Two bearded men with turbans stand on the porch of the home of Show Low's pre-famous poet and all-around holy man, St. Holiday. They ring the door bell.
St. Holiday: Who now? Not another process server, I hope. O why do they persecute me? Should I open the door? Of course, it might be a supplicant with tithes in hand. (The door bell rings again)
St. H: OK. OK.
(Opens the door to find the two young bearded men wearing robes, turbans and name tags).
First Bearded Man: Peace be to this house!
St. H: Who are you? (staring at their name tags)
Second Bearded Man: I am Talib Yasser, and this is my missionary companion, Talib Omar. How are you today?
St. H: I'm sick, and I'm sore. I'm tired and I'm poor. Besides that, I'm doing pretty good.
Talib Omar: Are you the one everybody calls St. Holiday?
St. H: The one and holy, in the flesh.
Talib Yasser: So you're the one who started it all - making righteousness hip and trendy!
St. H: Well, I can't take all the credit. It all started in a small town in New Jersey...
T.O: (Cuts him off) How humble of you. I'd like to hear more. Some other time.
St. H: It's truly the untold story of what a diet of bean and cheese burritos can do for a man and a nation.
T.Y: How rare it is for us to find another member of the Holy Sapiens, living in partnership with the Divine.
St. H: Oh, I'm just a member of the poor, resting class, longing for a happiness that resides only on the frontier of my imagination. Who are you guys? I notice you both have the same first name.
T.O: Huh? Oh, Talib; that means "student." We are representatives of the Taliban, going door-to-door in your neighborhood, sharing the good news of Islam. Could we have a few minutes of your time?
St. H: Well, I'm in the bowels of a personal crisis right now. Could you come back another time?
T.Y: Perhaps, we can help you.
St. H: Do you organize closets?
T.Y: That's your personal crisis?
St. H: It will be when the little wife gets home. If she sees the mess I made, I'm doomed.
T.O: This is not the preferred form of martyrdom. We can show you another way.
St. H: I think you're barkin' up the wrong dog, to quote an old saying.
T.Y: We're giving free cookies and a t-shirt to anyone who will hear our short message.
St. H: Cookies? What kind of cookies?
T.Y: Goatmeal and raisin.
St. H: Yum! Come on in. Let me go shut that closet door before The Lovely One comes home.
T.O: Let me ask you, St. Holiday, what is it you really want in life?
St. H: A Red Ryder BB gun would be nice.
T.Y: That's it?
St. H: Well, how about round-the-clock protection and the long-lasting relief I deserve? That would be good.
T.O: I think we can offer you something greater.
St. H: Are you really with the Taliban?
T.O: Si. I mean, yes.
St. H: I thought you guys were all hiding in caves in Afghanistan. What are you doing in Show Low?
T.Y: We are forerunners of the Taliban's new world outreach program. Our imam, relying on the words of the blessed Muhammad, peace be unto him, recognizes that the Taliban has become too parochial and therefore, misunderstood. We have gotten bad press in the West.
T.O: Yes, ignorance must be fought!
St. H: How do you do that?
T.O: House by house; one person at a time.
T.Y: You know, Holiday, you can't believe everything you hear from the mainstream media. They hate us for our freedom.
St. H: I kinda like those robes you're wearing.
T.O: It's how we express our personal style, our individualism.
St. H: Nice! They have a timeless quality with a touch of glam. Menswear with an edgy distinctiveness.
T.Y: Thank you. Our women also dress fashionably.
St. H: You two speak English so well.
T.Y: Thank you. In our cell, I mean, in our mosque, we study your language every day.
St. H: So, where are the cookies and the t-shirt?
T.Y.: Those items will be sent to you from our homeland, after we collect a small fee from you for shipping and handling.
St. H: Oh, then you'll have to wait for The Lovely One to return, because she doesn't let me have any money.
T.O: You have no money?
St. H: None. The Lovely One says I've been blinded by my hatred of money. Besides that, she says I always give my money away to people in need.
T.Y: Well then, we won't be taking up much of your time today. Thank you for your kind hospitality.
St. H: Wait. Don't go. Aren't you gonna share your message with me?
T.Y: It may be too late for you. It appears your wife has a leash on you.
St. H: What do you mean?
T.Y: First of all, she controls all your money. Secondly, you allow her to drive.
St. H: You don't allow women to drive cars?
T.Y: Certainly not. Our women have no desire to drive.
St. H: Is that true?
T.O: Absolutely! Islam is all about keeping our roads safe.
St. H: Safe roads! That may be a doctrine I can get behind, especially the way the Lovely One drives.
T.H: Holiday, we're sure you recognize that this was meant to be a man's world.
T.O: Yes. Imagine your wife saying: "I agree with Talib Holiday on everything, and I always do whatever he tells me."
