Skit: "You Gotta Eat"

Just wrote this one out of the blue. The message is not that "church-hopping" is a good thing – I don't think it's a good idea to do that indefinitely, and definitely not without a clear goal in mind. The message is not that I have issues with my own church (Unity Free Will Baptist Church) – I love my church, and am fully convinced that "meat" is served there on a regular basis. The message is that you can't grow spiritually if you're not being fed spiritually. If all you ever get fed is milk, then all you'll ever be is a spiritual baby. (I Corinthians 3: 1-2)  The message is also that you shouldn't rely on your pastor and your church to be the only sources of your spiritual food. You should read and study the Word on your own on a daily basis. That's how you grow. Am I guilty of not doing this faithfully? Absolutely. So I'm talking to myself here as much as anybody else. Call it a reminder for me and for you of what we as Christians ought to be doing. If you're not even a spiritual baby yet, talk to someone you know who's a Christian, and ask them what it's all about. They'll be glad to usher you into the family of believers. Now for the skit....

YOU GOTTA EAT

DENISE:  Hi. I'm Denise.

ED:  Hello, Denise.

DENISE:  What's your name?

ED:  Ed.

DENISE:  Hi, Ed. If you don't mind, I'd like to give you something.

ED:  Okay. What is it?

DENISE:  It's an invitation.

ED:  To what?

DENISE:  Read it and see.

ED:  "Montosat Minuswed Community Church"?

DENISE:  That's right.

ED:  That's quite a name.

DENISE:  We're quite a church!

ED:  No offense, but I'm not much into the church thing.

DENISE:  That's okay. We're not either.

ED:  Excuse me?

DENISE:  What I mean is, we're not your typical church. We don't meet on Sunday mornings and Sunday evenings, or even Wednesday nights like most churches.

ED:  Well, when do you meet?

DENISE:  Monday through Saturday, excluding Wednesday.

ED:  Monday through Saturday? 

DENISE:  Excluding Wednesday.

ED:  That's a lot of church services!

DENISE:  Well, you know what they say. You gotta eat. We find that folks get too hungry if they only eat on Sundays and Wednesdays. So our members go to their regular church services on those days and come to us all the other days.

ED:  So, let me get this straight. You don't actually have church, you just feed people?

DENISE:  No, silly! We feed people by having church.

ED:  I think you lost me there.

DENISE:  Spiritual food!

ED:  You mean, like, manna and fishes and loaves – stuff like that?

DENISE:  Not exactly. You see, the Word of God is our food. It feeds our spiritual hunger. We can't just go to church on Sunday and Wednesday, get fed by the Word, and expect to live it out the other five days. You gotta eat every day.

ED:  Well, that makes sense, I suppose. But doesn't that get a bit – I don't know – tiring, being at church all the time like that?

DENISE:  Sometimes. But it's a sacrifice we make willingly. Because we want to be fed.

ED:  Why can't you just read and study the Bible on your own time, at home or on your lunch break at work?

DENISE:  Well, we could, of course. But we wouldn't do it. It's just like that old saying goes: "Out of sight, out of mind." If we're not reminded constantly that we need to read the Word, and pray, and tell others the good news of the Gospel, then we simply won't do it. So we go to church every day to feed our souls and refresh our hearts.

ED:  Okay, I get what you're saying. But let me ask you this: If you're really that hungry for the Word, won't you be compelled to read it for yourself whenever and wherever you need it, to satisfy that hunger? Won't it consume you in such a way that you have to fill that void immediately, not wait till the next church service – even if one is held every night?

DENISE:  I – I don't – 

ED:  It just seems to make sense to me that you eat when you're hungry, not just when someone tells you it's time to eat.

DENISE:  So you're saying that we shouldn't have church services every single day of the week?

ED:  That's not for me to decide. I'm just saying you shouldn't have to.

DENISE:  Are you sure you don't go to church somewhere? You seem to really know what you're talking about.

