We are celebrating the Holiday Season in the best mithraic tradition in high anticipation of the approaching climax of the saturnalia, and will resume our writings on Monday, December 27th.
Meanwhile, click on the link below for your very own interactive, secular-humanist X-mas card!
Did you know that the puritans banned christmas celebrations for several decades? And, that the bible makes absolutely no reference to christmas? And were you aware that biblical scholars agree that Jesus, according to biblical writings, could not have been born in December---and most likely was born in March, September, or perhaps early November. You should also know that what we now call "christmas" was essentially a pagan celebration up until Pope Gregory the First, sometime around 600 AD, commanded his bishops to merge local practices into church rituals in order to expand the church's influence.
Showing posts with label Humor - Satire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Humor - Satire. Show all posts
21 December 2010
01 December 2010
Young Parents: Get A Yardstick!
There is a point in every young parent's life, particularly the mother, when it becomes realized that despite the intense delight and passionate pleasure during the process of conception, there has been brought forth into the world a psychopath! This realization usually hits somewhere between the child's age of two and five. Regrettably, the derangement continues up to about the age of 25 to 28.
Comedian Bill Cosby calls them "brain damaged"! Brain damaged or psychopathic, the end result is the same. At about the age that a person begins gaining their own sanity, they become the caretakers of the criminally insane. Sweet, cuddly little toddlers become fiendish pre-schoolers more influenced by the worst behaving brat in day-care than by parents or teachers. Sharps have to be placed not just out of reach, but under lock and key, as do medicines and toxic and caustic substances less they be given or applied to family pets, a younger child, or merely self-ingested just for the hell of it.
This particular form of mental derangement's onset demonstrates displays of obstinacy regarding personal hygiene and/or fulfilling the human need for sleep. Those who have descended the deepest into their madness often will eschew all forms of nourishment other than Gummy Bears coated with honey or macaroni and cheese slathered with ketchup. But, bath and bedtime, once ritualized and predictable occasions of bonding and sweet affection, become the kill zones of deadly fire-fights with no quarter given. Banshee like shrieks of retribution from the parent, loud and shrill enough to cause neighborhood dogs to waken and wail, and to shatter Aunt Mildred's wedding gift crystal, merely feed the child's distemper. Milder one's whimper, whine, beg and plea while the more aggressive resort to running naked to hide under the bed or the darkest recesses of the closet--despite earlier avowals that a "hairy monster" resides there and that it would be utterly impossible and life-threatening to sleep under those conditions.
People who once went to country fairs and home shows for the displays and rides now head there for one thing and one thing only: Free Yardsticks! Wise ones will get several, as the newer, more flexible ones, break rather easily.
Dressmakers use them to measure hems and skirt or dress length from the floor. But not so with young parents. They have no time for for dressmaking. Their intent is self-preservation! At wit's end and fully cognizant of the criminal penalties for what they now murderously contemplate each night at bath or bed time, they seek an advantage. And, they know, either from their own experience, or perhaps instinctively, that a well-used yardstick is the perfect weapon of intimidation.
Properly used by a fearless parent, order can be restored to the ward without resulting to strait-jackets, drugs, or duct tape. Like all psychopaths, the young child is wholly motivated, even driven, by a fear-based instinct for self-preservation. Once applied to the brat's butt, the yardstick assumes a life of its own.
Upon hearing the words, "Do I need the yardstick?", all but the most recalcitrant quickly determine that it is best to choose one's battles carefully, and that right now perhaps is not the time. Sometimes, with the brighter ones, all that is needed is a parent's longing look at the yardstick, even without a suggestion of a move in its direction, to be sufficient to alter the situation and bring about docility and compliance.
The additional advantage of the yardstick is that it extends the parent's reach by three feet and can't be easily eluded or dodged, and becomes the perfect tool to rout the misbehaving youngster from under the bed or dark corner of the closest.
A word of caution is needed. Be careful, despite the provocation, to see to it that only the flat side, rather than the edge, is used. Even the most callused little butt might show a mark if it were...and that could launch inquiries from those pesky and nosy CPS people!
And that's a whole other thing!