St. H: That's impossible!
T.Y: All things are possible to him who believes.
St. H: She threw a glass of water at me the other day.
T.Y: Did you cut her hand off?
St. H: Well, no....... not yet.
T.O: Then you are far too permissive with her.
St. H: What else do you teach?
T.O: We're sure you realize, St. Holiday, that there is change in the air. My companion and I, and many like us, are traveling thoughout pre-Islamic America, promoting war in this peace-ravaged nation.
St. H: War?
T.Y: Yes, war, a time for all of us to focus on life-taking activities.
T.O: Lives can be taken, and they should be. It is the will of Allah, the merciful and compassionate.
St. H: I've always preferred peace.
T.O: Well, we have been encouraged by the high levels of excitement for militarism in this country, much of it driven by hatred and bigotry.
T.Y: Refreshing!
St. H: Oy, gevalt!
T.O: We hope to see weapons taken out of storage, loaded and used to full advantage, allowing war to reach those most in need of it.
St. H: But that would mean wide-spread death and destruction, misery and desolation.
T.Y: A new reason to smile!
St. H: Wait; let me try to wrap my consciousness around that. Maybe I'm missing something.
T.O: You must not surrender to craven cowardice and fear of conflict.
T.Y: War brings peace.
St. H: Peace brings peace.
T.O: Infidel! Don't make me throw my shoe at you!
T.Y: Calm down, Omar. Holiday, we can give you new rules to live by.
St. H: I already have some of those.
T.Y: Like what?
St. H: Like 'Never shake hands with someone coming out of the men's room.'
T.Y: That's good, but we can teach you even more.
St. H: How do we begin?
T.Y: First, you will need to be circumcised.
St. H: Wo, wo, wo! That's a deal breaker right there.
Y.O: Hey, Holiday; we don't make the rules; we just enforce them.
St. H: But I'm already circumcised.
Abdul: Then you'll only need a booster. Just a few nips.
St. H: (In a defensive posture) No nips! No nips!
T.O: It's a very small matter.
St. H: Hey, you don't have to insult me.
T.O: No, not that! I mean the holy operation is a small matter.
T.Y: Maybe we can get an exemption in your case. Let me call the imam. Perhaps he'll issue a fatwa.
St. H: A fat what?
T.Y: A fatwa.
St. H: What's a wa?
T.Y: It's not just a wa; it's a fatwa.
St. H: Why is it fat? Are there thin was?
T.Y: No thin was; only fatwas!
T.O: Don't make me moon you!
T.Y: Hey, Omar, butt out! Holiday, a fatwa is Arabic for a religious ruling.
St. H: Look, Talib Omar and Talib Yasser, I've learned a lot during our interview, but truthfully, I'm not your guy. I've got to get back to that closet, because The Lovely One will be home soon. I also have to fix her predatory blender.
T.O: OK, we understand. Paradise is not for everyone.
T.Y: May I use your bathroom before we go?
St. H: Certainly, it's right down the hall, second door on the right.
(Talib Yasser returns quickly from the bathroom)
T.O: What is it, Yasser? You look pale!
T.Y: His toilet does not face Mecca!
T.O: St. Holiday, we really must leave you now.
St. H: You'd better hurry. I hear The Lovely One pulling up the driveway.
(The two missionaries rush out the front door)
Wednesday, February 8, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY - PART 14 OR WITHERING HEIGHTS
At home in the Manor of Manhood on Show Low's fashionable 8th Avenue.
St. Holiday: Hey, Babe, read this birthday card I just got in the mail.
The Lovely One: Not now; I'm busy.
St. H: Come on; it will only take a minute, and then you can ignore me again.
TLO: Promise?
St. H: Sure; I only want you to share in my outrage for a brief moment.
TLO: OK; let me read it. "Dear Father. We, your loving children, want to do something special for you on your birthday. So, we're having you put to sleep." How thoughtful! Maybe I can help.
St. H: Wait. Aren't you incensed?
TLO: Why? It's a gift the whole family can enjoy.
St. H: See; this is why I weep at night.
TLO: You're not going anywhere.
St. H: I know; I know. My disciples need me more than ever.
TLO: And you haven't given me access to your off-shore accounts yet.
St. H: Ah, my Cayman stash. My true insurance policy. If I die, it all goes to charity.
TLO: What about me?
St. H: You get my literary estate.
TLO: Your literary estate! What? Your books?
St. H: No; they're for Jenna. You get my divine poems and my George & Georgie cartoons. All yours. And you can have my journals, too.
TLO: Look, buddy boy, when you croak, I'll build a big bonfire in the backyard and burn it all - your divine poems, the cartoons, the journals, and everything else I can't spend.
St. H: What?! You wouldn't treasure the sacred art of my pen?