ED:  Oh, I've been to church plenty of times in my life. I just haven't found one that will satisfy my needs yet. 

DENISE:  Oh? And what needs are those?

ED:  Well, spiritually speaking, I need meat. And every church I've ever been to only serves milk. I know it does a body good, but I've gotta have more than just milk if I'm going to grow.

DENISE:  Can I have that brochure back now, Ed?

ED:  Sure. What's the problem?

DENISE:  You wouldn't like my church, either.

ED:  Oh yeah? Why not?

DENISE:  All we serve is spiritual broccoli. Pretty on the outside, even a bit nutritious. But all you taste is bitterness.

ED:  Ugh!

DENISE:  Yeah. Come to think of it, I'm not too crazy about it myself.

ED:  Understandably so.

DENISE:  Well, don't give up, Ed. I'm sure you'll find a church that will feed your soul. Till then, stay in the Word.

ED:  Of course, I will. And you do the same. After all, you gotta eat.

THE END

Things I Find Fascinating: Real Names Of Famous People

Do you think Michael Caine would have ever made it big if 

he'd gone by his real name, Maurice Micklewhite? Probably not.

 This lovely and talented lady made a name for herself as 

an actress and dancer. But she must have thought her birth 

name of Tula Ellice Finklea wouldn't get her very far, so she 

changed her name to the more poetic-sounding Cyd Charisse.

For some reason, the name Vincent Damon Furnier just didn't

have that scary rock star vibe he was going for. So he changed

 his name to Alice Cooper. Yeah, that's SO much better!

 Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, everyone's 

favorite jazz singer: Norma Deloris Egstrom! Haven't heard of her? 

Well, maybe you know her as Peggy Lee! (If you're my age or younger,  

you probably haven't heard of her at all -- but that's beside the point.)

Even with the old LP records of the day being much larger than 

the CD's of recent history, I don't think that the name Henry John 

Deutschendorf, Jr. would have fit very well running across the top 

there. So he changed his name to John Denver instead. Wise move.

Morgan Fairchild: A glamorous name for a glamorous lady. 

Had she gone by her original name of Patsy Ann McClenny, 

would she have been quite as famous? The world will never know...

Whether you know him as Little Joe from Bonanza, Pa Ingalls 

from Little House On The Prairie, or an earthbound angel on 

Highway To Heaven, you probably know that his real name is  

Michael Landon. Except that it isn't. His parents called him  

Eugene Orowitz.  He opted to change it. Thankfully.

The queen of 1990s romantic comedies was born with more 

names than you shake a proverbial stick at. This poor girl's parents 

got carried away and named her Margaret Mary Emily Anne Hyra 

at birth. Since that would never look right alongside the shortly-named 

Tom Hanks on the silver screen, she opted to go by, simply, Meg Ryan.

This is world-famous fashion designer, Ralph Lauren. 

Name at birth: Ralph Lipschitz. No comment.

You may know her from Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman. Or, if
you're younger, you may recognize her as that pretty middle-aged
British lady on the jewelry commercials. Hollywood knows her as simply 
Jane Seymour. At birth, she was called (as the Brits say instead
of "named") Joyce Penelope Wilhelmina Frankenberg. Yeah, 
that would have never worked for her, I don't think. Good choice, Joyce.

Probably The Most Meaningful Poetry I've Ever Written (A Cycle Of Alpha Poetry)

All you have to do

Is everything.

We only expect

Your best.

But what if my best

Isn't good enough?

What if my everything

Isn't anything?

What then?

How will I ever live up

To your expectations?

Back with a vengeance

Feelings of sadness

Low self-esteem

Shame, self-pity

I say "back", but

They never really left

I just buried them

With facades of normalcy

As soon as I took off the cover

There they were

Waiting to be reborn.

Can hardly wait

Till tomorrow

Or the next day

Or the next day

Or whenever it is

That things get better.

Desperately seeking answers

I go to the Word, and find

More questions, but even more

Answers. He knows my thoughts

My dreams, my aspirations

My worries, my fears, my heart

And His best is yet to come.

