush lawn; and I certainly don’t spend money well, which explained the lack of a sprinkler system.  It was all one giant circle of cause and effect.

“How do I keep waking up on other people’s lawns?” I wondered aloud in silent contemplation.  “Doesn’t reflect well on the local Neighborhood Watch Program; that’s for sure.”

A cloud of anxiety had been hanging over my head for more than a month and a half. [Editor’s Note: Forty-two years more.] My lab results, which had come back two days before I embarked on my quest to heal a broken nation, suggested that I was pre-Diabetic.  Based on this “suggestion”, the company nutritionist said that I needed to modify my dietary habits and instructed me to keep a food journal.  Today was the day we would review that journal aka “Judgment Day”.

Keeping a food journal that will be reviewed by a certified dietician is a lot like hiring a housekeeper.  You don’t want the housekeeper to think you don’t keep a clean house (even though that’s why you hired that person); so, you make sure to clean your house from top to bottom before he / she arrives.  You don’t want to make the house too spotless, however, because you don’t want them looking around for the truth and stumbling across “the drawer”.  The same holds true with the food journal.  Your body is a temple, and you don’t want people thinking your temple is unclean…Even though it is.  You start eating fruits, vegetables, and salads.  You learn what kale is.  You don’t eat it, mind you, but you order it, because if it’s on your plate with your curly fries, then your curly fries are healthy.  The good qualities of the kale have rubbed off on the curly fries without ruining their tastiness.  That’s just science.  Osmosis to be exact. [Ed’s Note: Yes, on “the drawer”. No, on the curly fries.]  You don’t want to eat too healthily, however, because 1) you’re there for a reason, and 2) you don’t want her to go looking for your dietary “drawer”.  Your “drawer” could be that you mainline coffee; that you eat a slice of cheesecake before bed (and you count an entire cheesecake as “a slice” as long as you don’t cut it); or that you can’t seem to eat a meal without boobs in your face (i.e. you spend a lot of time at Hooters or eateries that fall within that culinary genre). Little known fact: the original slogan for Hooters was, “Have a meal with boobs in your face.”  They later shortened it to, “Hooters makes you happy.” It’s more family-friendly.)  [Ed’s Note: Nope.]

As I waited in the…waiting room, I reviewed my journal and practiced my responses to the questions I anticipated her asking.  “Do you expect me to believe you didn’t eat sweets in New Orleans?” (Answer: Yes, because it’s true.)  “Do you even know what cauliflower is?” (Answer: Broccoli’s albino cousin.)  “Can you eat a meal without boobs in your face?” (Answer: Yes, but why?)

“Damion,” the voice called from the doorway.

“Yes,” I responded.

“Are you ready for this?”  The room immediately darkened, a disco ball descended from the ceiling, and the waiting area filled with smoke and laser lights.  (None of that actually happened, but that’s what I envision whenever someone utters that phrase.)

“…Yes.”

“Jock Jams?”

“Excuse me?”

“Just wondering why the pause.”

“Oh…yes.”

 We went back to her office to start the interrogation.

“I like to get to know the people I’m working with from a holistic perspective.  Not just what they eat, but how they eat and why.  So, I’m going to take some measurements and ask you a lot of questions.  Sound good?”

“Am I going to need an attorney?”

“Not for this, but based on your HR file, it wouldn’t hurt to have one on-call.”

“Just one?”

“I was being polite.”

“Touché.”

She had a scale in her office and asked me to take off my shoes and empty my pockets so she could get an accurate height and weight measurement.

“Hop up on the scale, turn around, and face the picture of the watermelon.”

There were other things in that area: a chair, a potted plant, books. Why’d she have to focus on watermelon?  Seemed racist.

“Okay. Now, we’re going to measure your body fat percentage.  Stand up with your feet shoulder length apart, and your arms out in front you.  When you grip this device, it will shoot an electrical current through your body and tell me what percentage body fat you have.”

“Do I need a ball gag and a safe word?”

(Slap!)

“Ouch!  What happened to being polite?”

“What happened to not being a smart ass?”

“Don’t think I ever agreed to that.”

(Slap!)

“Dammit!...Are you single?”

(Slap!...Slap!)

“Are we doing the ‘One slap for yes; two slaps for no’ thing?”

“Be seated.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay.  I got your height, weight, BMI, and % body fat.  How old are you?”

“According to my birth certificate or the internet quiz I recently took?”

(Furrowed brow. Head cocked to the side. Look of exasperation on her face) “Marital status.”

“Single.”

“Surprise.”

“Allergies.”

“I have exercised-induced anaphylaxis.”

“You mean exercised-induced asthma?”

“No.”

“Symptoms?”

“Shortness of breath, strange taste in my mouth, cramping at times, turn red, which is crazy, because
I’m red-green colorblind—“

“You’re colorblind?”

“Yes.”

“Which one?  Red or green?”

“Both.”

“I’ve never met anyone who’s both…What color is this?” (Points to plastic fruit)

(I look away to a non-existent camera with an expression that says “Really?”)  “I assume it’s red, because that fruit is either raspberry or blackberry, and it doesn’t look black.”

“That was too easy.  I’m going to point to these bowls, and I want you to tell me what color each one is.”

After completing “What Color Is This Bowl?” she was finally satisfied.  “Yep, you’re definitely red-green color blind.”

“Well, it’s not like it helps me pick up women…”

“Do you drink?”

“No.”

“Smoke?”

“Well, let’s see where this goes first.”

She raises her hand, but does not strike me; seemingly satisfied with my anticipatory flinch.  She continues the interrogatory.

“Do you take any recreational drugs?”

“No.”

“Are you promiscuous?”

“If you’re asking if I’m a man-whore, the answer is ‘No’.”

“Is that by choice or by the choice of others?”

“You’re funny,” I say placing my elbows on her desk with my head nestled upright in my cupped hands. “I like you…We may have that smoke yet.”

“Elbows off the desk,” she said with a shooing motion and slight smile.

“Yes, ma’am…You know, I was joking with a friend the other day that I have one vice, sweet tea and soft drinks, and she’s going to take that away from me.”

“I’m sorry.  You have one what now?”

“One vice.  I don’t drink, smoke, do recreational drugs, sleep around…”

“You remember, I HAVE seen your file.”

“And?”

“Swearing.”

“That doesn’t count.  I’m a McCloud. We say, ‘muthafucka’ and / or ‘nigga’ in every sentence as a matter of course…a matter of course.”

“I’ve never heard you say ‘nigga’.”

“It’s understood.”

“So, the ‘nigga’ is silent?”

“Yes, the ‘nigga’…is silent.” [Ed’s Note: She didn’t actually say ‘nigga’. So, let’s not get the woman fired.  And, no, it’s not okay for you to use that word around me if’n you ain’t black.]

