All good things must come to an end. Life goes on. Insert bland maxim here. As the long-standing housing situation breaks up and we each go our separate ways, I thought it only fitting to commemorate the time spent together by revisiting a tale from months back--a typical day at the Trace.
Friday afternoon
5:53pm
"The Trace"
Ben: Whew! Another day of non-stop excitement at the bureaucracy office in the books. Nothing to do now but kick back and enjoy a few hours of reading before bed. I've almost finished that new grammar textbook I checked out from the library. Almost too much excitement for a Friday evening, I tell ya. But, hey—you only live once. First, though, I've got to get some dinner. [checks fridge] Ah, yes! The other half of my Publix sub left over from lunch. That'll hit the spot. Almost as good as the ol' S&S cafeteria. [unwraps sandwich] There's no better way to wind down after a hectic day than sitting down to a peaceful meal at home.
[door flies open]
Tony: WHOOOO! I tell you I killed my quads in the gym. Squat 400 pounds 13 times. I was only supposed to do a set of 10, but these girls were, you know, watching intently, so I grinded out out 3 more for good measure. Didn't want to disappoint. You ever try the squat rack?
Ben: I...yes.
Tony: Boy it'll do a number on you. I feel great. [drops down, does forty pushups, jumps back up, throws down a two-liter protein shake containing several clearly live goldfish] Whew! That was a good appetizer, but my stomach is about to eat itself. I need food. Fortunately I still have--[stops abruptly at the sight of the sandwich]--what's that?
Ben: Publix sub.
Tony: That's not my Publix sub, is it?
Ben: Nope. My Publix sub.
Tony: [checks fridge] Dude, that is my sub. There's no other sub in here.
Ben: This has to be mine. I left it there not six hours ago.
Tony: All I know is I left half a sub in here yesterday, and I definitely didn't eat it since then. I had a 9-egg omlette for dinner and 16 waffles for breakfast.
Ben: I think you're confused.
Tony: About a sub? No way. My memory regarding sandwiches is like steel trap. Here, let me take a bite, I'll tell you for sure if it's mine.
Ben: Get away! That's my dinner!
Tony: It's my sandwich!
Ben: Mine!
Tony: Mine!
Jay: Children, please.
[Tony and Ben look around abruptly]
Tony: How long have you been standing there?
Ben: And why are you wearing a robe?
Jay: I heard your calls of distress. And the robe is comfortable.
Ben: Let me guess--you crashed the server again, and you're waiting for it to recover?
Jay: [looks at floor] ...yes. But...in the meantime, I hope to remedy this conflict. Tell me, what seems to be the problem?
Tony: He's trying to steal my sandwich.
Ben: It's mine. If it isn't, where'd mine go?
Tony: Maybe you left it under a stack of books.
Ben: Maybe you accidentally blended yours in that shake. And isn't there a dumbbell around here that needs lifting?
Jay: Children, children.
Ben: Dude, stop calling us that.
Jay: I will not. But I will resolve the situation in a manner that is equitable and fair.
Tony: Okay.
Ben: Let's hear it.
Jay: To settle this argument of who is the rightful owner of the sandwich, we will compromise. [produces a large kitchen knife] I'll cut the sandwich in two, and each of you will receive half.
Tony: [falling to his knees] NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!
Ben: Um...right. Whatever. I can't expect you to take sides. I suppose half's better than nothing.
[Jay raises knife.]
Tony: No! Don't cut it! You can't! Just let Ben have the sandwich.
Ben: Hey! All right! [reaches for the sandwich, but Jay stops him]
Jay: Wait! Tony, why did you say to let him have the sandwich?
Tony: [sobbing] Because it's wrong. I would rather let someone else have the sandwich that for it to be hacked into sad little pieces of its former self.
Jay [puts his hand on Tony's shoulder]: Compassion like that can only come from a man who truly loves his sandwich.
Ben: Do what?
Jay: Tony, you clearly are the rightful owner of the sandwich.
Ben: WHAT?!
Tony: [clutching sandwich tightly] Thank you! Thank you! Your wisdom prevails again, Jay.
Jay: Go, my son. Nourish yourself.
Ben: Dude...it's a sandwich!
Tony: [to sandwich] I almost thought I'd lost you! [retreats to kitchen]
[Ben glares at Jay.]
Jay: Ben, there's a lesson to be learned here. And that lesson is that nothing can break the bond between a man and his sandwich.
Ben: I hate you.