Every time I'm not there

I feel guilty. But is it them

I don't want to disappoint? 

Or is it Him that I'm afraid

To lose? He's not going anywhere

And I'll be back, but how far

Will I have slipped in the meantime?

Fleeting thoughts

Of bad decisions

Quickly stifled.

There is a way

That seems right

In a certain light

But proves dreadful

In the light of day.

It's always better

When you can see

What you're getting into.

Green with envy

And not proud of it.

I struggle to reconcile

Myself with the fact

That others have more

Because they deserve it.

Maybe they work harder

Or maybe they're just lucky.

But worrying

About what I have

And what I don't

Won't do any good

And neither will wishing.

I can work harder

Try harder, be harder

And it will either happen

Or it won't. 

There's not much else

I can do to change things.

Happiness is

Overrated.

Contentment is

A better goal.

What's the difference?

One changes

Your perspective.

The other changes

Your life.

If you want to live

Your best life now

You won't find it

In a bestselling book

That only serves to

Make its author rich.

You won't find it

In wealth, either.

Hasn't it long been

Established that

Money can't buy

Happiness, and that

The love of money

Is the root of all evil?

Your best life now

Isn't green in color.

Your best life isn't

Being in the black.

Your best life is

Covered in red.

What's that?

Your best life now

Is putting your "later"

In the hands of the One

Who shed His red

For the blackness

Of your soul

So that you could

Be made white

And pure, and whole.

That's your best life.

Interested?

Just in the nick of time

I found my purpose.

I was *this close*

To giving in and settling

For mediocrity and stagnancy

When I realized – there's more

So much more that I can do

For my fellow man, so much

To live for, other than myself

And my interests and desires.

Right on time, I stopped myself

And let Him start His work.

Keeping her in mind

He bowed his head

And said a prayer

Of thanksgiving.

Grieving her death, but

Grateful for her life

And the joy she brought

To those around her

Some of whom she never

Knew by name, or by face

But whose heart she captured

By being herself, a servant

Faithful to the end.

Love is a four-letter word

But so is hate, and so is hope

And so is wait, and so is stay

And so is live, and so is cope.

Brief words speak volumes

While big words mean so little.

Most of what I say

Is meaningless.

Every now and then

I'll inject a bit of truth

Into my make-believe.

But I wouldn't joke

About this. Everything

I've said today, I've meant.

Believe it or not, I believe

In unseen things. Because 

The evidence is overwhelming.

Not what you expect

When you open a page

(Printed or posted).

You've seen it all before

(And maybe you have)

But this is new. This is

Real. This is life and death.

How will you respond?

Over time he's worked to gain

A better understanding

Of the things that scare him.

Like forever – a concept

He can't quite wrap his brain

Around, and that makes him

Physically ill to try to fathom.

And like forgiveness, which he's

Heard of all his life, and has

Experienced first-hand, but never

On that level. Never "total forgiveness"

No matter what he's done wrong

And regardless of what he's done right.

That just doesn't make sense.

It's not natural. Speaking of which –

He also can't fully grasp the truth

That the supernatural exists.

But he's studying, he's learning

And he's asking questions. There are

Plenty of people who are able to help him

Better comprehend. But are they willing?

Peace I've mined

From wells of wisdom

Ancient and modern

Has gotten me through

The toughest times

In my life – which

Admittedly have been few

But there have always

Been challenges. After all

If life isn't challenging

If there aren't difficulties

To learn from, then are we

Truly living, or just existing?

Quote the right sources

And the advice you give

Will be beneficial, and lasting.

Repeat the words of those

Who speak their minds

And not the truth, and you

Will likely do more harm

Than good. Think first, then speak.

Rounding the bend

And heading home

She stops to listen

Only for a second.

A cry for help

Distracts her.

She could just

Keep on moving

Reach her destination.

But the cry would

Haunt her dreams.

