In my very early years, my family lived in the small town of Hudson, IL. We went to church every Sunday, and my parents would always stay after the service for a while to chat with others in the congregation.

One Sunday, when I was about seven, I was bored with the adult chatting, so I did what I usually did – wandered around the church hoping to amuse myself somehow until we went home.

I went upstairs to one of the Sunday school rooms, maybe to look for a book to read. For some reason, I was drawn to a closet door. Something told me I was supposed to open that door.

I walked up and slowly slid the door open.

Inside, on the floor, was a large, lit candle. Wrapped around the candle were torn-out pages from either a Bible or a hymnal. The candle had burned down so that the pages’ edges were just above the sides of the flame. Lots of other pages were bunched around the base of the candle and scattered around the floor of the closet.

I was a bit shocked, but even my kid brain knew someone was trying to start a delayed-reaction fire.

I blew out the candle and immediately ran downstairs to tell my parents.

I don’t remember much of the details after that, except:

The next week, the minister told the congregation that there had been an arson attempt on the church.

My mom asked me, “why did you open the closet door?” I said, “I thought I was supposed to.”

The Lord works in mysterious ways.

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Since 1982, the English Department at San Jose State University has held the Bulwer-Lytton Fiction Contest, in which entrants submit the first sentence of a terrible novel. Here are some I’m thinking about submitting:

It was the kind of day that shone with the brilliance of a silver turd that got stuck somewhere in the toilet of a billion universes; the planet’s top scientists said such luster would not be seen again until the ice age of 3045, which would kill off all the Venus flytraps, xenophobes, and alter boys.

He awoke from a deep, sultry, and ironic sleep, likely induced by a harsh drug mined from some evil pocket deep in the earth, and discovered to his delight that his entrails were wrapped around both his neck and his genitals; from his experience, this was probably either a hilarious sorority prank or a sign he should buy a condo in Vermont.

The logy and sarcastic ant was prone to flatulence, which caused tremendous unrest amongst not just the colony, but all living creatures in a two-mile radius (it was quite the talk around the water coolers); the queen, however, adored the intoxicating scent, which drove her into a murderous frenzy when she listened to Mel Torme.

Quasar was cruising to the Pleasureplex in his vintage hovercar, chartreuse and exfoliated hair flapping in the balmy breeze, when a dilapidated orangutan from a hostile wormhole appeared and smashed him in the cheekbones; he was sent careening into another dimension where nuns and accountants run rampant in the streets and eat raw possum.

Eighteen dollars and seventy-nine cents later, Sandra discovered that the shiny but eerily-glowing toe ring was neither whimsical nor fragrant as promised but was, instead, a portal to the very depths of hell (or Miami, depending on the tides); she began to grow suspect of the slithery but gorgeous bullet-train engineer who sold her this droll but unholy relic.

The surly barista, weary from seven straight hours of Mongolian throat singing, looked lustfully at the knick-knacks on the tawdry Ikea shelf, then – with no provocation from his criminal parrot Irving – swept them to the uncannily clean floor with a robust gesture of his macho hand; the trinkets shattered into 438 heart-rendering fragments of a world gone mad.

Sure, he was a master of upside-down ping-pong, owner of a second-hand hubcap empire, father of 25, grandfather of 3,942, held the record in projectile vomiting (class 5), thrice beat up drunk congressmen, ate 32 ounces of meat an hour, and could smash a LEGO brick with his pinky finger…but could he name the capital of Fiji for $200?

The hunchbacked and fertile bricklayer approached the sarcastic and unruly koala with the brazen cojones of a hopped-up preschool teacher whose last paycheck bounced and whose box turtle had savagely bitten her buttock; as he rudely closed in, he readied the nine-iron wrapped in spoiled bacon and prepared to annihilate the beast, or at least offer the fuzzy bastard a smelly gift.