Comedian Bill Cosby calls them "brain damaged"! Brain damaged or psychopathic, the end result is the same. At about the age that a person begins gaining their own sanity, they become the caretakers of the criminally insane. Sweet, cuddly little toddlers become fiendish pre-schoolers more influenced by the worst behaving brat in day-care than by parents or teachers. Sharps have to be placed not just out of reach, but under lock and key, as do medicines and toxic and caustic substances less they be given or applied to family pets, a younger child, or merely self-ingested just for the hell of it.
This particular form of mental derangement's onset demonstrates displays of obstinacy regarding personal hygiene and/or fulfilling the human need for sleep. Those who have descended the deepest into their madness often will eschew all forms of nourishment other than Gummy Bears coated with honey or macaroni and cheese slathered with ketchup. But, bath and bedtime, once ritualized and predictable occasions of bonding and sweet affection, become the kill zones of deadly fire-fights with no quarter given. Banshee like shrieks of retribution from the parent, loud and shrill enough to cause neighborhood dogs to waken and wail, and to shatter Aunt Mildred's wedding gift crystal, merely feed the child's distemper. Milder one's whimper, whine, beg and plea while the more aggressive resort to running naked to hide under the bed or the darkest recesses of the closet--despite earlier avowals that a "hairy monster" resides there and that it would be utterly impossible and life-threatening to sleep under those conditions.
People who once went to country fairs and home shows for the displays and rides now head there for one thing and one thing only: Free Yardsticks! Wise ones will get several, as the newer, more flexible ones, break rather easily.
Dressmakers use them to measure hems and skirt or dress length from the floor. But not so with young parents. They have no time for for dressmaking. Their intent is self-preservation! At wit's end and fully cognizant of the criminal penalties for what they now murderously contemplate each night at bath or bed time, they seek an advantage. And, they know, either from their own experience, or perhaps instinctively, that a well-used yardstick is the perfect weapon of intimidation.
Properly used by a fearless parent, order can be restored to the ward without resulting to strait-jackets, drugs, or duct tape. Like all psychopaths, the young child is wholly motivated, even driven, by a fear-based instinct for self-preservation. Once applied to the brat's butt, the yardstick assumes a life of its own.
Upon hearing the words, "Do I need the yardstick?", all but the most recalcitrant quickly determine that it is best to choose one's battles carefully, and that right now perhaps is not the time. Sometimes, with the brighter ones, all that is needed is a parent's longing look at the yardstick, even without a suggestion of a move in its direction, to be sufficient to alter the situation and bring about docility and compliance.
The additional advantage of the yardstick is that it extends the parent's reach by three feet and can't be easily eluded or dodged, and becomes the perfect tool to rout the misbehaving youngster from under the bed or dark corner of the closest.
A word of caution is needed. Be careful, despite the provocation, to see to it that only the flat side, rather than the edge, is used. Even the most callused little butt might show a mark if it were...and that could launch inquiries from those pesky and nosy CPS people!
And that's a whole other thing!
07 July 2010
B.P. Headlines In 2111
JUST A RANDOM NOTION OR TWO TODAY
Am I the only one who has noticed that it is the same collection of mindless yahoos that used to shout and chant "Love It or Leave It" with high dudgeon , who then morphed into the self-rightious, post 9-11 uber-patriots who tripped over each other racing out to K-Mart and Wal-Mart to buy their yellow-ribbon, stick-on patriotism and who so often sported (improperly) waving flags on the windows of their gas-guzzling SUVs, who are now sporting the "Secede" bumper-stickers. Same bunch of crack-brains, I'd say.
Same collection of damned-fool, self-contradictory, nimrods showing off their pathological and congenital stupidity!
I had a chance, last night, to meet Tom Berry, who is challenging Republican, Jeb Hensarling for the (TX-5) U.S. Congress. Berry, a retired working-class guy, had a lot to say about how and why we need to get the lobbyists' money out of the election process. I found that particularly to the point, since Hensarling is currently being investigated by the House Ethics Committee for contributions from lobbyists that give the appearance of vote buying by the lobbyists of an industry to be affected by Hensarling's upcoming vote. In fairness, we note that Hensarling has denied any wrongdoing and others on the same committee are also under investigation.
The same lobbyists also have made contributions to other politicians who are not under any sort of investigation, which merely shows, in my mind anyway, that the money gets spread around like grass-seed and if some of it takes root...well, you know the rest I guess.