“Alright. Two vices.  Happy?”

“You really want to do this?” she asked as my file landed on her desk with a thud.  She then proceeded to list out my vices.

“I was working my way through college,“ I said five minutes into her reading.

“What about this?” she asked pointing to a line item.

“Is that my permanent record?” I asked.

“Not the version that Saint Peter has, but it’s fairly complete.”

“Hm.  Well, they were working their way through college, and I helped them as someone had helped me when I was in a similar situation.  That’s not a vice…that’s paying it forward.”

“Did you say ‘paying it forward’ or ‘paying for it’?”

“First off, well played.  Secondly, the former.”

After 30-odd minutes of judgment and point-making, she concluded her series of “Why Are You Such a Mess?” questions and entered the “Here’s How to Fix You” phase.

“If I give you dietary goals, do you think you can follow them?”

“Yes.  Like I said, I’ve already cut out sweet tea and soft drinks, except for that Coke Zero I got today, but I really needed it.  I lost seven pounds while on my trip as a result.  So…”

“You know Coke Zero doesn’t have carbs.  So, you can have that…Mr. McCloud?”

“Yes.”

“Are you crying?”

“Little bit.”

“Are you getting aroused?”

“Little bit…The tears were supposed to distract you from that fact…I just really enjoy the Coca-Cola.”

“Coke Zero. Not Coca-Cola.”

“Don’t you ruin this for me.”

“Whatever.  You need to start eating breakfast.  Everyday.  Smoothies during the week, and your regular sausage, eggs, etc., on the weekends.”

“I can do that. Guess I’ll need to buy a blender.”

“You can buy a Magic Bullet or whatever at Wal-Mart.”

“Magic Bullet???  I mean, sure, there have been times, when I haven’t slept and am feeling kinda punchy, where I’ve wondered what the appeal was.  But I’d never—“

(Slap!) “The Magic Bullet is a blender, nimrod!”

“Oh…this falls under doctor-patient confidentiality, correct?”

“No one’s that interested in you.”

“You really know how to hurt a guy.”

“You’re also going to need to buy a food scale and this calorie-counting book.  This is a pocket-sized one, but they make a larger version.  Not sure why I didn’t buy the larger version, I came out of the womb carrying glasses.”

“You and me both.”

“Your eyesight’s been bad for that long?”

“No, the previous doctor left them in there…He wasn’t very good.”

(Sigh and eye roll.) “Get out.”

“Yep.”

Dear Diary – EDucation: The Truth about Erectile Dysfunction

Sunday, July 5, 2015

Dear Diary:

Before I begin, I’d just like to reiterate that, as I mentioned during my physical last week, I do not suffer from Erectile Dysfunction.  As everyone knows, all statements made during a physical are done so under oath, and violators can face up to 12 years in jail or public stoning in the town square. [Editor’s Note: No one knows that, because it’s not true.]

On my way home from Raleigh, NC, where I watched the United States Women’s National Team defeat Japan in the World Cup of Lady Soccer, a commercial for one of the many remedies for male-pattern invirility came on the radio.  These types of advertisements, while pleasantly absent during the Women’s World Cup, were all too commonplace during the NBA Finals, March Madness, The SuperBowl, The World Series of Poker, and The Scripps National Spelling Bee.  (“Scripps, where words aren’t the only things that are hard”…is a slogan which they, inexplicably, turned down.) [Editor’s Note: I wouldn’t say “inexplicably”.  Their concerns were quite splicable.] 

The problem with these advertisements, other than bringing to light that which should stay cloaked in the warm blanket of denial, is that they paint an unrealistic picture of erectile dysfunction.  Man sees his significant other painting a bench, planting flowers, eating Cracker Jacks at a youth league baseball game, sitting in side-by-side bathtubs in the backyard, or buying a Fiat; knowing glance; and, next thing you know, implied sexual encounter.  That’s just not realistic.  First of all, who’s buying a Fiat?  It can only be explained by sudden blood loss, or, more accurately, blood redirection.  Secondly, where’s the awkwardness?  The fumbling?  The following skit outlines what I imagine (Again, no direct knowledge.  Seriously, it’s like “Terminator: Rise of the Machines” down there.) a typical evening of a man suffering from erectile dysfunction to be like.

The scene: A man at dinner with a woman for whom he has strong feelings.  He has yet to mention her to his parents, but his boys know she’s hot.  Hotter than his ex.  The ex what did him wrong…so wrong!

Woman: “This has been a lovely evening.  I’m so glad we came here.”

Man: “Yep.”

Woman: “It’s been really great getting to know you.  Thanks for not pressuring me. I’ve made the mistake of moving too quickly in the past and I promised myself that, going forward [words…]”

Man: “Hey, ya gotta…Am I right?”

Woman: “Anyway, I think I’m ready to take things to the next level.”

Man (sits up straight, eyes forward): “Wait…what?”

Woman: “I just feel so comfortable with you.”

Man: “Me, too.  Can you excuse me?  I need to use the facilities,” he says before getting up and leaving the woman at the table alone with her thoughts…and cellphone…and, therefore, various social media apps. 

Man comes back to the table after emptying his bladder, ingesting a pill, checking his breath, and thoroughly washing his hands.  (He may not be an employee, but he also wasn’t raised by wolves…unhygienic wolves, because normal wolves wash their hands.)

Man: “So, did you want to get dessert?  Preferably one that takes no longer than 30 – 45 minutes to order and consume?”

Woman: “Sigh”

Man: “What?  We’re still going to…next level…”

Woman: “How can I possibly think about being intimate when [something tragic about the children, animals, the environment, or celebrity breakup]???”

Man: “Isn’t being close with someone just the thing in light of the [situation at hand]? Besides—wait are you serious about not leveling up, or is this one of those ‘You just want to know that I’m sensitive to what’s important to you’ things that’ll blow over by the time the flan arrives?  By the way, I ordered flan.”

Woman: “I just don’t think I can give my whole self to anyone in my current mood.”

Man (frantically searching for SNL clips, videos of adorable animals doing adorable things with adorable children, or pertinent quotes from the Dalai Lama): “Are you serious right now?  I don’t want to be ‘that guy’, but if you’re serious, things are going to get really awkward in about 20 – 35 minutes…and, according to the label, could remain awkward for up to four hours.  If awkwardness lasts for longer than four hours, I will need to seek medical attention.  And while we’re on the subject, who settled on four hours as the cut-off?  I mean, who has four hours of material???? I got asthma!”