Not knowing if she

Could have saved a life

Or made a bad day better

She can't (she won't)

Just walk away.

This is her blessing

And her curse.

Sadly, most people

Won't ever read

A word I write.

I say "sadly" – not

From selfish motives

Or a desire to be

Widely read, well-known

Famous, if you will –

But because I feel

That there is truth

To be gleaned from 

Words I put in motion.

And I don't want anyone

Living their entire lives

Never knowing the truth

About the things that matter

Most. It may not always

Be obvious in what I say

Or how I say it. But it's there –

An ever-present vein

That ties it all together.

Read between the lines

And see the layer

Beneath the surface.

Truth in small quantities

Is still truth, regardless.

Time is never on your side

Tomorrow isn't guaranteed.

You may think your plans are set

But you might never, ever leave.

You are never in control

Even though you'd like to be

Don't consider this a sentence

It's letting go that makes you free.

Under a cloud

Of doubt

And despair

Of guilt

And fear

Of shame

And pain.

But hold on!

It gets better

Once it rains.

Vehemently opposed

To saving grace

He trudges through life

Denying the existence

Of his Creator

Loudly outspoken

In his conviction

That this is all there is.

At the end of his life

He's shocked to find

That there was more

And he missed it.

What you don't know

You don't need to know

The questions you have

In the scheme of things

Don't matter all that much

Are you that eager to meet

The God who made you

Face to face, just to ask

What happened to dinosaurs?

Where's the Garden of Eden?

Who wrote the book of Hebrews?

Once you're able to find the answers

You won't even care anymore.

All that will matter is that you're there

And He is, and that forever has begun.

"X" tattooed on his wrist

Or is it a cross? Let's say it is.

Is it a symbol of his redemption?

A constant reminder of nails

Driven through HIS wrists?

Does its presence tell others

WHOSE he is, or is it just a fad?

Does it mean anything?

Does it affect the way he lives?

Does he forget it's even there

And live by his own standards

While defying and denying HIS?

Interesting question.

You only live once

But if you're born twice

Your one life never ends.

Even if you're never born again

You'll never die again.

The difference is, you'll spend

The rest of your life (after life)

Tormented, desolate, wishing

You'd died to self, and been raised

To new life with Him. Too late

You'll realize that forever

Is only paradise if you spend it

There. Here is only heartache.

It's your life. Choose wisely.

Zoning out, dreaming of the day

When there will be no pain

No tears, no sorrow, no death

For those who are found in Him.

(Unreality compared to what we know now)

When the supernatural becomes

The norm, and we are glorified

In body and soul, what once seemed

Impossible will have been revealed.

And we will dwell with Him

Who makes all things possible

Forever

And ever

And ever

And ever

And ever...

Oodles Of Fun

For the second straight weekend, we have holed ourselves up in our house and set our hands, arms, legs, and anything else that will bend to painting our house. Well, parts of our house, at least. (And maybe I was exaggerating about the leg-painting....) Last weekend, it was the downstairs living and dining room area. This weekend, it was supposed to be doors and the walls surrounding our stairs up to the second floor. It ended up being just the doors. That and hanging five sets of blinds took all weekend long. (Obviously, we have a lot of doors.)

Over the past three-and-a-half weeks, our contractor/guy has replaced all the countertops in our upstairs and downstairs bathrooms and our kitchen; he has scraped the linoleum from our bathrooms and kitchen and replaced them with vinyl (upstairs bath only) and laminate (downstairs bath and kitchen); he has painted our bathrooms (upstairs and downstairs) and kitchen; he has repaired the sheet rock in our bedroom and third-floor bonus room where we had previously had leaks; he has replaced or repaired all three of our toilets and installed protective trim in our shower; he has installed shoe molding everywhere we didn't have it before and replaced it where it had to be removed to do the flooring; he replaced our over-the-stove microwave and is going to replace the light fixtures in our kitchen and dining area; he has taught us how to properly caulk, how to build a window cornice, and is going to teach us how to mud walls in order to patch sheet rock.