TLO: You know what they say: "Pack it up, and throw it out. Burn it up, and do without."
St. H: But it may all be worth millions someday!
TLO: Yeah, right, like your Conan the Barbarian comic books.
St. H: Here I am, caught in the middle of a custody battle between life and death, and my affairs are unsettled.
TLO: Then I would suggest a balanced approach. Get me a ton of money, and I'll promise to take care of your precious literary estate.
St. H: You know, babycakes, the vain things of this world are no longer my top priority. Now you're my singular focus. And Holiday said, "Let there be love." And there was love, and He saw that it was good.
TLO: And Raelene said, "Let there be cash." And there was cash, and she saw that it was good.
St. H: I feel like I'm stuck in a magic lamp. Just rub me, baby, and I'll give you three wishes.
TLO: Can I have one wish, if I kick you instead?
St. H: Ugh! Me love you long time. Maybe eat more popcorn. Make you happy.
TLO: Ugh! Me heap unhappy with lazy husband.
St. H: Hey, I've been working day and night! Keep this to yourself, but I've been creating a new movie genre, called the Eastern.
TLO: Another plan so crazy it just might fail.
St. H: You know, you're making me lose faith in humankind. I may have to return to my home planet soon.
TLO: Like I said, you're not going anywhere. Besides, you look good for your age - almost lifelike.
St. H: It's that Mary Kay soap. Listen to this line from my obituary I've been working on: "leaving his children bereaved." Nice, huh?
TLO: Very poetic.
St. H: It's the striking internal rhyme, the resonance of eave and eave. I think it will be well-received by my public.
TLO: Well, like I keep saying, you're not going anywhere. Besides, we need some relics to revere once you're really gone.
St. H: Relics? Like what?
TLO: I don't know ... A piece of the true finger. The Shroud of St. Holiday. The tooth of truth.
St. H: That reminds me. I want you to invite my dentist to my funeral. I want him to see the tooth that got away and moan his loss.
TLO: He'll never come, not after the way you screamed at him the last time you had an appointment.
St. H: What are you talking about?
TLO: You were yelling, "Drop your weapon!"
St. H: Didn't you see that needle he had? It looked like something a Visigoth would carry into battle.
TLO: You scared the patients in the waiting room. They all fled at the sound of you.
St. H: I saved them. And no one returned to thank me. I lead a thankless life of sacrifice.
TLO: Would you sacrifice for me?
St. H: Why? What else do you want me to do?
TLO: I asked you to fix the toilet, but you pooh-poohed that idea.
St. H: I've been paralyzed by thought. You don't know what it's like, being yoked to the great oxcart of mystery. Everyday, I'm irresistibly drawn into a trancelike state to peer into the dreamy domain of the blessed. It's the burden I must bear. Yet, it seems like I'm always pursuing truth with a stone in my shoe and a cramp in my calf.
TLO: O, holy husband; you are without beginning of thought or end of words. You used to work around the house, keep things maintained.
St. H: Hey, I've already solved all the world's problems, and I'm still in my jammies. And you know what they say: past performance is no guarantee of future results. I heard that on TV. Speaking of TV, I could use a little quality time with the remote.
TLO: What about the proffered birthday gift from your loving children?
St. H: Tell them, thanks, but you've already made arrangements.
St. Holiday: Hey, Babe, read this birthday card I just got in the mail.
The Lovely One: Not now; I'm busy.
St. H: Come on; it will only take a minute, and then you can ignore me again.
TLO: Promise?
St. H: Sure; I only want you to share in my outrage for a brief moment.
TLO: OK; let me read it. "Dear Father. We, your loving children, want to do something special for you on your birthday. So, we're having you put to sleep." How thoughtful! Maybe I can help.
St. H: Wait. Aren't you incensed?
TLO: Why? It's a gift the whole family can enjoy.
St. H: See; this is why I weep at night.
TLO: You're not going anywhere.
St. H: I know; I know. My disciples need me more than ever.
TLO: And you haven't given me access to your off-shore accounts yet.
St. H: Ah, my Cayman stash. My true insurance policy. If I die, it all goes to charity.
TLO: What about me?
St. H: You get my literary estate.
TLO: Your literary estate! What? Your books?
St. H: No; they're for Jenna. You get my divine poems and my George & Georgie cartoons. All yours. And you can have my journals, too.
TLO: Look, buddy boy, when you croak, I'll build a big bonfire in the backyard and burn it all - your divine poems, the cartoons, the journals, and everything else I can't spend.
St. H: What?! You wouldn't treasure the sacred art of my pen?
TLO: You know what they say: "Pack it up, and throw it out. Burn it up, and do without."
St. H: But it may all be worth millions someday!
TLO: Yeah, right, like your Conan the Barbarian comic books.