[Editor’s Note: Seriously.  Who has four hours of material?  Just to set expectations, if I go for four hours, it’s gonna be like a 1990s rap album: 30 minutes of original material mixed in with a bunch of remixes and questionable skits…and, afterwards, you’ll be asking yourself, “What DIDN’T make the album?!?!”]

Woman (completely focused on the news of the day by this point): “Sigh.”

Waiter: “Here’s your flan.  Enjoy.”

Man: “Thanks.  Can I get the chocolate mousse?”

Waiter: “That’ll take about an hour given the backlog in the kitchen.”

Man: “I got time.”

And scene.  

Once again, I must reiterate that the above skit was a complete work of fiction and not based on actual events.  My testosterone levels are, and I quote, “exceptional”.  [Editor’s Note: He’s quoting himself.  So…grain of salt.] It’s like "Sharknado" down there...if "Sharknado" were about testosterone rather than…whatever the hell "Sharknado" was about.

Dear Diary: Be Well

Thursday, July 2, 2015

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say way too early for my tastes.  I greeted the morning with a sigh and a trip to the “Snooze” bar.  Ah, the Snooze Bar, where everyone knows your name and time is measured in 5-minute intervals.  After several such trips, I greeted the day:  “Conjunction Junction, such dysfunction…Piling up exes and crying myself to sleep…”

It was at this time that I would usually check my calendar to see the latest time I could get to the office without being missed.  This day was different, however, because I knew the exact time of my earliest appointment.  Was this due to a sudden bout of conscientiousness?  Not at all.  My earliest appointment was my annual physical, and the reason I knew that, other than the fact that I had fasted the night before, was that it was the key to unlocking monies what were owed me. 

My employer has a healthy-living incentive program (known as “Be Well”) that awards employees a certain number of points for accomplishing specified tasks.  These points translate into cash.  To this point, I had accumulated enough points to earn $100.  The catch: before you can receive any of the cashish, you have to complete an online Health Assessment and either a biometric screening or full physical.  To lessen the blow of having to jump through hoops to receive monies you had already jumped through hoops to earn, the company gives you $50 for completing a biometric screening or full physical.

After getting dressed, and I do mean dressed: black, cotton undershirt with moisture-wicking properties, a long-sleeved, lavender dress shirt, black dress slacks with thin pinstripes, argyle socks, dress watch, and silver-rimmed sunglasses; I grabbed my laptop bag and made my way towards “Steph”.  [Editor’s Note: Yes, he put on underwear, as well, but this is a family-oriented blog, and he’s a gentleman.  Besides, if you want to know what kind of underwear he has on, you’ll need to buy him dinner first…Gentleman.]  After nestling into the cocoon of subtle luxury that can only be crafted by the artful hands of a Brit, I fired up the engine and headed towards my place of employ.

My journey ground to a halt almost as quickly as it had begun.  For before I could make it to the first stop sign, my progress was impeded by a cat that had decided to stretch out in the middle of the road.  I could not move forward, even slowly, lest the cat move unexpectedly and end up under one of my tires.  This would, in turn, result in several of my female friends putting me underneath one (or more?) of their tires.  I could not back up and proceed in the other direction lest some other vehicle come along and hit the defenseless animal, which would, somehow, be my fault, and, once again, result in bodily injury.  No, my only option was to stay put until the cat decided to move. 

“You could always get out of the car and move the cat to a nearby yard,” a voice in my head suggested.

“Forget that,” I responded. “I’ve seen ‘Cat People’. Not turning me into an undead slave of a feline demon spawn.  No, thank you…”

“First of all, if you’re referring to the 1982 film starring Nastassja Kinski –“

“I am.”

“—I’m pretty sure that wasn’t the plot.  Secondly, what?!?”

Steph suddenly jerked forward at an angle to block off the street.  One cat protecting another.  While waiting, I recognized this as the cat that liked to gently rub herself against my cars, let out a purr, and take a nap in the shade just underneath them.  When the cat finally got tired of being a…cat, it got up, looked over at me, gave a wry smile, and bounded safely across the street.

“Dammit!” I exclaimed. “Look at the time!”  Getting to my appointment on time would require some good fortune and some fancy driving.

“Dear God, please give me green lights, clear roads, and no cops.”

“Pretty sure that’s not how prayer works,” a voice remarked.

“Worth a shot.”

“Eh…”

As I approached the first of eight traffic lights between my house and VA 288, I noticed it was green.  However, the speed limit was 25 mph, and I was too far away to make it.

“Guess the voice was right.”

Even though I couldn’t make the light, I could make a right turn before the other cars got going, and pop a quick U up the road…and that’s exactly what I did.

“Please be green, please be green, please be green…” I muttered while approaching the bank of lights again.  It worked.  Seemingly the only person who realizes that the speed limit in this area is 55 rather than 45, I channeled my inner “Rush” (the Ron Howard-directed epic about Formula 1, not the overhyped, Canadian power band) and powered up the hill past several slow-moving cars.  Halfway to 288, I found myself trapped behind a driver who apparently thought it was a 35mph zone, and beside a driver intent on not letting me pass.  (That’s 0 for 2 in the Prayer Department, which, interestingly enough, is next to handbags and man-totes.)

When the lane two lanes over opened up, I switched channels from “Rush” to “Return of the Jedi”.  And like Luke Skywalker evading his pursuers in the jungles of Endoor [Nerd], I slammed on my brakes, got behind the driver to my right, and made my way past.  Still, no cops.

I made it to my appointment with time to spare. No cops.  As they say, “One out of three ain’t bad.”  [No one says that.]

After checking in and filling out the standard paperwork, I sat and waited to be called.

“Mr. McCloud?”

“Yes.”

“We’re ready for you.”

“You sure about that?”

“Put your bag in the chair, take your shoes off, and step on the scale.”

I did as instructed.  After stepping off the scale, I looked back and noticed that the reading was higher than expected.  For some reason, when I get weighed at a doctor’s office, not only do I leave everything on, I leave everything in…as in in my pockets.

Next up: The Eye Test

“Put your belongings into the exam room and come back out.”

Again, I did as instructed.  While heading toward the nurse, my eye caught a petite blonde heading over to one of the other exam rooms.

“I need you to turn around, Mr. McCloud.”

“I’m good.”

“We need to test your vision.”

“Can’t you just have her hold up her number and see if I can read it?”

Overhearing our conversation, the woman turned towards me, smiled, and raised her middle finger.

“I don’t think that’s her number,” I remarked.

“Can you read it?” the nurse asked.

“It’s not my first time receiving that signal.”

“You?!?  But you’re such a charmer,” she says while rolling her eyes. “Now, turn around, put this over your left eye, and read as far down as you can.”

I completed the eye test per her instructions: right eye…left eye…both eyes.