Did I mention that "he" did all of this: I should probably qualify that a little. He knows a guy who professionally installs vinyl, and that guy and his assistant actually installed the vinyl upstairs. He also has a guy whose expertise is spraying the "popcorn" on ceilings, and that guy did that in our bedroom and skylight area after our guy replaced the sheet rock. Our contractor/guy can basically do everything -- I'm not exaggerating. He had to take three days off from our project the week before last to do a framing job for a guy he works for regularly. This week, he starts working on the crew of a big stone masonry job. But he'll still come by after his day job to finish up a last few things for us. This guy is amazing!

We've put in plenty of hours doing all this painting, a bit of packing and decluttering, cleaning, and oh yeah, hanging those blinds. But our guy's put in plenty more hours doing all that he's done. Of course, we're paying him for everything he's done, but not an exorbitant amount, all things considered. His pricing is fair, he is extremely honest, and we trust him (to the point where I will let him in the house each morning before I go to work and just let him do this thing all day without having to look over his shoulder the whole time, or worry about our (few) valuables being stolen while we're gone.

He works hard, but still saves a bit of his (seemingly boundless) energy for his wife and three kids when he leaves here. His wife makes and sells tamales, and since he's been coming regularly, we've been buying and eating her tamales. (They're wonderful, by the way!) To top it all off, he's a fellow believer, and we've had several great conversations about our Christian faith. We've also shared quite a few laughs.

The big remodeling project will, in all likelihood, be finished before this week is over, and there are many things about it that I won't miss. The day-after-day-after-day of eating takeout because our kitchen was a construction zone and utterly unusable. The three nights we spent on the inflatable bed in the guest bedroom while our bedroom was being worked on. The several days, in the middle of our painting project, when all of our living room furniture was pushed to the middle, and just sitting to eat dinner was a claustrophobic catastrophe. The week-and-a-half-plus that we've spent sleeping with the kitties to keep them isolated from the downstairs construction/painting zone.

But I will miss hanging out with our contractor/guy, not to mention those tamales. (Oh, we'll find a way to get more of those, if we have to drive to Chocowinity to buy them in the store where she sells them.)

Mad Libs: "Personal Ad" & "The WalMart Difference"

DISCLAIMER:  I only came up with the words in bold, everything else was pre-written and I just filled in the appropriate parts of speech requested of me by the game. Enjoy!


PERSONAL AD:

I enjoy long, frigid walks on the beach, getting smacked in the rain and serendipitous encounters with feet. I really like piña coladas mixed with blood, and romantic, candle-lit fingers. I am well-read from Dr. Seuss to Angelina Jolie. I travel frequently, especially to Food Lion, when I am not busy with work. (I am a Gynecologist.) I am looking for pocket watches and beauty in the form of an Icelandic goddess. She should have the physique of Meryl Streep and the socket wrench of Sammie Starr. I would prefer if she knew how to cook, clean, and wash my crutches. I know I’m not very attractive in my picture, but it was taken 34 days ago, and I have since become more frumpy.


THE WALMART DIFFERENCE:

Come simmer at WALMART, where you'll receive lousy discounts on all of your favorite brand name blankets. Our amazing and flashing associates are there to undulate you fourteen hours a day. Here you will find sweet prices on the pants you need, chandeliers for the moms, board games for the kids, and all the latest electronics for the Jimmy's. So come on down to your roomy, fabulous WALMART where the books come first.

Things I'd Rather Be Doing This Weekend Than Painting Up The Stairs

So, after spending almost two entire days painting our downstairs living and dining room last weekend, we are now left with the unenviable task of painting the walls on either side of our stairs leading up to the second floor. We have never attempted anything this stupid or difficult before, so who knows how this will go? We're planning on using extension rollers, extension ladders, and any other forms of extension we can find (where are Inspector Gadget and his arms when we need them?).