Back in the late 90s and early 00s, I worked at a toy company (I won’t say the name, but their hit toy rhymes with “Schmurby”). It was the most fun company I ever worked for, and I got to know most of the employees.

One of my coworkers was a 22-year-old, Sheila (not her real name). Sheila was nice, down-to-earth, had a good sense of humor, was happily married, and ecstatic that she had newborn twins. She’d often stop by my cubicle to chat.

Also: Sheila was the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. I won’t go into a physical description because we haven’t kept in touch and my memory’s a bit foggy, but suffice to say she was a definite head-turner.

If a group of us went out for drinks after work, most guys at the bar (I’m not exaggerating here) would take turns hitting on her. She’d politely turn all of them down. One particularly interested guy claimed to be from a modeling agency and gave her his card.

After I got to know her pretty well, I asked her a question while we were cube-chatting one day. I said, “this may sound a bit strange, but…what’s it like looking like you do?”

She wasn’t surprised at all, and replied, “it’s hard, because you have what every guy wants.”

I said, “that’s exactly what I thought it’d be like.”

I already knew most of the male employees acted like idiots around her, but she’d tell me stories of how some of the women were very bitchy to her – jealous of her looks and the attention she got.

I should stress that she didn’t dress inappropriately or give anyone the impression she was interested in anybody. In fact, she was one of the most normal women I’ve ever worked with. And in case you’re wondering, she had average-sized boobs.

But I felt sorry for her. Can you imagine: you’re happily married, well-adjusted, love your family, and just want to live your life – and nearly everywhere you go, men behave like horny apes and women get pissy with you?

Anyway, I sympathize with the world’s truly beautiful women who just want a normal life. Beautiful men? Eh, deal with it, hombre.

I’ve read a few articles about how people just aren’t naming their kids “Gary” anymore.

Think about it: How many famous Garys can you name? Oldman, Sinise, Hart, Shandling (with 2 r’s), Busey, Cooper (which may have spiked popularity back in the day)…but probably not a whole lot more. And how many Garys do you know who are under 40?

Maybe the Gary Glitter scandal way back when soured folks on the notion. Who knows.

*FUN FACT: There were 90 girls named Gary in 1947.

I was named after my dad’s best friend, Gary (name redacted). My dad was 25 when I was born, and he and Gary had been friends for a long time. I remember visiting with his family several times. He seemed like an okay guy.

When I got older, I asked my dad about him, because it seemed like he never talked about him or mentioned trying to get together with him.

My dad told me that, many years ago, Gary had gotten a job with UPS that paid pretty well. He worked his way into management, and made some serious bucks. That’s when things changed.

The way my dad put it, Gary basically made new rich friends and wanted nothing to do with him anymore because he didn’t make enough cash.

So not only is my name going extinct, but I’m also named after a douchebag.

Let’s say you work for a large company. Your job is in an office, with a desk and computer and phone and whatnot (perhaps this applies to you already).

You come in every morning and get your muffin and coffee. You fire up your computer and check your e-mail.

Each day, you see four or five e-mails (or more) from your new CEO, hired a year ago (you know, the guy in charge of everything). The messages are sent to the entire company.

The e-mails sporadically praise a group of individuals, often executives in the company. But most of the correspondence entails:

1. Bragging about himself, and taking credit for things with which he had nothing to do

2. Blaming other people when he doesn’t get his way

3. Pushing expensive agendas that don’t seem to help the company

4. Complaining about everything

5. Lying about basic things everyone in the company knows

6. Insulting others and name-calling

Wouldn’t you start thinking, even if it were a decent-paying job: “Hey, what’s this guy’s deal? He’s nuts. Why am I working for a madman?”

You mention it to some co-workers. “Isn’t this a little disturbing?” Two-thirds of your colleagues say, “yeah, it’s at least a little disturbing.” Some say they’ve even gone to Human Resources about it.

But one-third respond, “they hired him, so he must be competent. And I think it’s cool that he speaks his mind.”