St. H: Here I am, caught in the middle of a custody battle between life and death, and my affairs are unsettled.
TLO: Then I would suggest a balanced approach. Get me a ton of money, and I'll promise to take care of your precious literary estate.
St. H: You know, babycakes, the vain things of this world are no longer my top priority. Now you're my singular focus. And Holiday said, "Let there be love." And there was love, and He saw that it was good.
TLO: And Raelene said, "Let there be cash." And there was cash, and she saw that it was good.
St. H: I feel like I'm stuck in a magic lamp. Just rub me, baby, and I'll give you three wishes.
TLO: Can I have one wish, if I kick you instead?
St. H: Ugh! Me love you long time. Maybe eat more popcorn. Make you happy.
TLO: Ugh! Me heap unhappy with lazy husband.
St. H: Hey, I've been working day and night! Keep this to yourself, but I've been creating a new movie genre, called the Eastern.
TLO: Another plan so crazy it just might fail.
St. H: You know, you're making me lose faith in humankind. I may have to return to my home planet soon.
TLO: Like I said, you're not going anywhere. Besides, you look good for your age - almost lifelike.
St. H: It's that Mary Kay soap. Listen to this line from my obituary I've been working on: "leaving his children bereaved." Nice, huh?
TLO: Very poetic.
St. H: It's the striking internal rhyme, the resonance of eave and eave. I think it will be well-received by my public.
TLO: Well, like I keep saying, you're not going anywhere. Besides, we need some relics to revere once you're really gone.
St. H: Relics? Like what?
TLO: I don't know ... A piece of the true finger. The Shroud of St. Holiday. The tooth of truth.
St. H: That reminds me. I want you to invite my dentist to my funeral. I want him to see the tooth that got away and moan his loss.
TLO: He'll never come, not after the way you screamed at him the last time you had an appointment.
St. H: What are you talking about?
TLO: You were yelling, "Drop your weapon!"
St. H: Didn't you see that needle he had? It looked like something a Visigoth would carry into battle.
TLO: You scared the patients in the waiting room. They all fled at the sound of you.
St. H: I saved them. And no one returned to thank me. I lead a thankless life of sacrifice.
TLO: Would you sacrifice for me?
St. H: Why? What else do you want me to do?
TLO: I asked you to fix the toilet, but you pooh-poohed that idea.
St. H: I've been paralyzed by thought. You don't know what it's like, being yoked to the great oxcart of mystery. Everyday, I'm irresistibly drawn into a trancelike state to peer into the dreamy domain of the blessed. It's the burden I must bear. Yet, it seems like I'm always pursuing truth with a stone in my shoe and a cramp in my calf.
TLO: O, holy husband; you are without beginning of thought or end of words. You used to work around the house, keep things maintained.
St. H: Hey, I've already solved all the world's problems, and I'm still in my jammies. And you know what they say: past performance is no guarantee of future results. I heard that on TV. Speaking of TV, I could use a little quality time with the remote.
TLO: What about the proffered birthday gift from your loving children?
St. H: Tell them, thanks, but you've already made arrangements.
Monday, October 10, 2011
THE SUFFERINGS OF SAINT HOLIDAY - PART 13 - OR THE POET GROWS OLD
Saint Holiday takes a short break from painting the bathroom for the Lovely One and comes to her as she watches a Netflix video in the office.
St. Holiday: Did anyone call for me?
The Lovely One: No.
St. H: Not even my kids?
TLO: No one.
St. H: How about your kids; did they call?
TLO: No one called for you.
St. H: Did someone call for you?
TLO: Why?
St. H: Well, I'd like to know if they asked about my condition.
TLO: What, your laziness?
St. H: No! What the radiologist discovered. You know, my symptoms.
TLO: No one called.
St. H: I thought you mentioned the radiologist's report on Facebook.
TLO: I did.
St. H: And no one called after that?
TLO: Don't you have painting to do?
St. H: I've got to wait for the primer to dry.
TLO: You could start on the other bathroom in the meantime.
St. H: It's all about sequence, my dear. All things must be done in their proper order. Sequence; that's the word.
TLO: No; the word is consequence. And that's what you'll face if you don't get something done around here.
St. H: Wait. I need to find out something first.
TLO: What now? Can't you see I'm watching a movie?
St. H: Yes, sweetie. I need to know what you wrote on Facebook about my condition.
TLO: Go read it.
St. H: I don't have an account. Too many people wanted to befriend me when I had an account, so I cancelled it.
TLO: And now you complain because no one calls you?
St. H: Babe, please, have mercy on my rotten soul. Just tell me what you wrote on Facebook about me, and I'll go back to my labors.
TLO: If I must.
St. H: So, did you tell them about my pulmonary nodule?
TLO: Yes.
St. H: Did you mention that it is well-marginated?
TLO: Yes; but I don't know what that means.