Jay: Nothing!
Ben: Yeah, "nothing." As in, "I have nothing to eat for dinner, now."
Jay: Man does not live on 7-grain whole wheat bread alone, friend.
Ben: I keep telling you, that's blasphemous.
Jay: Is it, Ben? Or is it that the truth hits close to home?
Ben: [sniffing] Why do I smell oil and vinegar on your breath?
April 7, 2009
April 1, 2009
DQ
It should have been evident long before now: There is an abysmal lack of Dairy Queens where I live. I learned this when a recent trip out of state required a detour to address weather/visibility issues. Long story.
Actually, no. It’s not. We couldn’t see the road. That’s the story.
At any rate, the unscheduled stop passed a Dairy Queen, whose distinctive red and white sign apparently can have an effect on some people not altogether different from the one that Krispy Kreme’s “Hot and Now” sign does. Said individuals, apparently, have an anomaly in the connection between their visual cortex and the part of the brain—its name escapes me at the moment—responsible for regulating hunger. Whereas the general population see the “Hot and Now” sign driving past and think, “Ooh, a warm donut would taste awesome right now,” and then turn in to buy one, these strangely-wired persons have such an acute sensitivity to the donut sign and subsequently experience cravings so intense and maniacal, that seeing these poor souls go tearing off into the night after an original glazed is enough to make Pavlov’s dog recoil in disgust: “Blimey! All at fuss abou’ a dough-knot? Yay gods, man! Hows about some self-control, ay, Guv-nah?”
Because, as everyone knows, Pavlov’s dog is condescending. And speaks English. In a Cockney accent. And is apparently a hypocrite.
It’s like that little-known live-action Scooby-Doo movie from the early 80s where Scooby was played by a drunk Dick Van Dyke in a Great Dane costume.
Pavlov must have rolled over in his grave.
But I digress.
No one really knows how to describe the donut-obsession disorder to a person that hasn’t experienced it first hand, but it apparently gives its sufferers abilities that border on clairvoyance. Perhaps they develop super-hearing that can recognize the sound of the “Hot and Now” sign’s switch flipping over a jet takeoff. Perhaps their olfactory sense has perfected to the point that they can smell doughnuts from farther away than hyenas can smell carrion (Think Monterrey Jack’s cheese obsession on Rescue Rangers. What? Like you didn’t watch it.) My theory is that the sign actually emits a wavelength of light only visible to this population. To them, the light from the sign projects into the sky much like the Thundercats’ symbol would from Lion-O’s sword of omens (Right. Like you didn’t watch that one, too.). It causes them to turn their faces to the heavens, neon red flashing in their eyes, and abruptly stop whatever they might have been doing—sleeping, jogging, driving, performing an appendectomy—and bolt like a rabid Snarf toward the beacon summoning them.
Unchecked, that’s what my love of Dairy Queen risks becoming.
Their banana split shake tastes like an actual banana split. I mean, Sonic is good, but Sonic’s got nothing on Dairy Queen. And the only thing that comes close to a Dairy Queen around here is one that is actually part of a gas station out near the highway by the airport. I don’t think it’s a legit Dairy Queen, and I don’t think it serves everything a normal Dairy Queen does. But it’s all I’ve got. For now.
Though I suppose that’s for the best. I’ve got an eye toward competing in the USMC Mud Run again this year, and DQ's blizzards are not part of any legit training regimen. I need keep that in mind, even though the Mud Run's five months away. Can’t let it slip up on you.
[Organizational note to self: About here is where you'll want the blog to transition from talking about Dairy Queen to talking about “running races” and “being disqualified.” You’ll want to do it subtly, so your readers don’t catch on to the fact that the blog title is nothing but a cheesy pun enabling you wedge some ridiculous story about ice cream into a piece on spiritual discipline. Oh yeah, and don’t be a moron and forget to delete this note before you post.]
As luck would have it, I heard a message on that topic the day after the Dairy Queen Detour Incident of Aught-nine, as it will hereafter be called. Having a consistent spiritual walk is more important than any outward display. You don’t have to be perfect to be a Christian, or even to be a disciple. However, as Paul warns us, we must be careful not to “disqualify” ourselves—that is, to lose credibility. If people begin to doubt you for being inconsistent or dishonest, there comes a point where it’s naïve to reject them for “judging” you. Maybe it’s our own fault for demonstrating poor judgment. All of our transgressions can be forgiven. That doesn’t mean people owe it to us to trust us if we have demonstrated untrustworthiness.