Needless to say, I'm not looking forward to this too much. Those of you who know me know how clumsy I am, and knowing this, you must realize that me attempting this – even with Mary helping a lot (and probably doing a better job of it than me) – is potentially lethal. But it has to be done. So, while I'm risking life and limb to paint walls tomorrow (hopefully it'll all be done in one day), these are the things I'll be wishing I were doing instead...



1)  Vacationing In Maui:  Sandy beaches, back massages, enough sunshine to give this fair-skinned boy blistered skin in about five minutes. Sounds like heaven compared to painting up the stairs.

2)  Watching A 24-Hour Marathon Of Any Of The "Real Housewives" Reality Shows:  If that doesn't tell you how desperate I am, then nothing can. I don't even need to comment any further, do I?

3)  Playing Golf:  I should explain here that I have never played golf, never desired to play golf, have no interest in ever playing golf, and that I turn the channel in five seconds flat any time a golf tournament comes on television. So this is saying a lot that I would rather be playing golf this weekend.

4)  Dining At An All-You-Can-Eat Salad Bar:  I'm not a big fan of salad. Meaning that it almost has to be force-fed to me for me to eat it. I don't mind the croutons, nuts and seeds, bacon bits, boiled eggs, shredded cheese, or even the salad dressing used to top it with – it's that darn lettuce that I don't want any part of. Which kind of defeats the purpose, huh? But still, I'd rather eat salad all day than paint up the stairs.

5)  Waiting In Line At The DMV:  Now, if this isn't the ultimate test of patience, I don't know what is. Still, I'd rather wait in line, all day if possible, than paint up the stairs.

6)  Flossing My Teeth:  Every time I go to the dentist, he harps on how I need to floss more regularly, and that I should only floss the teeth I want to keep, and blah blah blah blah. I know he's right, but I still fight him (and myself) on it every single time. I just hate flossing. But...I'd rather floss than paint up the stairs.

7)  Attending A Lecture On Any Subject:  I've never been a big fan of lectures, and I don't really see the point in going to one unless I am forced to do so. But still, I'd attend a lecture on how to properly wax my eyebrows if it meant not having to paint up the stairs.

8)  Learning To Crochet:  Crafting in general is not of much interest to me, though I wish it were, because then I'd have another interest in common with my wife (she likes to scrapbook). But alas, I don't like to craft. Anything. Ever. But if it meant not having to paint up the stairs this weekend, I'd take up crocheting butterflies in a heartbeat.

9)  Going Shopping With Paris Hilton:  As much as I dislike shopping, and as much as I dislike Paris Hilton, I'd rather do that than paint up the stairs. Just saying.

10)  Teaching A Parrot To Speak:  I am not well-known for my great patience. Thus, the reasons for why I do not enjoy waiting in line at the DMV, driving across town on Greenville Boulevard on a Friday afternoon, or listening to radio commercials. But I would rather expend my time, my energy, and yes, every last bit of my patience to teach a parrot to speak than paint up the stairs this weekend. Is the picture becoming a bit clearer now?

Of course, I won't be doing any of these things this weekend. I, along with my wife, will be painting up the stairs. Will it be a pain in the butt (and neck, and back, and arms, and legs)? Absolutely! Will it be worth it for our house to look fresher and newer for prospective buyers? Absolutely! Will I complain about it all weekend, or suck it up and just do it? Probably the latter, but maybe some of the former. Ultimately, I want a more sell-able house (and eventually a new house) more than I want one more comfortable (or in the case of most of the listed activities above, uncomfortable) and relaxing weekend. There's always next weekend for that. I probably won't spend it doing any of these things, though. Although it would be nice to visit Maui. But that's a dream for another day...

Short Story: "Old Man Oldman"

This neat little story (well, I think it's neat) is brand-new, and originated from a random title I made up a few weeks ago. Hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it....

"OLD MAN OLDMAN"

Old Man Oldman cocked back the hammer on his revolver, aimed it at my head, and stated calmly, "You got five seconds to get off my property, Sonny, or I'm gonna use this thing like God intended it to be used."