“You look good.”

“Well, a compliment.  Finally.”

“What? Sorry, I meant ‘you see well’.  English isn’t my strong suit.”

“Let’s continue.”

Next Up: Invasive Questioning

We headed back into the exam room for the medical interrogation.

“Are you married?”

“No.”

“Dating anyone?”

“No.”

“Do you have anyone that knows your wishes in the event of a medical emergency that prevents you from being able to speak for yourself?”

“You mean like erase my porn and clear my browser history?”

“More like do not resuscitate or things along those lines.”

“Do not resuscitate?  What the hell do you plan on doing to me in here?”

“I see your dad has Diabetes.  Have you ever been checked?”

“I assume so.”

“We’ll do a more comprehensive hemoglobin test.”

“Let me check something,” she said as grabbed my wrist.  I assume to check my pulse…or to slit my wrist. Coulda been either one with this nurse. “Anyone ever tell you that you have an irregular heartbeat?”

“No.”

“Just breathe normally. I’m going to listen to your heart for a minute to see if I hear anything concerning.” 

(Not five seconds later, she removed her stethoscope from my chest.)  “Okay.  I know that wasn’t a minute, but I heard what I needed to right away.  I know you’ve had this done recently, but I’m going to do an EKG.  First, however, I need to take your blood pressure…It’s slightly elevated.”

“You ask me about Do Not Resuscitate orders, bring up Diabetes, and say there may be something wrong with my heart. Can’t imagine why my blood pressure would be elevated.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay. Get undressed down to your underwear, and put on the gown so that it opens in the front.”

Next Up: EKG

(A knock at the door) “You decent?”

“It’s a matter of opinion.”

“Lay back.  I’m gonna put these pads and leads on you. It’ll tell us how your heart’s doing…That’s odd.  This doesn’t seem to be picking up any activity.”

“Forgot to tell you, my heart’s on the other side.”

“That’s funny.  Do you have on lotion?”

“Do essential oils count as lotion?”

“Yes.”

“Then, no.”

“I don’t much care for you.”

“I get that a lot.”

“Are you wearing a Fitbit or other device?”

“I’m in my underwear.  Where exactly do you think I put a Fitbit?”

“I know where I’d like to put it.”

“I get that a lot, too.”

“The doctor will be with you shortly.”

Next Up: The Doctor Is In

(A knock at the door) “Hello, Mr. McCloud.  Your EKG looks fine.  The machine seems to be acting up, but, other than that, your heart is fine.  Strong.”

“That nurse had me worried that I was this close to a heart attack.”

“Yeah. She doesn’t much care for you…Let’s check your numbers.”

“Before we do that, can I be re-weighed?”

“Why?”

“I had a lot of stuff in my pockets that I believe adversely impacted the results.”

“What did you have in your pockets?”

“Pack of gum—“

“That’s not gonna tip the scales.”

“…wallet—“

“Let me see your wallet…Why do you have seventeen ones?  Where are you planning to go after you leave here?”

“Would you believe church?”

“Would you?”

“Not particularly…car keys, watch, two cellphones, sunglasses, ankle weights.”

“Ankle weights?”

“Ankles aren’t gonna build themselves.”

“The answer is ‘no’. Now, let’s check these numbers…Whoa!  That’s not good.”

“What’s not good?”

“Laptop’s not working.  Be right back.”

After collecting my thoughts and making sure I didn’t wet myself, I waited quietly for her return.

“Alright. This seems to be working better. If you want to fix your laptop, just steal someone else’s.  Stealing’s not the right word.  I commandeered it.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself.  Can we get back to me now?”

“So, it’s all about you?”

“Ummm…yeah.”

“You have a point.  While I'm waiting for your numbers to come up, anything special planned for the 4^th?”

“No. I’m going on a 3-week, cross-country, round-trip, road trip in the near.  So, I’m getting ready for that.”

“Sounds fun.”

“Yeah. My parents don’t like to talk about it, because they think something bad’s gonna happen.”

“I have a daughter your age, and—“

(My right eyebrow raises, as if to say, “Go on…”)

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Seventeen ones ring a bell?”

“You have a point.”

“Okay.  Numbers are up. Let’s see what we have here.  Family history. Check. Blood pressure. Check…Ever suffered from Erectile Dysfunction?”

“Me? No…Some of my dates have.  Am I right?  Up top…No?  Nothing?” (Arm returns slowly to my side)

“Do I need to test you for HIV or STDs?”

“Really covering the spectrum, aren’t we?  And no…”

“Do you check yourself regularly for testicular cancer?”

(Eyes looking to the left towards non-existent camera.) “Sure…that’s…yes.”

“Any blood in your stool or tenderness in your rectum?”

“I’ve been called ‘tender’, but not in my rectum.”

“I’m gonna do couple of quick checks.  Nostrils are clear, eyes look good, ears have a bit of excess wax, but your eardrums look good, lungs are strong, tonsils and teeth look good.  Could use a breath mint, but..Great!  Well, that’s all I need.”

“Wait…What?  That’s it?!?!  Nothing else?”

“Well, I did break the pull tab off of my soup and was going to ask if I could use your toenail to open the can, but that doesn’t seem sanitary.”

“No hernia check?!?!  No prostate exam?!?!?  Why do I pay for health insurance????  I got dressed!  I groomed!  Is this Obamacare, because, if so, I, for one, am NOT a fan!”

“Did you shave another Nativity scene in your pubic hair?”

“No.”

“Fine. What is it?...Don’t touch those lights!”

(Grand Reveal…Though it would’ve been more grand with the proper light effect.)

“Impressive…and I minored in Art History. So…What am I looking at now?”

“Did you ever see ‘Breakin’?”

(She cocks her head to the side and raises an eyebrow as if to say, “Is that a serious question?”)

“Remember when Turbo got injured falling down the stairs after being chased by the construction worker?  This is Turbo lying in bed with a cast on his arm and foot held up by a pulley; that’s Kelly and Ozone pretending to be doctors; and that’s the cute Puerto Rican girl who cared for Turbo and didn’t want him to check himself out prematurely.  ‘No, Turrrbo…No...’” [Editor’s Note: It loses something when you can’t hear him saying the words, but, trust me, his impersonation is spot on.]  “I was going to do the scene at the end when the rival break dancers were working together to save the Community Center with a young ICE-T on the mic, but I ran outta pube.”

“Is that why you canceled your last appointment?”

“Needed to ‘re-blank my canvas’.  Another option was Questlove, but he started looking more like Cornel West.”

“Give it a few more years, and he would look like Frederick Douglas.  Am I right?  Up top!  No?  Nothing? Fine. Go see the nurse and give a blood and urine sample.  Preferably separately.”