St. H: Neither do I, but it sounds severe; it sounds emphatic, wouldn't you agree?
TLO: I don't know. It could be a positive thing. I mean, would anyone want a pulmonary nodule that is badly-marginated?
St. H: Then there may be a chance for me?
TLO: Not in your case.
St. H: Oh. Did you happen to give the dimensions of my well-marginated, pulmonary nodule?
TLO: Of course; just like you told me. 1 centimeter by 8 millimeters.
St. H: How big is that, anyway?
TLO: Huge. You must be in great pain.
St. H: Always. Who, who will ever know my anguish?
TLO: Who can take the sunshine and dip it in a dream?
St. H: You mock me. I'm just a poor ploughboy in a parking lot, and you mock me. Where is the radiologist's report?
TLO: There, under my Coke.
St. H: Let me read it. What does this mean? My aorta is ectatic? Does he mean ecstatic? Ectatic, what's that? Did you write that on Facebook?
TLO: No.
St. H: You left that part off?! Maybe that's why the kids aren't calling. Nobody cares about a well-marginated, pulmonary nodule that may or may not be malignant. But an ectatic aorta! That's getting to the heart of me. How could you leave that out?
TLO: Well, I'm sorry. I did make mention of the osteopenia and the dextroscoliosis, if that's any comfort to you.
St. H: Yeah, that should have been enough to draw some interest. Did you also reference the degenerative changes to my spine?
TLO: I'm sure I did.
St. H: Wait; what's this? "The heart and pulmonary hila are otherwise unremarkable." Unremarkable? Why does he have to insult me?
TLO: That's not an insult. It just means there's nothing wrong with them.
St. H: Well, we know that can't be true. My remarkable heart is broken. What is left to live for?
TLO: You need to finish painting the house for one thing.
St. H: I wanted to climb the Seven Summits before I die, but now I must honestly confront my dustbin destiny. I guess I could become a clown and make balloon animals for five year olds in the last weeks of my miserable life. It's either that or recover Jerusalem from the infidels and establish myself as king.
TLO: Either one sounds promising to me. Look, Mahatma Holiday, have some hope.
St. H: Once I had hope. I caught up with him after a chase, tackled him to the ground, and held him with my knee on the small of his back. I tied his wrists together and put him through the third degree. As it turned out, hope had jumped the border and was in the country illegally. I had to let him go. I haven't seen him since.
TLO: I guess I can't expect you to lift yourself up by pulling your own hair. No, I'll have to pull it for you.
St. H: Oww!
TLO: That's nothing. If you don't get the painting done, I'll send you off to a labor camp.
St. H: I was just preparing to rise to the occasion, but the indifference of the world has weighed me down.
TLO: Perhaps, future generations will have the good taste to appreciate you more than your contemporaries.
St. H: Maybe. But today, I'm just a chalk outline of myself on a dirty asphalt road with a pothole where my butt would be.
TLO: Always with the melodrama.
St. H: Well, here I am in Deathcon 2, and nobody cares. I try to get a little sympathy in this world, but it's like trying to sell pork sandwiches to Jewish vegetarians.
TLO: What do you expect from your kids, anyway?
St. H: They could at least help me pick out a good nursing home, where I won't get diaper rash and where I can play with clay in a supportive environment.
TLO: I thought you were He-Ra, Prince of Power.
St. H: No, I'm like an old, dusty, flickering fluorescent in a rusty fixture. My body is betraying me, and I'm trapped in a life of stoic endurance. I'm gettin' woiser and woiser all da time.
TLO: Look, you should rejoice in the present, for tomorrow will be the future.
St. H: How wise of you. Wait! Your eyes! A reason to go on living! O rapture! O joy! A tremor of pleasure!
TLO: The terrorists have won. Could you please get back to work on the bathroom and let me watch my movie in peace!
St. H: I will, but first I have to balance my blood sugar.
TLO: You'd better leave my chocolate alone.
St. H: Is there anything I can get for you, my love?
TLO: Maid service would be good.
St. Holiday: Did anyone call for me?
The Lovely One: No.
St. H: Not even my kids?
TLO: No one.
St. H: How about your kids; did they call?
TLO: No one called for you.
St. H: Did someone call for you?
TLO: Why?
St. H: Well, I'd like to know if they asked about my condition.
TLO: What, your laziness?
St. H: No! What the radiologist discovered. You know, my symptoms.
TLO: No one called.
St. H: I thought you mentioned the radiologist's report on Facebook.
TLO: I did.
St. H: And no one called after that?
TLO: Don't you have painting to do?
St. H: I've got to wait for the primer to dry.
TLO: You could start on the other bathroom in the meantime.
St. H: It's all about sequence, my dear. All things must be done in their proper order. Sequence; that's the word.