"I don't think God intended for you to shoot me, Mr. Oldman," I answered, equally coolly.

"You just lost a second for smart-mouthing, now move it!" The slight edge to his tone spoke volumes.

"I'm going. Believe me, I don't want an extra hole in my head. The ones I was born with are quite sufficient," I said, unable to turn off the sarcasm even if my life depended on it. Which it currently did.

"That one cost you two seconds," snapped Old Man Oldman. "Now make tracks, Sonny!"

"Well, I'll try, but these shoes are pretty old, and the tread on the outsole is rather worn down, so I may only make streaks, not actual tracks."

He extended his arm fully, the barrel of the revolver only inches from my forehead now. I backed away carefully, stopping only to grab my duffel bag. Only when I'd secured the heavy bag around my shoulders did I turn my back on Old Man Oldman and break into a sprint.

Seconds later, I remembered that I didn't come here on foot. My car was still parked in Old Man Oldman's driveway. The subsequent sound of four fired shots told me that even if I came back for the car after dark I wouldn't be getting very far. I glanced over my shoulder to confirm my suspicions. Four flats. Wonderful! I just bought three of those last month. The expensive kind, with the 50,000-mile warranty. So much for that.

I should have known better than to try to reason with Old Man Oldman. He'd never been known as a sensible man. An eccentric – sure. A hermit – absolutely. But a fair man – never.

The plan, such as it was, had been simple. Offer the old man a couple thousand in exchange for letting us hunt on his land for the entire hunting season. My friends and I knew that the harvest was plenty in the woods behind Old Man Oldman's house, so pooling our resources to seal the deal seemed to make a lot of sense.

He could've just given his permission outright, but none of us expected that to happen. We figured an old man like Ollie Oldman, a retired hog farmer, could use the extra cash, Social Security now being his only source of income. But apparently the old codger had principles after all. He didn't want strangers traipsing about in his woods, not even if it kept the deer population down and might help prevent rabbits from overrunning Oldman's garden, which the old man tended every day by himself.

Somehow or another, I drew the short straw and was designated the delivery man. My friend Terence had already visited him last week with the proposition, and while Old Man Oldman hadn't said "yes" he also hadn't said "no," which we all judged to be a positive sign. So I was sent today to close the deal.

Unfortunately, I have a bad habit of saying whatever comes into my head, whether or not it's inappropriate, insulting, or politically incorrect. Which is how this ended as badly as it did.

It had started off well enough. I'd knocked on Old Man Oldman's front door, waited a polite fifteen seconds, then rapped again, louder this time. The old man had come to the door, rubbing his eyes dramatically, like he'd just awakened from a nap (which it turns out he had), and swearing at me right off the bat.

"Now, is that any way to talk to the man who's about to make your dreams come true?" I beamed brightly as I spoke.

"What's that supposed to mean? You some kind of fairy or something?" He glared at me suspiciously.

"A fairy? No. Perhaps a Fairy Godfather," I added. "I'm here to give you some very good news."

"Jehovah's Witness?" Oldman sneered.

"Excuse me?"

"Mormon, then? Where's your other guy?"

I looked at him quizzically, then understood what he meant. "No, I'm not here to proselytize, Mr. Oldman. I'm here to lay some cold, hard cash on you." I pointed toward the duffel at my feet.

"What are you talking about, Sonny? You don't look like no Ed McMahon to me!"

"Of course not, Ed McMahon is ancient, gray-haired, and quite dead. I'm young, brown-haired, and very much alive," I grinned stupidly at the old man, who was clearly not impressed.

"You wanna get to your point now, Sonny? What is it you're selling exactly?"

"Oh, no, I'm not selling anything, Mr. Oldman. I'm here about the hunting agreement you discussed with my associate Terence last week." No response. I waited patiently, then flashed another ridiculous smile at the old man.

"There ain't no agreement," said Old Man Oldman. "Me and that boy just talked, is all."