“Can I get an at-risk pregnancy test?  That’s worth extra cash-ish in the Be Well.”

“That’s for women…and you’re not pregnant”

“Really?  Seems racist.”

“It’s not racist.  If anything, it’s sexist.”

“Isn’t sexism just gender racism?” I ask whilst smirking and tapping my right temple.

“Get out.”

All in all, another great physical.  Looking forward to next year.

Dear Diary: See? I Told You...

Public Service Announcement:

Hello, Caucasian-Americans.  Damion C McCloud here.

·         Are you uncomfortable with how comfortable you are around your peers?

·         Do your get-togethers and holiday parties look like a Norman Rockwell painting, or a L.L. Bean catalog, or a Norman Rockwell painting of a L.L. Bean catalog?

·         Are the only minorities in your “inner circle” clearing your dishes, doing your laundry, and / or teaching your curly-haired daughter how to tap dance down an inexplicably long staircase?

·         Has your sense of humor resulted in you being called in front of HR on more than one occasion?

·         Trying to impress that coed who is long on “inclusion” and short on appropriately-lengthed skirts?

·         Fear being called “racist” even though you won’t even say words that contain the letter “n”?

·         Ever been accused of a hate crime?

If you answered “Yes” to any (or all) of these questions, then I have just the thing.  The McCloud Corporation’s Racial Harmonics Division, a wholly-owned subsidiary of the company that brought you such services as Rent-A-Kid and Shame Insurance (“Shame Insurance: We can’t guarantee you’ll go to Heaven, but we can guarantee people will think you did.”), now brings you “Some of My Closest Friends” or SOMCFs (pronounced suhm kuhfs).

What is SOMCFs?

SOMCFs provides a splash of needed color to your get-togethers, weddings, birthday parties, family gatherings, and photo albums, to make you appear more…“inclusive” to the world at large.

What services do you offer?

·         A variety of races*, creeds, hues, nationalities, religions, abilities, and sexual-orientations

·         Groups

·         Individuals

·         Families

·         Acquaintances

·         Long-term friends

·         Long-distance friends

·         Photo-shopping services**

·         * - mixed race costs extra

·         **  - age-progression services costs extra

Why SOMCFs?

The key to SOMCFs is personalization, because we realize that, like snowflakes, no two white people are alike.  Our Diversity Experts walk each prospective client through our proprietary Race Card Susceptibility Assessment to gauge just how bad things are, or can be made to appear.  Once the Assessment has been completed, we work with the client to discuss the level of service.

How much does it cost?

SOMCFs offers a variety of packages for all situations and budgets ranging from “Trailer Park” to “Gated Community”.  The question is not can you afford to use SOMCFs; the question is can you afford not to.

“SOMCFs: See? I told you…”

Dear Diary: Girl’s Gotta Eat

Friday, March 18, 2014

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say without a dope beat ta step to.  “It’s been a long time since she left me,” I thought to myself.  “It’s been a long time…”

I started the day with my “morning cleanse” by “making light my intestinal burden”.  There was not yet a need to shower as the first thing on my “To-Do” list was to take a mattress and box spring to the landfill.  (That and the fact that my body naturally produces a scent reminiscent of babies’ breath and unicorn tears.)  One of the few benefits of having to take my car to the body shop was the fact that I got a rental car.  (Of course, paying a $250 deductible to get a rental car isn’t much of a benefit, but when Life gives you lemons…)  After the mattress was loaded into the back of the Hyundai Santa Fe (“Hyundai, we’re better now.”) it became readily apparent to anyone paying attention --or anyone who excelled at the spatial relations portion of any of a number of standardized tests-- that the box spring was not going to fit.  Given that each load taken to the landfill cost $7, and I wasn’t made of money, I had no intention of taking two trips.  “Pardon my French, but ‘F*ck That’!”  [Editor’s Note: Damion doesn’t speak French.]

Just when I thought all, well $7, was lost, I opened my “mental Man Bible”, turned to “The Book Of Watkinson” Chapter 12 verse 15 in which it was said, “There’s no such thing as obstacles; only saw-portunities.”  So, I oiled my chainsaw (and my chiseled torso) and got ready to “turn this mutha out”.  Before cutting into the box spring, I took my bypass lopper and snipped the metal frame; decreasing the potential for kickback.  I then donned my gloves and protective eyewear, stood above the box spring, and got down to business.  As the heat of the day began to rise, I flipped the box spring over and over again, cutting it into ever smaller pieces.  Sawdust filled the air…and stuck to the mixture of oil and sweat on my chest. (Honestly, I really didn’t think this through.)

“Could it BE any hotter?!?” I asked aloud.

“I could tell you, but why ruin the surprise?” a voice responded from on-high.

“This is not the last I’m gonna hear from you today, is it?”

“Nope.”

Once I returned from delivering the mattress and freshly hewn pieces of box spring, I got my cleaning supplies ready to wash “Shakira” and “Steph”.  (You can’t wash one without the other.)  Why do I insist on hand-washing my cars?  Because, as the old saying goes, “You never truly know a lady until you’ve washed her by hand.”  [Ed’s Note: No one has ever said that.  Correction: No one not currently in prison or not soon to be the subject of an episode of “48 Hours Mystery” has ever said that.]

After my ladies were presentable, I readied myself for the third part of my day; the 2^nd Round of the NCAA Tournament where the Blue Devils of Duke would face-off against the something-somethings of Mercer.  Being in public meant, of course, freshening up.  After scrubbing myself with Dove Men + Care (“Dove for Men: It only LOOKS like a giant Viagra”); I puts on my Duke-rooting uniform.  I then combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and slapped on some Aqua Velva, which, in French, roughly translates to “water vagina”.  [Ed’s Note: First off, that’s not French.  Secondly, I’m pretty sure he was thinking “Aqua Vulva”.]

Believing the win to be a foregone conclusion and envisioning myself basking in the glorious envy of other collegiate basketball fans, I also prepped for the fourth part of my day: Cirque du Soleil presents Michael Jackson’s Immortal.  This involved packing clothes more in line with the cultural milieu.  As it would turn out, the preparations were not necessary; but I digress.  [Ed’s Note: This would not be the first nor the last time his “celebration” would prove premature.]

Once ready, I fired up “Steph” and headed to the local watering hole.  “Welcome to Hooters!” they shouted as I made my entrance.  As the first half drew to a close, it was all too evident that both I and my Blue Devils had underestimated Mercer.  Unable to hit a mid-range jumper or simple layup, the only thing keeping Duke in the game was three-point shooting; something on which they would become overly-reliant.  The unexpected competitiveness made another truth self-evident.  Namely, nothing brings fans of other teams together quite like their hatred for Duke.  As Mercer’s confidence grew, so did the roar of the anti-Duke crowd.