TLO: No; the word is consequence. And that's what you'll face if you don't get something done around here.
St. H: Wait. I need to find out something first.
TLO: What now? Can't you see I'm watching a movie?
St. H: Yes, sweetie. I need to know what you wrote on Facebook about my condition.
TLO: Go read it.
St. H: I don't have an account. Too many people wanted to befriend me when I had an account, so I cancelled it.
TLO: And now you complain because no one calls you?
St. H: Babe, please, have mercy on my rotten soul. Just tell me what you wrote on Facebook about me, and I'll go back to my labors.
TLO: If I must.
St. H: So, did you tell them about my pulmonary nodule?
TLO: Yes.
St. H: Did you mention that it is well-marginated?
TLO: Yes; but I don't know what that means.
St. H: Neither do I, but it sounds severe; it sounds emphatic, wouldn't you agree?
TLO: I don't know. It could be a positive thing. I mean, would anyone want a pulmonary nodule that is badly-marginated?
St. H: Then there may be a chance for me?
TLO: Not in your case.
St. H: Oh. Did you happen to give the dimensions of my well-marginated, pulmonary nodule?
TLO: Of course; just like you told me. 1 centimeter by 8 millimeters.
St. H: How big is that, anyway?
TLO: Huge. You must be in great pain.
St. H: Always. Who, who will ever know my anguish?
TLO: Who can take the sunshine and dip it in a dream?
St. H: You mock me. I'm just a poor ploughboy in a parking lot, and you mock me. Where is the radiologist's report?
TLO: There, under my Coke.
St. H: Let me read it. What does this mean? My aorta is ectatic? Does he mean ecstatic? Ectatic, what's that? Did you write that on Facebook?
TLO: No.
St. H: You left that part off?! Maybe that's why the kids aren't calling. Nobody cares about a well-marginated, pulmonary nodule that may or may not be malignant. But an ectatic aorta! That's getting to the heart of me. How could you leave that out?
TLO: Well, I'm sorry. I did make mention of the osteopenia and the dextroscoliosis, if that's any comfort to you.
St. H: Yeah, that should have been enough to draw some interest. Did you also reference the degenerative changes to my spine?
TLO: I'm sure I did.
St. H: Wait; what's this? "The heart and pulmonary hila are otherwise unremarkable." Unremarkable? Why does he have to insult me?
TLO: That's not an insult. It just means there's nothing wrong with them.
St. H: Well, we know that can't be true. My remarkable heart is broken. What is left to live for?
TLO: You need to finish painting the house for one thing.
St. H: I wanted to climb the Seven Summits before I die, but now I must honestly confront my dustbin destiny. I guess I could become a clown and make balloon animals for five year olds in the last weeks of my miserable life. It's either that or recover Jerusalem from the infidels and establish myself as king.
TLO: Either one sounds promising to me. Look, Mahatma Holiday, have some hope.
St. H: Once I had hope. I caught up with him after a chase, tackled him to the ground, and held him with my knee on the small of his back. I tied his wrists together and put him through the third degree. As it turned out, hope had jumped the border and was in the country illegally. I had to let him go. I haven't seen him since.
TLO: I guess I can't expect you to lift yourself up by pulling your own hair. No, I'll have to pull it for you.
St. H: Oww!
TLO: That's nothing. If you don't get the painting done, I'll send you off to a labor camp.
St. H: I was just preparing to rise to the occasion, but the indifference of the world has weighed me down.
TLO: Perhaps, future generations will have the good taste to appreciate you more than your contemporaries.
St. H: Maybe. But today, I'm just a chalk outline of myself on a dirty asphalt road with a pothole where my butt would be.
TLO: Always with the melodrama.
St. H: Well, here I am in Deathcon 2, and nobody cares. I try to get a little sympathy in this world, but it's like trying to sell pork sandwiches to Jewish vegetarians.
TLO: What do you expect from your kids, anyway?
St. H: They could at least help me pick out a good nursing home, where I won't get diaper rash and where I can play with clay in a supportive environment.
TLO: I thought you were He-Ra, Prince of Power.
St. H: No, I'm like an old, dusty, flickering fluorescent in a rusty fixture. My body is betraying me, and I'm trapped in a life of stoic endurance. I'm gettin' woiser and woiser all da time.
TLO: Look, you should rejoice in the present, for tomorrow will be the future.
St. H: How wise of you. Wait! Your eyes! A reason to go on living! O rapture! O joy! A tremor of pleasure!
TLO: The terrorists have won. Could you please get back to work on the bathroom and let me watch my movie in peace!
St. H: I will, but first I have to balance my blood sugar.
TLO: You'd better leave my chocolate alone.
St. H: Is there anything I can get for you, my love?
TLO: Maid service would be good.