"Yes, I believe you two discussed a certain number. Twenty-five-hundred dollars, was it?" I didn't particularly enjoy being overly polite, but I realized I was quite good at it, in an annoying sort of way.

"That sounds about right. But I ain't doing it," replied the old man, scowling uglily at the sky. I wonder what he had against clouds?

"You mean you're not going to let us hunt on your land, Mr. Oldman?"

"That's right, I ain't," he said curtly.

"May I ask why not, sir?" I inquired. "Is the dollar amount insufficient? Perhaps we could hold a bake sale, or some other such capital venture, and bump up the figure to a cool three-thou?"

"It ain't about the money," Old Man Oldman spat. "I don't care about the money!"

"Then what do you care about?" I asked directly. I stared intently at the old man, till he narrowed his eyes and glared at me, which was both impressive and scary.

"What do you care what I care about?" he shot back. "Who are you, anyway? Some kind of lawyer or something?"

"No," I replied. "I'm a bookseller."

"I don't need no more encyclopedias. I got two sets back in the back, and I don't even look at those. Same goes for the religious tracts." The old man was clearly overly defensive about door-to-door salespersons and personal evangelists.

"No," I sighed patiently. "I work at a bookstore in the city. My job title is 'bookseller.' That's what I do."

"And you're a hunter? Sounds like a mighty high-falutin' job for a hunter." Old Man Oldman looked at me carefully, seemingly unsure whether or not to trust me. Who could blame him?

I don't fit the typical mold of a hunter. I don't work with my hands, or even outdoors. I have an extremely large vocabulary, and I frequently make use of it. This is not to say that most hunters aren't literate or intelligent; they just don't usually integrate their extensive knowledge into general conversation as much as I do. I am often ridiculed for this by my friends, and probably with good reason.

"That may well be," I replied. "But I do enjoy hunting animals. Not only for the bragging rights of mounting their stuffed heads on my living room wall, but also for the tasty meals I will make from their dead carcasses."

Old Man Oldman just stared at me. The flashes of anger he'd displayed just moments before seemed to be dying down, but I was still a bit uneasy in his presence.

"So about the agreement, Mr. Oldman?"

"I already told you, there ain't no agreement." The old man's tone was flat now, surreally calm.

"Well, what if my friends and I decided that it was worth the risk to hunt on your land regardless, agreement or not?" This probably wasn't a smart thing to say, but I promised the guys I'd use it as a bargaining chip if the deal became difficult to close.

"Then you and your friends would have some explaining to do to me and my friends." Old Man Oldman turned briefly toward the inside of his house, leaning down to grab something I couldn't see, and stuffing it into the pocket of his overalls.

"Your friends? You have friends, Mr. Oldman?" I couldn't stop myself from laughing out loud.

"Oh, yeah, I got friends," he said, and reached in the overalls pocket and produced his revolver. He opened the cylinder and checked the chambers before snapping it back into place. "Friends by the name of Smith and Wesson. And six other little guys in here." He pointed to the cylinder, then lifted the barrel of the gun, aiming it in my general direction.

"What's this all about?" I asked, a slight hint of panic in my voice. Being an experienced hunter, I wasn't afraid of guns. But then again, most of the contact I'd had with guns involved them being pointed in the opposite direction, not toward me.

"I'll repeat it one last time myself, and if you don't get it, then my friends will tell the story for me. There. Ain't. No. Agreement." He separated each word as though it were its own sentence, and his emphasis was clear. "Now get!"

"Get what?" I asked stupidly.

"Get going. Get gone. Now."

"You're insane," I replied.

"And you're trespassing," said Old Man Oldman. "Now move it."

"But –" I started, and that was when he cocked the hammer. You know the rest of the story.

Needless to say, my friends and I won't be hunting on the Oldman acreage any time soon. As plentiful as the deer and rabbits and squirrels may be, it isn't worth being chased off by Old Man Oldman. Or his friends.