And, I'm imagining lead stories like this in whatever form the 2110 media takes:
Scientists Find Hint of Life in Bayou
Researchers from Texas A & M University yesterday revealed that they have found what they believe to be living organisms in the brackish waters of Black Begonia Bayou, thirty miles east of New Orleans. Flander Flapdoodle, the lead scientist on the Opec funded research project said, "We're very excited to find what we are certain is amoebic life forms that were taken from scrappings of rocks on the shores of the bayou".
"It's been pretty much a "dead-zone" for the past ninety-years or so", he said. "Oh, there's some of those crazy Cajuns that stuck it out, but there's honest debate whether or not they qualify as a life form."
Nettie Boudreaux, a longtime bayou resident, scurried on her six legs out to the road to tell reporters that, "She warn't surprised none, because she's had at least five dogs, twelve kittens, the neighborhood gator, and two children eaten by something or other over the past two-dozen years or so."
"It ain't just those savage howls and green glow at nighttime that scares me, it's them there fireflies as big as eagles thet git thet job done", she continued.
As the reporters were leaving, she shouted out, "Don't go yet, I jest heard a great new Aggie joke!"
Officials the British oil company, B.P., called a press conference at their villa on the Riviera this morning to announce that they believed they had a final solution to the century-old oil spill...the well was running out! An unidentified executive said also that Nettie Broudreaux was a gadfly out to cash in on a piece of the company's $500-trillion world indemnity fund. He went on to state that her claims were ridiculous and that her "weirdness" was not from environmental damage, but due to her being a descendant of several carnival side-show freaks who had dangerously inbred.
"Besides, we're protecting our investors, the American public and our stockholders by maintaining a system that has not paid out a single claim in one-hundred years", he said. "That fund started at a few billion a century ago, and now it is all the way up to $500-trillion, and we didn't get there by paying claims or honoring commitments. By God, let them eat tar balls if they don't like it!"
08 February 2010
Superbowl Questions...
This year's Superbowl left me wondering a few things.
Why are the sports writers so enthralled with Sean Payton's call for an onside kick and the earlier fourth-down attempt at a TD rather than field goal? They're calling those "courageous" decisions. Crap and nonsense, courageous is living your life effectively while facing adversity or overcoming tragedy, fear or grief with grace and resolve. It is not making smart decisions in a football game.
If the Saints had failed with the onside kick, they would have been in no worse shape than if there had been a long run back on a kick off. Risky?, yes. Courageous?, no! The fourth-down attempt left the Colts backed up to their end zone with the pressure on them to play conservatively and not to turn over the ball in their own red zone. Again, good aggressive coaching, but nothing particularly courageous.
Do others think that maybe the Colts came into the game with a sense of entitlement and got smacked in the mouth buy a tough, confident group of blue-collar players?
Am I the only person, except for my wife, who thinks those talking baby commercials are ghastly and creepy?
Do these jocks that jab their finger skyward every time they do that for which they get handed an unrealistic amount of money actually believe that their deity is watching them and would give a hoot about such? Seems to me that if such an omniscient deity as that were to actually exist, it would have less mundane things to pay attention to. After all, it would surely be up in the sky-boxes with the rest of the hoi-polloi and thus would be too wrapped up in all the drinking, carousing, gorging and eying of the tightly-coiffed, face-lifted, skin-peeled, trophy wives of the fat, red-faced, blustery, middle-aged white guys who own the teams to notice what was going on down on the field.
And under the category of, "What in the name of hell could they have been thinking?"...The Who! One could sum up their Superbowl Half-Time show as an appearance by The Was! Now, I'm an old guy, and I applaud old guys who can still do the things they did when they were young. But, when one can no longer do those things, one ought to quit doing them. If you persist, and can't pull it off you look very foolish.
And, as we focus on old dudes, whoever thought that putting a bunch of fat, middle-aged guys on TV wearing only their skivvies would be a clever notion should be shopping around his resume this morning. Not as ghastly, but nearly as creepy as talking babies.
Where were the Clydesdales? Yeah, yeah, I know, but that wasn't enough and not very good at that. Frankly, this year's commercials all seemed a bit tired and lame. They were probably aimed at old men who wander around in their skivvies, sucking on light beer while eating Doritos and heartily laughing at the antics of ghastly and creepy talking babies while nattering endlessly about courageous coaches and on-side kicks and fourth-down TD attempts.