As they cheered each Mercer make and Duke mishap, I remained silent.  As chants of “Let’s go Mercer” emanated like a groundswell of…swelling ground, I remained silent.  As my waitress asked if I needed anything, I remained silent.  [Ed’s Note: Mainly, because he was hypnotized by her cleavage in his face, but…hey.] But when the kid at the table next to me shouted, “Duke sucks!” I could remain silent no longer.  At that moment, Duke went on a mini-run.  As anyone in my position would do, I turned to the child who made the offending remark and yelled, “Suck it!”

“Did you just tell a six-year old to ‘Suck it’?” my server asked

“First of all,” I explained, “he’s at least seven.  Secondly, he started it.”

“Seems a bit childish,” she replied.

“Yes, he does.”

“Actually, I was referring to—You know, my eyes are up here.”

“I’m aware…”

Mercer took advantage of my lapse in concentration by halting Duke’s run and closing out a 7-point victory.

“Are you ready for the check?”

I nodded in the affirmative.  I was numb, but comfortably so.  The Yin of crippling despair firmly nestled against the Yang of ample boob-age.  Normally, the sight of another team dancing on the shards of the Blue Devils shattered expectations would have left me devastated.  In the face of it (them), however, I was able to keep my head up.  (Well, not “up” so much as slightly angled.)  As it turns out, Hooters really DOES make one happy.

The lack of a drawn-out celebration left a hole in my schedule.  So, after paying the check and leaving a healthy tip; something I often do out of respect for wait staff [Ed: read “waitresses”] and bartenders [female bartenders]; I headed home to regroup.

Upon arriving at home, I took my change of clothes out of the back, headed upstairs, and took a very long, very hot shower; the falling water masking my tears.  While I stood slumped over with only the shower wall keeping me from crumpling to the floor, the water flowed over my lowered head and into the drain.  I seriously considered skipping the performance altogether.  I eventually pulled myself together.  “Pull yourself together, Man!” I told myself.  “This is Cirque du Soleil!  This is Michael Jackson!  This is ’The King of Pop’!  This is a non-refundable ticket!  Why is this water still running??? I’m not made of money!”  I shut off the water, toweled off, got dressed, and prepared to meet my public.

The performance was at The Patriot Center on the campus of George Mason University in Fairfax, Virginia.  Knowing traffic on I95’s tendency to become a giant parking lot, especially on Fridays, I headed up early. I would stop at a nearby dining establishment, which I was always “Welcome to”’d, for dinner and basketball.  Near the outset of my journey, my day took an unexpected turn for the better.

I was at a stoplight.  A gray BMW 5-series pulled up next to me.  The driver was one of those overeager people who tries to jump the light.  When the light turned green, he gunned his engine and set off.  “Steph” let out a low, barely audible growl.  She wanted to hunt.  I usually don’t participate in such juvenile activities.  I am, after all, a Southern gentleman.  However, I was having a bad day, my Blue Devils had been unceremoniously eliminated from the Tournament, and I really, REALLY hate BMWs.  So, I gripped the steering wheel and let Steph off of her leash.  She let out a roar, dug her rear paws into the asphalt, and locked in on her prey.  Propelled forward by her powerful rear legs, it was only a matter of seconds before she had caught up to and overtaken the BMW.  “Steph” had eaten her first German, and she had done so without engaging Sport mode.  All before reaching the speed limit.  It was a good kill.

When I arrived at Hooters Fairfax, it became readily apparent that I had underestimated the overlap between patrons of the performing arts and consumers of chicken wings.  Why else would the parking lot be so full?  I couldn’t think of a reason.  After driving in circles, I finally found a spot right in front of the eatery.  As I emerged from my car, I was accosted by a policeman.  He being an officer, and I a gentleman, I felt certain we would be able to quickly resolve any misunderstandings.

“You can’t park there, Sir.  That’s handicap parking”

“It’s okay; it’s a Jag.”

“Pretty sure that doesn’t matter.”

“Sorry, I meant to say, ‘It’s a Jaguar.’”

“Oh, in that case…No.  Unless you have a handicap, you can’t park there.”

“Does color-blindness count?”

“Nope.”

“I’m not great at math.”

“Sorry.”

“I lack of sense of decency.”

“Obviously. Try again.”

“I have no Soul.”

“That’s unfortunate, but still doesn’t qualify.”

“I meant I can’t dance.”

“Even so.”

“I can’t sing, either.”

“And?”

“’And?’.  I’m black, and I can neither sing nor dance…”

“While I admit that particular revelation calls into question many of the stereotypes I have come to accept, that still doesn’t rise to the level of handicap.”

“Fine.”

“Good talk.”

“No ticket?”

“You’ve got enough problems.”

“Thanks?”

While we were talking a space opened up.  After moving, I went inside where I was immediately welcomed…Welcomed to Hooters.

“Are you here to watch the games?”

“My team lost earlier today.”

“Who’s your team?”

“Duke.”

(long silence)

“Lemme guess.  You hate Duke.”

(Wry smile accompanied by continued silence.) “What can I get you to drink?”

“Sweet tea.”

She came back with the sweet tea, and we continued our conversation.

“So, is Kentucky still in the Tournament?”

“Yes, they are.”

“Good.  I’m originally from Kentucky.”

Being a Duke fan, I hate Kentucky.  Not to the level I hate the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill (Tar...heels...), but hate nonetheless.  She was extremely attractive, however, so I responded as follows, “Really? I’ve always had a healthy respect for the long-standing tradition of the Kentucky Basketball program (other than the period of blatant racism), and have found everyone I’ve met from Kentucky to be incredibly--.”

Jesus: “Sorry.  Don’t mean to interrupt, but can you read this for me?” (Hands me a note.)

Me: “Shame?”

Jesus: “Great.  Just checking.  Carry on...”

“So, you’re going to pull for Kentucky now, right?”

“I don’t see white top.”

“What?”

“I don’t see why not…why not.”

After placing my order, my waitress (Hooters Girl) sat down across from me.

“So, when Duke lost, did you cry?”

“I cried a little…in my face.”

“Where else would you cry?”

“Sometimes, I cry in my pants.”

“I don’t think those are tears.”

“Really? Because I often feel sad afterwards.”

“I don’t think that’s sadness you’re feeling.”

“Then what?”

Jesus (leaning over and pointing to my hand): “Read the note.” (Nods.)

When I noticed it was getting close to opening curtain, I paid my check (with tip) and headed on my way.  I arrived at the Patriot Center having made great time.  I parked “Steph” and walked into the arena.  