A few years ago, I remember the pastor giving a fictional example of an usher responsible for taking up offering who got caught red-handed stealing wads of money from the plate. He asked the pastor for forgiveness. The pastor forgave him. Then he fired him.
We all must forgive. If necessary, we all must forgive again. And again. But none of us technically deserve forgiveness. And we certainly don’t deserve anything more than forgiveness, like being trusted to oversee money if we have a history of embezzlement.
The pastor gave two examples in his sermon: The first was Jim Bakker. Bakker was involved in a scandal that began with marital infidelity and ended up being financial misdeeds that landed him in jail. I won’t go into the full details here. The sum is that he emerged from the ordeal, began a much more low-key ministry, rejected the health and wealth gospel, and apologized to the people he’d hurt. And they should forgive him. They do not need to give him any money (I don’t think he’s asking, though). His ex-wife didn’t owe it to him to come back to him. Technically, nobody even has to believe everything Bakker says about what happened, which is a common stance since the story appears in a book he’s trying to sell—though I’m not sure how else you’d tell the whole story.
The other example, whom the pastor didn’t name, is most likely Mike Warnke. His fall from grace happened about the same time as Bakker’s. Warnke was a popular Christian comedian in the 80s and early 90s. He had an amazing testimony about having been a high-ranking official in the church of Satan before becoming a Christian. Warnke reformed his life, started his own ministry, and became a prominent expert on the occult, even serving as a resource for law enforcement agencies on believed Satanic rituals like sacrifices. Warnke’s story was incredible.
And with good reason: It wasn’t true. A magazine article in 1991 exposed almost every facet of Warnke’s past as an elaborate hoax and lie. It is probably the worst example of “How did he get away with this for so long?” I’ve ever heard. I’ll let you read it yourself to get a full sense of it, but to my knowledge, Warnke’s never offered a plausible excuse. As a result, many of his former fans no longer follow him. It doesn't matter to them that he may be telling the truth now. They feel betrayed.
I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror, figuratively speaking, a lot more lately. What about myself don’t I see, or am I choosing not to see, that might disqualify me? I’ll be praying that God would show me where I need to be in better control, more disciplined. Ignored, everything comes to light anyway.
An exercise in personal integrity speaks to this very issue: Imagine the worst possible thing you could see revealed about yourself in the news tomorrow. I don't know what mine would be, but it's probably something bigger than a piece on p. 37E: “Unknown Blogger Arrested for Loitering At Dairy Queen.”
Actually, no. It’s not. We couldn’t see the road. That’s the story.
At any rate, the unscheduled stop passed a Dairy Queen, whose distinctive red and white sign apparently can have an effect on some people not altogether different from the one that Krispy Kreme’s “Hot and Now” sign does. Said individuals, apparently, have an anomaly in the connection between their visual cortex and the part of the brain—its name escapes me at the moment—responsible for regulating hunger. Whereas the general population see the “Hot and Now” sign driving past and think, “Ooh, a warm donut would taste awesome right now,” and then turn in to buy one, these strangely-wired persons have such an acute sensitivity to the donut sign and subsequently experience cravings so intense and maniacal, that seeing these poor souls go tearing off into the night after an original glazed is enough to make Pavlov’s dog recoil in disgust: “Blimey! All at fuss abou’ a dough-knot? Yay gods, man! Hows about some self-control, ay, Guv-nah?”
Because, as everyone knows, Pavlov’s dog is condescending. And speaks English. In a Cockney accent. And is apparently a hypocrite.
It’s like that little-known live-action Scooby-Doo movie from the early 80s where Scooby was played by a drunk Dick Van Dyke in a Great Dane costume.
Pavlov must have rolled over in his grave.
But I digress.
No one really knows how to describe the donut-obsession disorder to a person that hasn’t experienced it first hand, but it apparently gives its sufferers abilities that border on clairvoyance. Perhaps they develop super-hearing that can recognize the sound of the “Hot and Now” sign’s switch flipping over a jet takeoff. Perhaps their olfactory sense has perfected to the point that they can smell doughnuts from farther away than hyenas can smell carrion (Think Monterrey Jack’s cheese obsession on Rescue Rangers. What? Like you didn’t watch it.) My theory is that the sign actually emits a wavelength of light only visible to this population. To them, the light from the sign projects into the sky much like the Thundercats’ symbol would from Lion-O’s sword of omens (Right. Like you didn’t watch that one, too.). It causes them to turn their faces to the heavens, neon red flashing in their eyes, and abruptly stop whatever they might have been doing—sleeping, jogging, driving, performing an appendectomy—and bolt like a rabid Snarf toward the beacon summoning them.