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
THE SUFFERINGS OF ST. HOLIDAY - PART 12
The lowly Saint Holiday, at home with Himself, suffering the torments of the darned in his lonely cottage, while the Lovely One cavorts with her beloved boys in the sunny decadence of the California gulag.
Saint Holiday: She left me again!
Himself: Can you really blame her?
St. H: Here I am, facing the final phase of my miserable life, alone.
Himself: I warned you not to over-estimate yourself.
St. H: What do you expect from a product of public education?
Himself: It's not just your educational deficits. You should have anticipated the inevitable strains of an intercultural marriage. A man from New Jersey and a woman from California ... there were bound to be dislocations.
St. H: Yeah, not to mention the alarming deterioration of my good looks. Once, I could stare long and approvingly into a mirror. Now, the magic is gone.
Himself: Not only that, you have been underperforming.
St. H: Hey, what do you mean by that? I thought you were on my side. I lost my super-strength, when she trimmed my bushy eyebrows.
Himself: You looked like you were playing a part in Dune.
St. H: Despite my shortcomings, I am tall.
Himself: Well, your privileges have been suspended for the time being.
St. H: How Long?
Himself: Indefinitely. You can turn in your happiness at the next window. Move along now. Next!
St. H: Wait a minute! Aren't I the law around here?
Himself: You are hereby repealed. Move along. Next!
St. H: What's to be done?
Himself: I don't know. Tax the rich, I guess.
St. H: I shall walk the earth with a shoulder bag and flute and have adventures like Caine of Kung-Fu.
Himself: What's keepin' ya?
St. H: (Glaring at the cat) I think I should make a small, ritual sacrifice first. I need to throw off the shackles of my feline oppressor.
Himself: If you do, the Lovely One will hunt you down like a cockroach in the kitchen.
St. H: Perhaps I should do a risk assessment first.
Himself: I would recommend that highly.
St. H: I feel like a suppository.
Himself: Wash your face; comb your hair; shave; put on some pants!
St. H: You sound like my mother.
Himself: Why are you talking to me, anyway?
St. H: It's either you or the cat.
Himself: Choose the cat for a change. I need a break from all your whining.
St. H: He'll just badger me for tuna. Besides, I feel interactive. I need you.
Himself: Man! I can. not. wait. for the Lovely One to come back home. You're driving me crazy.
St. H: Someone slashed the tires of my soul. I'm so tired.
Himself: Why? You never do anything.
St. H: Last night, I dreamed I was working.
Himself: Well, there you go. No wonder you're tired. You should take a nap.
St. H: I'm afraid to. What if I dream I'm working again? I'll be even more tired.
Himself: You know, as your closest friend, I think I should tell you: I'm worried that your laziness is getting in the way of your slothfulness.
St. H: Well, do you have any advice for me?
Himself: Yes; whatever you do, don't do it.
St. H: Do what?
Himself: Whatever you do.
St. H: Oh.
St. H: Why does she always leave me? I love her!
Himself: Love will only get you so far, fella.
St. H: But all you need is love, right?
Himself: Hey, that song was written by a millionaire. All you need is love, when you already have everything else.
St.H: You may be too cynical for me to associate with.
Himself: All I know is you're not likely to be type-cast as a he-man and forced to play the hero in a string of action films. You'd better come up with something realistic, if you expect to win her heart again.
St. H: Well, you'll be pleased to know that I have been thinking of giving crass materialism a try.
Himself: Thank Heaven! At least, I think so. Tell me what you mean by crass materialism.
St. H: You know, living to accumulate things, money, property. Acquisition as the prime directive.
Himself: Let me encourage you. I'll venture to speak for the Lovely One, too. Go for it!
St. H: There's only one thing holding me up.
Himself: What?
St. H: Those Holy Scriptures. You know, like "Thou shalt not covet." Or, "Set not thy heart upon the vain things of the world." Or, "Seek not for riches, but for wisdom."
Himself: Come on! You're a lawyer; find a loophole! Rationalize! Justify! Lie to yourself!
St. H: That should be easy enough to do...
Himself: Exactly! Money and stuff! Stuff and money! Monetize! That's the keyword. Monetize!
St. H: But will you still respect me?
Himself: Do you really need self-respect when you have money?
St. H: Like Keith Richards said, "If you want to reach the top, you have to start at the bottom."
Himself: That's start at the bottom, not stay at the bottom.
St. H: I need to nurse my infirmities first.
Himself: That's you. You're either nursing your infirmities or chasing peasant girls. I'm pessimistic about your capacity for real change.
St. H: Here I am, facing the terrifying prospect of mental disintegration and you have no pity.
Himself: I've been somewhat concerned about your darker tendencies.
St. H: Like what? My cannibalism?
Himself: No, not that. Your hypochondria, for instance.