Upon seeing my ticket, the usher pointed towards my seat and asked if I would like to utilize one of the available oxygen tanks.

“The air gets pretty thin up there,” she offered.

“I got this,” I responded.  “You should’ve seen my seats for Timberlake.”

During my trek, my thoughts turned to my impending neighbors.  The only thing that concerned me about going to performances alone was not knowing who would be sitting next to me.  Who would it be this time?  Who would The Fates, in all their dark comedy, see fit to trap me next to?  A woman and her crying baby?  An inquisitive child asking, “What are they doing?” every five minutes?  Sir Shares-A-Lot?  Madame Asks-Too-Much?  The Space Invader?  Mister “Did You See That”?  Miss “I first saw Michael…”?

My body tensed with each step as I steeled my nerves and awaited the unveiling.  As I approached my seat, I saw a woman.  She was gorgeous and, as was I, dressed to impress.  She was exquisite.  Could this raven-haired beauty really be the one accompanying me on this walk down memory lane, or was it merely a mirage brought on by the thinning air?  Upon my arrival, we greeted each other with the requisite pleasantries.  Though I didn’t know much about her, I knew that she appreciated performance art, fashion, and Michael Jackson.  By her seat location, I also knew that she either liked to do things last-minute or appreciated a good bargain.  “This is going to be fun,” I thought to myself.  “For, as anyone who really knows me is fully aware, I likes my ladies like I likes my doors, which is to say—“

Jesus: “I got this…If I may.”

“Do go on.”

Jesus (takes a deep breath; exhales slowly): “Revolving, swings both ways, attached…”

(5 minutes later)

“…slightly unhinged, broken, hollow, dead inside…”

(10 minutes in)

”…adoorable…What? I’ve been doing this for 10 minutes straight!  They can’t all be winners.”

(takes another cleansing breath): “…affordable, French…”

(20-minute mark)

“…doggie.  What?!? It’s a legitimate type of door!  Well-oiled, big knockers, red and painted black…”

“Okay, that’s enough.  The show’s about to start.”

“I had more.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

The show was amazing!  The woman, unfortunately, was married.  I don’t know which was more surprising: the fact that she kept talking after telling me she was married or the fact that I kept listening.  No matter.

After peeing in a trough with 15 other dudes while 40 others waited behind, I headed back to the car for the trip home.  As I sat at the last light before my exit, a black, turbocharged Volkswagen Beetle pulled up next to me.  (Volkswagen: Because not all Germans are a*holes.)  The driver rolled down the window, pointed to me, then pointed forward.  He wanted to race.  I was tired, it had been a long day, and I just wanted to get home.  “Steph”, however, had gotten a taste for blood.

“What the hell,” I thought. “Girl’s gotta eat, and she do love German…”

Getting My Old-Time Relige On

December 29, 2013

Dear Diary:

The day began like any other, which is to say with me reflecting on lessons learned from the previous day’s misadventures.  Christmas Eve’s lesson: When you find yourself with an expiring $10 Extra Cash coupon to your local CVS (“CVS, because…Walgreens?  Are you serious???”) and all you need are paper towels and lotion; buy something else…ANYTHING else.  (Editor’s Note: Anything other than a magazine…or batteries…or a doll of any kind.)

After internalizing the lessons from the previous day, I headed to the bathroom to externalize the fluids and solids from the previous day.  Since I was on a well-deserved, much-needed vacation, I neither showered nor shaved.  I did brush my teeth, however, because I hated tasting my own foul breath.  (Ed’s Note: Smelling his own night-stench; apparently, not an issue. Could explain why he’s still single…Just a thought.)

I headed downstairs, turned on the television, fired up the laptop, and checked my email.  Among the correspondence from single moms and Russian women who want to meet me, male enhancement product offers, and interior design catalogs, one email stood out.  It was from ChristianMingle.com.

Dear Mr. McCloud (it started)

Though we appreciate your interest in finding Love through our website, we cannot, in good conscience, expose our members to someone of your…you get it.

Sincerely,

Jesus

“This must be a joke,” I thought.

P.S. (the email continued) - This is Not a Joke

“This certainly cannot be THAT Jesus; it must be an odd coincidence.”

P.P.S (the email continued…yet again) – Yes, THAT Jesus.  I don’t usually take the time to write perspective members directly, but this situation seemed to warrant it, because, well…you get it.

“Wow.  Not sure how to take that.”

P.P.P.S – I’d look at it as a sign that you should take stock and make some serious lifestyle changes.

“Perhaps, this is the kick in the pants I’ve been looking for, the proverbial ‘burning bush’, the key to my Salvation.”

P.P.P.P.S – Salvation???  Let’s not get carried away.  That ship has sailed, sunk to the bottom of the ocean, and been set on fire.  Do you know how hard it is to set a ship that is already at the bottom of the ocean on fire? Granted, hindsight being 20/20, we could have rearranged the order in which we performed those tasks, but that’s just how determined we were.  Truth be told, the best you can hope for at this point is a room with a view…not a great view, but, hey, beggars…am I right?  That was, of course, a rhetorical question, because…you know…Jesus.

“Looks like it’s time for another quest,” I thought to myself. “Time to venture out into the world, to find my true path, to get my old-time relige on…Dammit, now I have to take a shower and put on pants!  The price of Sal— less Damnation.”

After cleansing both mind and body, and warming up my jeans in the dryer (I like a warm pant.  I don’t apologize for that.), I headed out to cleanse my Soul…or, at least, clear up some of the more noticeable blemishes.  I slid into “Shakira” (Yeah, I recognize the imagery; and no, I’m not gonna change it.) turned her on, put my hands at 10 and 2, and listened as she roared to life.  Destination: The Catholics.

I set a course for the nearest Catholic Church, The Church of the Holy Gilt (See what I did there? Guilt…Gilt…Huh…Yeah, you get it.) (Ed’s Note: Not an actual church…hopefully.) in my Garmin GPS (“Garmin: Because you wanna get there…eventually.”) (Ed’s Note: Not the actual slogan for Garmin…yet.).

When I arrived at the church, I parked “Shakira” and made my way inside.

“No shattering glass,” I thought to myself.  “That’s a good sign.”

I placed my hands in the Holy Water at the front.

“Doesn't burn,” I thought.  Again, to myself. “Another good sign…or else this isn’t an actual church.”

I entered the nearest confessional and waited for my priest to come.  (As opposed to my prince…or Prince.  Wouldn't it be awesome if Prince were my priest? Don’t think he’s ordained, though.  When would he find the time…or Morris Day, for that matter?  Ha!  Morris Day and The Time…That takes me back.  I wonder what Apolonia’s up to.  Bet she’s still hot.  …”Dearly Beloved, we have gathered here today to get through this thing call Life.  Electric word ‘Life’. It means forever, and that’s a mighty long time.  But I’m here to tell you, there’s something else…the after world.  A world of –“)

“Are you about done, or did you want me to come back when you're finished?” a disembodied voice from the other side of the curtain asked.  Apparently, I had been singing aloud.