You’re torn. The e-mails get more and more unhinged, and you think the company is suffering. He just signed off on a proposal that put the business even more in debt.

When do you say “enough’s enough,” and either look for another job or push to get a new CEO? Or would you just hope he gets fired as soon as possible?

I keep hearing folks say we should invoke the 25th Amendment of the Constitution. I haven’t studied the Constitution since high school, so I decided to refresh my memory.

It’s only four sections, and the first three just set up the line of succession if the president suddenly leaves office.

But section 4 lays out how to get rid of el presidente:

Section 4. Whenever the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall immediately assume the powers and duties of the office as Acting President.

Thereafter, when the President transmits to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives his written declaration that no inability exists, he shall resume the powers and duties of his office unless the Vice President and a majority of either the principal officers of the executive department or of such other body as Congress may by law provide, transmit within four days to the President pro tempore of the Senate and the Speaker of the House of Representatives their written declaration that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office. Thereupon Congress shall decide the issue, assembling within forty-eight hours for that purpose if not in session. If the Congress, within twenty-one days after receipt of the latter written declaration, or, if Congress is not in session, within twenty-one days after Congress is required to assemble, determines by two-thirds vote of both Houses that the President is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office, the Vice President shall continue to discharge the same as Acting President; otherwise, the President shall resume the powers and duties of his office.

A little convoluted, eh? Let me try to simplify (thanks, Wikipedia):

The vice president and “a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress” (pretty sure it means the cabinet) write a declaration that the president “is unable to discharge the powers and duties of his office.” The declaration is given to the president pro tempore and the speaker of the House.

Once this happens, the vice president is immediately made “acting president.”

The president can then write a declaration stating he’s hunky-dory, and give it to the president pro tempore and speaker of the House.

Then the vice president and “a majority of either the principal officers of the executive departments or of such other body as Congress” have four days to declare “nah, bro, you’re nuts” and give it to the president pro tempore and speaker of the House.

Then Congress must convene within 48 hours to resolve the issue. They have 21 days and must have 2/3 votes in each house. If they get the votes in the time frame, the vice president remains acting president. If not, the president becomes acting president.

HOWEVER…according to Wikipedia:

However, the president may again submit a written declaration of recovery to the president pro tempore and the speaker of the House. That declaration could be responded to by the vice president and a majority of the cabinet in the same way as stated earlier. The specified 21-day congressional procedure would start again.

SO…

My question is, if this were to transpire, do you think Trump would fight it? Do you think he’d send a second “man, I’m chill” declaration? How long would he fight while lackey Mike Pence is at the helm?

Been thinking about death lately, maybe because I’m old, but I thought of a Stephen King quote (totally paraphrasing):

“Most people think about dying peacefully in their sleep after a good meal, a good bottle of wine, and a good lay. But few people think about being crushed under a car while crankcase oil slowly drips on their forehead.”

Which got me to thinking about the worst ways to die. I’m morbid that way.

Freezing

Supposedly this isn’t a REAL bad way to go, but still, you’re fuckin’ freezing to death.

Starvation

Just wasting away until your stomach eats itself (not sure that’s what happens but it sounds cool).

Drowning

Aside from immediate suicide, drowning is the only cause of death where you actually choose the moment you die. That’s fuckin’ creepy.

Set on fire

The largest organ in your body set aflame. The pain factor would be off the charts.

Cut in half

Ouch! Especially if it’s from head to toe.

Skinned/flayed

The largest organ in your body slowly stripped away until you bleed out. No thank you.

Falling into lava

“If you drop your keys in molten lava, let ‘em go, man, ‘cuz they’re gone.” – Jack Handey

Eaten by lion

How horrible would this be? Powerful jaws just ripping you apart. At least you’d be a meal for something.

Impaled

I’m’ talkin’ a big ol’ spike up your bottom that pierces your insides. Not very pleasant at all.

Eaten by shark

Like eaten by a lion, only in water and 1000 times more terrifying.