Why are the sports writers so enthralled with Sean Payton's call for an onside kick and the earlier fourth-down attempt at a TD rather than field goal? They're calling those "courageous" decisions. Crap and nonsense, courageous is living your life effectively while facing adversity or overcoming tragedy, fear or grief with grace and resolve. It is not making smart decisions in a football game.
If the Saints had failed with the onside kick, they would have been in no worse shape than if there had been a long run back on a kick off. Risky?, yes. Courageous?, no! The fourth-down attempt left the Colts backed up to their end zone with the pressure on them to play conservatively and not to turn over the ball in their own red zone. Again, good aggressive coaching, but nothing particularly courageous.
Do others think that maybe the Colts came into the game with a sense of entitlement and got smacked in the mouth buy a tough, confident group of blue-collar players?
Am I the only person, except for my wife, who thinks those talking baby commercials are ghastly and creepy?
Do these jocks that jab their finger skyward every time they do that for which they get handed an unrealistic amount of money actually believe that their deity is watching them and would give a hoot about such? Seems to me that if such an omniscient deity as that were to actually exist, it would have less mundane things to pay attention to. After all, it would surely be up in the sky-boxes with the rest of the hoi-polloi and thus would be too wrapped up in all the drinking, carousing, gorging and eying of the tightly-coiffed, face-lifted, skin-peeled, trophy wives of the fat, red-faced, blustery, middle-aged white guys who own the teams to notice what was going on down on the field.
And under the category of, "What in the name of hell could they have been thinking?"...The Who! One could sum up their Superbowl Half-Time show as an appearance by The Was! Now, I'm an old guy, and I applaud old guys who can still do the things they did when they were young. But, when one can no longer do those things, one ought to quit doing them. If you persist, and can't pull it off you look very foolish.
And, as we focus on old dudes, whoever thought that putting a bunch of fat, middle-aged guys on TV wearing only their skivvies would be a clever notion should be shopping around his resume this morning. Not as ghastly, but nearly as creepy as talking babies.
Where were the Clydesdales? Yeah, yeah, I know, but that wasn't enough and not very good at that. Frankly, this year's commercials all seemed a bit tired and lame. They were probably aimed at old men who wander around in their skivvies, sucking on light beer while eating Doritos and heartily laughing at the antics of ghastly and creepy talking babies while nattering endlessly about courageous coaches and on-side kicks and fourth-down TD attempts.
02 February 2010
24 November 2009
Let me be the first - "Happy Holidays"!
Here we go again....reading that can't you just hear Ray Charles somewhere back in your memory banks? But, the here we go again is not Baby Ray's soulful rendition of that great country ballad. Or even Dean Martin's more straight forward version. No, not even close.
The here we go again I refer to is the fact that here we are on the eve of Thanksgiving eve and we're already hearing rumblings of our annual religio-culture war about whether the "reason for the season" is the celebration of the birth of the Jewish prophet "Jesus of Nazareth", on whom Christianity is based, or of a highly evolved pagan winter tide celebration wrapped up in capitalistic consumerism, gift-giving and football schedules. Unless, of course, you are Armenian, then you celebrate the birthday of Jesus on January 6th. I'm not certain about their gift-giving traditions or football schedules. I am dead-on certain about the Armenian January 6 thingee though!
The truth of the matter is very clear to any fair-minded, reasonably well-educated individual; there is absolutely no historical proof of even the year, let alone precise day, of Jesus's birth. I do not care what you believe, or what you believe the bible tells you, or what your preacher Jimmy Ray Billy Bob tells you, there is no historical evidence of even the precise year of Jesus's birth. Yes, there are a couple of conflciting date ranges extrapolated from biblical reference and known historic dates. But, nothing that tells us exactly when Jesus was born. Hence, since such proof or evidence is non-existent, I really would prefer that you not try to force on me and others your overly sentimental and fact-denying belief that the holiday season is about the birth of Jesus and somehow tied to the founding of the United States, Thanksgiving family dinners, the flag, WWII, and the Rose Bowl.
Got it? You are free to believe what you want...no matter how ill-informed is the foundation of your beliefs. What you are not free to do is to try to bully me and others into adhering to your narrow belief system.
I am going to celebrate the holidays, each and every damned one of them that I can fit into my schedule (even the ones I don't entirely understand) and revel in gorging on rich foods, spending too much on presents, and making certain I watch at least one version of the Christmas Carol, read at least once the story of The Little Match Girl, stay up til midnight on Xmas eve in yet another futile attempt to see if animals actually do talk on the stroke of twelve, and fit as many football games into my schedule as my wife will let me get away with.