Unchecked, that’s what my love of Dairy Queen risks becoming.
Their banana split shake tastes like an actual banana split. I mean, Sonic is good, but Sonic’s got nothing on Dairy Queen. And the only thing that comes close to a Dairy Queen around here is one that is actually part of a gas station out near the highway by the airport. I don’t think it’s a legit Dairy Queen, and I don’t think it serves everything a normal Dairy Queen does. But it’s all I’ve got. For now.
Though I suppose that’s for the best. I’ve got an eye toward competing in the USMC Mud Run again this year, and DQ's blizzards are not part of any legit training regimen. I need keep that in mind, even though the Mud Run's five months away. Can’t let it slip up on you.
[Organizational note to self: About here is where you'll want the blog to transition from talking about Dairy Queen to talking about “running races” and “being disqualified.” You’ll want to do it subtly, so your readers don’t catch on to the fact that the blog title is nothing but a cheesy pun enabling you wedge some ridiculous story about ice cream into a piece on spiritual discipline. Oh yeah, and don’t be a moron and forget to delete this note before you post.]
As luck would have it, I heard a message on that topic the day after the Dairy Queen Detour Incident of Aught-nine, as it will hereafter be called. Having a consistent spiritual walk is more important than any outward display. You don’t have to be perfect to be a Christian, or even to be a disciple. However, as Paul warns us, we must be careful not to “disqualify” ourselves—that is, to lose credibility. If people begin to doubt you for being inconsistent or dishonest, there comes a point where it’s naïve to reject them for “judging” you. Maybe it’s our own fault for demonstrating poor judgment. All of our transgressions can be forgiven. That doesn’t mean people owe it to us to trust us if we have demonstrated untrustworthiness.
A few years ago, I remember the pastor giving a fictional example of an usher responsible for taking up offering who got caught red-handed stealing wads of money from the plate. He asked the pastor for forgiveness. The pastor forgave him. Then he fired him.
We all must forgive. If necessary, we all must forgive again. And again. But none of us technically deserve forgiveness. And we certainly don’t deserve anything more than forgiveness, like being trusted to oversee money if we have a history of embezzlement.
The pastor gave two examples in his sermon: The first was Jim Bakker. Bakker was involved in a scandal that began with marital infidelity and ended up being financial misdeeds that landed him in jail. I won’t go into the full details here. The sum is that he emerged from the ordeal, began a much more low-key ministry, rejected the health and wealth gospel, and apologized to the people he’d hurt. And they should forgive him. They do not need to give him any money (I don’t think he’s asking, though). His ex-wife didn’t owe it to him to come back to him. Technically, nobody even has to believe everything Bakker says about what happened, which is a common stance since the story appears in a book he’s trying to sell—though I’m not sure how else you’d tell the whole story.
The other example, whom the pastor didn’t name, is most likely Mike Warnke. His fall from grace happened about the same time as Bakker’s. Warnke was a popular Christian comedian in the 80s and early 90s. He had an amazing testimony about having been a high-ranking official in the church of Satan before becoming a Christian. Warnke reformed his life, started his own ministry, and became a prominent expert on the occult, even serving as a resource for law enforcement agencies on believed Satanic rituals like sacrifices. Warnke’s story was incredible.
And with good reason: It wasn’t true. A magazine article in 1991 exposed almost every facet of Warnke’s past as an elaborate hoax and lie. It is probably the worst example of “How did he get away with this for so long?” I’ve ever heard. I’ll let you read it yourself to get a full sense of it, but to my knowledge, Warnke’s never offered a plausible excuse. As a result, many of his former fans no longer follow him. It doesn't matter to them that he may be telling the truth now. They feel betrayed.
I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror, figuratively speaking, a lot more lately. What about myself don’t I see, or am I choosing not to see, that might disqualify me? I’ll be praying that God would show me where I need to be in better control, more disciplined. Ignored, everything comes to light anyway.
An exercise in personal integrity speaks to this very issue: Imagine the worst possible thing you could see revealed about yourself in the news tomorrow. I don't know what mine would be, but it's probably something bigger than a piece on p. 37E: “Unknown Blogger Arrested for Loitering At Dairy Queen.”
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