• Man Trapped in Upside Down Mortgage
• Walking Against Wind Generated by Last State of the Union Address
• 46-Year-Old Wondering Why MTV Doesn’t Play Music Videos Anymore, WTF?
• Silent but Deadly
• Woman Making a Huge Mistake like Marrying Russell Brand
• Lifting a Heavy Box Filled with Your Parents’ Expectations
• Man Making Balloon Payments
• Bathing Johnny Depp
• Straight Man Watching Bethenny Frankel’s Daytime Talkshow, Not Entirely Sure Why
• Drinking From an Imaginary Glass Only to Find it’s Empty Because Children All Over the World Don’t Have Enough Clean Drinking Water and Now Don’t You Feel Like a Shit with Your Plastic Poland Springs Bottle?
• Man in Hybrid Car Stopped at Light (It’s So Quiet!)
Remaining unchanged, however, will be the timeless mime classic: Man Never Having a Date With a Woman, Like, Ever.
Is this your first time? Great. By all means feel free to seat yourself because what am I, your mother?
Specials? Sure. They’re on the wall. Like they’ve always been. So yeah, they’re not so “special.“
We take Visa, MasterCard, American Express, and Blue Cross.
And if you’d like a healthy alternative, consider jogging home.
While I do attend church on Sunday mornings – one might even say religiously, if one were to say things like that – for me, ”church” is more like an hour-and-a-bit long walk down the cul-de-sac and through the woods, over the unfortunately named Fartown Road, across the Dessell’s field and down to the river with the Notorious D.O.G., all while listening to Dionne Warwick on my pod thing with the tiny ear buds that fit right in there so darn tight they actually kinda hurt your hearing bones and does that little bit of suffering qualify it as a Catholic church?
And the offering is a clear plastic baggie with a poop in it.
Now in a completely selfish and very un-churchy way, I like to think of this as all mine, the writer’s church, where I can refuel the soul with sunshine and salt air and the sound of self-indulgent alliteration through the something else that begins with S. Of course being alone is a very important part of an experience that’s not even remotely in the spirit of this entirely too dragged out church metaphor, but fortunately the stinkingest dog in the whole of the tri-county area keeps most would-be parishioners at bay: the two ninja kids hiding behind the boathouse with their gigantic Nerf® dart guns, The Former Mrs. Fisker – Yes, I see you. Yes, yes, peace be with you, too, Mrs. Fisker. Way over there. I’ll just wave, thanks. – and of course the interlopers from over in Duddy Township – “don’t call us Fuddies” – who skulk down to our tidal river with their sights set on stealing a few of our ill-tempered blue crabs using raw chicken legs tied to strings which, while gross, is actually pretty brilliant since even if you don’t catch a crab, hey, free chicken!
So I come here on Sunday mornings, sit on the edge of the dock and soak it all in. (Salmonella aside.) After a few, I’m ready to head back. Because even though sometimes it really does feel like it, church does not last forever. And I rise and nod, unnoticed, to The Now Shrieking and Still Former Mrs. Fisker as she runs from a rogue crustacean, unaware of the fluorescent green foam dart stuck in the back of her beehive.
There but for the grace of dog go I.