“I can finish it later,” I responded.  “So, are you a priest?”

“Well, I’m not The Wizard.”

“Great!  Now, I have that song in my head.”

“Would you like me to come back later?”

“No, I’m good…Let’s get this party started.”

“Not the usual beginning, but okay.”

“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

“Not a surprise.”

“What?”

“Nothing…continue.”

“I thought the next line was yours.”

“Oh…right…you got me all…nevermind.  How long has it been since your last Confession?”

“In or out of a taxicab?”

“Let’s go with out.”

“Pre- or post-Baptism?”

“Not knowing when you Baptism occurred, let’s go with ‘pre’.”

“In that case…carry the three…about 41 and a half years.”

“And how old are you?”

“41 and a half.”

“I’m gonna need to cancel my afternoon, aren’t I?”

“Probably a safe bet.”

About an hour into my confession, Father Christian (not his real name) interjected.  “Do you want to take a smoke break, or stretch, or something?” he asked.

“I don’t smoke.”

“Not yet.”

“What?”

“Nothing…In that case, let’s move this to my office.  Chairs are more comfortable in there…and I have some reference materials I may need to consult.”

When we stepped out of the confessional, the good father made an astute observation.  “You don’t look like I pictured.”

“You mean I don’t look 41?  Well, I do work out regularly and try to eat right.  Besides, you know what they say, “Black don’t crack’.” (Little known fact: That actually started off as an anti-drug slogan.)  (Ed’s Note: It’s “little-known”, because it’s entirely untrue.)

“I actually meant I expected you to have horns…and possibly a cape.”

On our way to the office, I explained the events that had jumpstarted my quest for spiritual re-awakening.

“So, before we get started with your path towards Catholicism," he continued, "I would be remiss if I didn’t ask if you had considered JDate.com.”

“The Jewish dating site?”

“Yes.”

“I thought about it, but the process to convert to Judaism seems a bit…involved.  They also have a lot more holidays to keep track of, many of which are not observed by Corporate America (i.e. would cut into my personal vacay time).  Besides, think about it, if Judaism were so great, wouldn't Jesus still be Jewish?  Huh?  Yeah, you know I’m right…”

“Match.com? eHarmony?”

“Call me ‘old-fashioned’, but I believe that true Love and the pursuit of such a love, should be free of charge.”

“And…”

“And what?”

“I…well, to be quite frank, I expected a response that was much less…acceptable.  I’m impressed by your…maturity.”

“Nothing to be impressed with.  I believe Love should be free.  I feel the same way about premium cable and internet porn.”  (Ed’s Note: Damion actually pays competitive prices for premium cable…notsomuch for porn.)

“…There it is.  Now that I have gotten a sense of who you are, let’s start with some simple questions.  What do you do for charity?”

“Who’s Charity?”

“Charity is not a person; it’s the act of doing something without expectation of compensation.  Doing something out of the kindness of your heart.”

“Outta the who of my come again?”

“Let’s start even simpler.  Have you actually SEEN the Bible?”

“Yes.”

“Good…surprising, but good.  Favorite book that’s not Revelations.”

“How did you –“

“This is not my first rodeo.”

“Ruth?”

“The Book of Ruth?  Really?”

“No, I just said that for out of respect for a former English teacher…Genesis?”

“Favorite passage?”

“And the lamb…lies down…on Broa-oadway…”

“May want to learn the lyrics to ‘Hell Ain’t A Bad Place to Be’.”

“What?”

“Nothing.  What about your favorite passage from Revelations?”

Twenty minutes later…

“Wow.”

“Never heard anyone recite The Book of Revelations before?”

“Not in Aramaic…I assume you know The Ten Commandments.”

“I know OF them…Oh, you want me to recite…Not a problem.  Thou shalt not kill.  Thou shalt not steal.  

Thou shalt not covet Thy neighbor’s daughter --.”

“Stop.  There’s nothing about coveting your neighbor’s daughter.”

“Really?”

“I’m pretty sure.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“It’s in writing…or, more accurately, NOT in writing…The Bible.”

“Right.  Thou shalt not...stop…til thou get enough?”

“Get out...”

“What?”

“OUT!”

“Fine.”

“Did you put your hands in the Holy Water when you came in?”

“Yes…”

“Would you mind dumping that out on your way out?  Actually, just take the bowl…”

“I’ll try not to take that personally.”

“It was actually said with the intent that you would…Honestly, how you didn’t burst into flames when you walked in the door is beyond me.”

My conversations with representatives from other denominations went just as well…

…The Baptists (aka “We can’t guarantee your entrance into Heaven, but if you give enough, we can put in a good word.”) “Seriously, how many offerings do ya need???  I’m gonna need to take a look at your books…the accounting ones; not the Holy ones.”

…The Methodists (Don’t know much about them, but they’re right down the street and sell Brunswick stew twice a year.  Who doesn’t love Brunswick stew?  I wonder if members get a discount on stew?)  “So, you’re saying there’s a Method-ist to your madness?  I’ll show myself out.”

…The Adventists (aka “We obviously hate children.  Why else would we hold Church during Saturday morning cartoons?”) “Do you think God could be a woman?  I ask, because I’m an extremely gifted liar, damn near prodigal, but I can’t lie to women…I just don’t think a man would do me like that.”

…The Pentecosts (aka “The Come-As-You-Are-ers”) “Does your band take requests?...Alright, I’m leaving, but, for the record, I said “Suck My Kiss”.  It’s a song by the Red Hot Chili Peppers.”

…The Mormons (aka “We’re more than just multiple wives.”)  “Seriously, are there ANY black people in Utah???  Name one…non-athlete…”

…The Latter-Day Saints (“Were there “Former-Day Saints”?) “Did Jesus really turn water into wine, or did he just invent grape Kool-Aid?  Not a ‘miracle’ per se, but still pretty impressive given the time…and he was black.”

…and the Lutherans (aka “Have you tried the Lutherans?”)  “Do you think Sammy Davis, Jr. could’ve been the second-coming?  He was black, Jewish, and could make a rainbow…Just think it would be a shame if we misread all the signs.”

After the surprising(?) number of rejections, (The Lutherans???  I mean…right?) I headed home somewhat despondent.  When I arrived, I threw my keys on the kitchen counter, and turned on the television.  A commercial for eHarmony came on.

“Free communication weekend???  Hellz yeah!”