So, with that, let me be the first; Happy Holidays!
The here we go again I refer to is the fact that here we are on the eve of Thanksgiving eve and we're already hearing rumblings of our annual religio-culture war about whether the "reason for the season" is the celebration of the birth of the Jewish prophet "Jesus of Nazareth", on whom Christianity is based, or of a highly evolved pagan winter tide celebration wrapped up in capitalistic consumerism, gift-giving and football schedules. Unless, of course, you are Armenian, then you celebrate the birthday of Jesus on January 6th. I'm not certain about their gift-giving traditions or football schedules. I am dead-on certain about the Armenian January 6 thingee though!
The truth of the matter is very clear to any fair-minded, reasonably well-educated individual; there is absolutely no historical proof of even the year, let alone precise day, of Jesus's birth. I do not care what you believe, or what you believe the bible tells you, or what your preacher Jimmy Ray Billy Bob tells you, there is no historical evidence of even the precise year of Jesus's birth. Yes, there are a couple of conflciting date ranges extrapolated from biblical reference and known historic dates. But, nothing that tells us exactly when Jesus was born. Hence, since such proof or evidence is non-existent, I really would prefer that you not try to force on me and others your overly sentimental and fact-denying belief that the holiday season is about the birth of Jesus and somehow tied to the founding of the United States, Thanksgiving family dinners, the flag, WWII, and the Rose Bowl.
Got it? You are free to believe what you want...no matter how ill-informed is the foundation of your beliefs. What you are not free to do is to try to bully me and others into adhering to your narrow belief system.
I am going to celebrate the holidays, each and every damned one of them that I can fit into my schedule (even the ones I don't entirely understand) and revel in gorging on rich foods, spending too much on presents, and making certain I watch at least one version of the Christmas Carol, read at least once the story of The Little Match Girl, stay up til midnight on Xmas eve in yet another futile attempt to see if animals actually do talk on the stroke of twelve, and fit as many football games into my schedule as my wife will let me get away with.
So, with that, let me be the first; Happy Holidays!
02 August 2009
Pet Peeves That Deserve Euthanasia
If I had not always been a prickly, edgy, short-tempered sort of guy, I'd say that I'm becoming cranky and curmudgeonly in my old age. But, the things that gnaw at my butt now, always chomped away faster than Ms. Pacman. It's just that I'm a whole lot less patient about them than I used to be and one helluva whole lot more likely to speak up when someone "steps on my corns".
Here's an example. Our local grocery chain, Brookshire's, has deluded its self into the obnoxious practice of yelling greetings at me the moment I enter the store and inquiring as to my health. They think this is friendly customer service. I think it is a pain in the ass. Look, I go into a store I want anonymity. I do not want attention focused on me, and, I'll reserve discussions of my health for medical experts, family and friends--thank you!
I want to slip in and quietly do my business and get out. That is it. That is all.
I do not want to hear, "How're yew doin!" shouted at me as the automatic door swings open. Leave me the hell alone, damn it. You're only doing this because someone behind a desk somewhere decided that customer service needed to be improved. That person probably shops at Whole Foods and does not know how incessantly annoying being yelled at in the grocery store can be. Anyway, none of you know from customer service, believe me. Or you wouldn't be yelling at people the way you do.
It is particularly off putting once you've been loudly greeted and had your health checked by store employees five times before you even make it out of produce. Damn, would y'awl just give it a freakin' rest, will you?
And. Shall I continue? OK, sure, no problem.
I'd dearly like to paint ball idiot drivers that for some reason think that the turn signal engages the car's turning apparatus. You know what I'm getting at here. These are the clods who cut in front of you, and, as they're starting or better yet, completing, the turn, engage their turn signal. Folks, read the Rules of the Road put out by your state. The turn signal is to be engaged well prior to turning or changing lanes to let others drivers know your intent. Do not do it to tell us what you're doing, we can see that quite plainly as we lock our brakes to keep from hitting your dumb ass!
The next one? OK, I'll be brief. Where in the hell do these people come from that think it is OK to dump dirty diapers in the parking lot? There can't be that many fourth generation inbred people out there, can there? Let me catch you, and I'm rubbing your nose in it, swatting you with a rolled up newspaper, and leaving you outside all night.
And my all time favorite.
You're in the express lane for a reason, you've got stuff to do, things to see and people to hustle and lie to, and you get behind some gimlet eyed little old lady with the Sexy Senior T-Shirt that digs into her purse to count out the precise change to the clerk. You've been there, right?
She already has your butt-kicking foot twitching because she had eight items over the Express Lane Limit and the lily-livered clerk doesn't have the gumption to send her away. Or else is a recent high-school graduate who can't count past ten.
Grandma opens her purse and digs around through the used Kleenex, Luden's cough-drop box, vivid red (Kiss Me You Fool) lipstick, expired cell phone, six months of Bible Thoughts of the Day tracts, buttons, pins, ball of rubbber-bands, grandchild's Binky, photos from the Bridge Club X-mas party, and assorted other necessities of old age, for a five compartment snap closure coin purse, all the while, without coming up for air, blathering about the cute things her grandchildren do.
Then, as the coin purse comes out, she squints at the register and asks, "How much was that honey?". Then, she methodically counts out onto the counter the precise change, usually in dimes, nickles and pennies, pausing every moment or so to recount and check once again the amount owed.
I'm telling you. I will not have to spend anytime at all in hell. St. Peter knows of my suffering and will give me the wave through.
Here's an example. Our local grocery chain, Brookshire's, has deluded its self into the obnoxious practice of yelling greetings at me the moment I enter the store and inquiring as to my health. They think this is friendly customer service. I think it is a pain in the ass. Look, I go into a store I want anonymity. I do not want attention focused on me, and, I'll reserve discussions of my health for medical experts, family and friends--thank you!
I want to slip in and quietly do my business and get out. That is it. That is all.
I do not want to hear, "How're yew doin!" shouted at me as the automatic door swings open. Leave me the hell alone, damn it. You're only doing this because someone behind a desk somewhere decided that customer service needed to be improved. That person probably shops at Whole Foods and does not know how incessantly annoying being yelled at in the grocery store can be. Anyway, none of you know from customer service, believe me. Or you wouldn't be yelling at people the way you do.
It is particularly off putting once you've been loudly greeted and had your health checked by store employees five times before you even make it out of produce. Damn, would y'awl just give it a freakin' rest, will you?
And. Shall I continue? OK, sure, no problem.
I'd dearly like to paint ball idiot drivers that for some reason think that the turn signal engages the car's turning apparatus. You know what I'm getting at here. These are the clods who cut in front of you, and, as they're starting or better yet, completing, the turn, engage their turn signal. Folks, read the Rules of the Road put out by your state. The turn signal is to be engaged well prior to turning or changing lanes to let others drivers know your intent. Do not do it to tell us what you're doing, we can see that quite plainly as we lock our brakes to keep from hitting your dumb ass!
The next one? OK, I'll be brief. Where in the hell do these people come from that think it is OK to dump dirty diapers in the parking lot? There can't be that many fourth generation inbred people out there, can there? Let me catch you, and I'm rubbing your nose in it, swatting you with a rolled up newspaper, and leaving you outside all night.
And my all time favorite.
You're in the express lane for a reason, you've got stuff to do, things to see and people to hustle and lie to, and you get behind some gimlet eyed little old lady with the Sexy Senior T-Shirt that digs into her purse to count out the precise change to the clerk. You've been there, right?
She already has your butt-kicking foot twitching because she had eight items over the Express Lane Limit and the lily-livered clerk doesn't have the gumption to send her away. Or else is a recent high-school graduate who can't count past ten.
Grandma opens her purse and digs around through the used Kleenex, Luden's cough-drop box, vivid red (Kiss Me You Fool) lipstick, expired cell phone, six months of Bible Thoughts of the Day tracts, buttons, pins, ball of rubbber-bands, grandchild's Binky, photos from the Bridge Club X-mas party, and assorted other necessities of old age, for a five compartment snap closure coin purse, all the while, without coming up for air, blathering about the cute things her grandchildren do.
Then, as the coin purse comes out, she squints at the register and asks, "How much was that honey?". Then, she methodically counts out onto the counter the precise change, usually in dimes, nickles and pennies, pausing every moment or so to recount and check once again the amount owed.
I'm telling you. I will not have to spend anytime at all in hell. St. Peter knows of my suffering and will give me the wave through.
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