St. H: Oh, well, I'm sure that's a by-product of my amoebic dysentery.
Himself: Didn't your new psyche prescribe something for you? Something to help you with your unhealthy attraction for comatose women?
St. H: Yeah; she said she wants to stabilize my brain chemistry, before she begins her psycholytic therapy.
Himself: Well, that sounds like a good plan. Did you take any of the new pills yet?
St. H: No, I haven't even picked them up from the pharmacy.
Himself: Why the heck not?
St. H: I looked up the side effects. Nausea, dizziness, lethargy, sweating, dry mouth, gas, abnormal vision, insomnia, nervousness, loss of appetite, constipation, extreme confusion, agitation, tremors, palpitations, seizures, increased heart rate, eye pain, mania, vomiting, migraines, hives, irritability,
decreased urination, hallucinations, stomach pain, shortness of breath, severe ringing in the ears, unusual bruising, decreased libido...
Himself: Well, you don't need that last one anyway.
St. H: True, but what about all the other side effects?
Himself: Hey, you want to be happy, right?
St. H: Yeah.
Himself: Then suck it up; listen to your psychiatrist. All those side effects will make you forget your depression. You'll be too sick from everything else!
St. H: Maybe you're right.
Himself: Of course, I'm right! Now get on down to that pharmacy.
St. H: First, I need to add a few lines to that screenplay about my first marriage. "Crazyland" - A tale of procreation, poverty, genius and betrayal. Johnny Depp can play my part. It may take me to the top.
Himself: This is what happens if we leave Afghanistan. When are you going to publish "The Crossing?"
St. H: First I need some monks to illuminate my manuscript.
Himself: Hail, holiday!
St. H: Why don't you capitalize my name when you invoke it?
Himself: That would be a crime against humility.
St. H: Oh. OK. You were were saying?
Himself: Hail, holiday! Arizona's very first epic poet in its long, distinguished literary history. Your poem, sir, is destined to take its place next to the Iliad, Odyssey, Aeneid, Paradise Lost, Mahabharata, Enuma Elish, The Fairie Queen, The Ramayana, and The Epic of Gilgamesh.
St. H: I accept your adulation, most humbly. We are left to inquire: where does civilization go from here?
Himself: Why doesn't everyone think like you? Shake thy wattles and roar!
St. H: You know, who needs the Lovely One when I have you!
Saint Holiday: She left me again!
Himself: Can you really blame her?
St. H: Here I am, facing the final phase of my miserable life, alone.
Himself: I warned you not to over-estimate yourself.
St. H: What do you expect from a product of public education?
Himself: It's not just your educational deficits. You should have anticipated the inevitable strains of an intercultural marriage. A man from New Jersey and a woman from California ... there were bound to be dislocations.
St. H: Yeah, not to mention the alarming deterioration of my good looks. Once, I could stare long and approvingly into a mirror. Now, the magic is gone.
Himself: Not only that, you have been underperforming.
St. H: Hey, what do you mean by that? I thought you were on my side. I lost my super-strength, when she trimmed my bushy eyebrows.
Himself: You looked like you were playing a part in Dune.
St. H: Despite my shortcomings, I am tall.
Himself: Well, your privileges have been suspended for the time being.
St. H: How Long?
Himself: Indefinitely. You can turn in your happiness at the next window. Move along now. Next!
St. H: Wait a minute! Aren't I the law around here?
Himself: You are hereby repealed. Move along. Next!
St. H: What's to be done?
Himself: I don't know. Tax the rich, I guess.
St. H: I shall walk the earth with a shoulder bag and flute and have adventures like Caine of Kung-Fu.
Himself: What's keepin' ya?
St. H: (Glaring at the cat) I think I should make a small, ritual sacrifice first. I need to throw off the shackles of my feline oppressor.
Himself: If you do, the Lovely One will hunt you down like a cockroach in the kitchen.
St. H: Perhaps I should do a risk assessment first.
Himself: I would recommend that highly.
St. H: I feel like a suppository.
Himself: Wash your face; comb your hair; shave; put on some pants!
St. H: You sound like my mother.
Himself: Why are you talking to me, anyway?
St. H: It's either you or the cat.
Himself: Choose the cat for a change. I need a break from all your whining.
St. H: He'll just badger me for tuna. Besides, I feel interactive. I need you.
Himself: Man! I can. not. wait. for the Lovely One to come back home. You're driving me crazy.
St. H: Someone slashed the tires of my soul. I'm so tired.
Himself: Why? You never do anything.
St. H: Last night, I dreamed I was working.
Himself: Well, there you go. No wonder you're tired. You should take a nap.
St. H: I'm afraid to. What if I dream I'm working again? I'll be even more tired.
Himself: You know, as your closest friend, I think I should tell you: I'm worried that your laziness is getting in the way of your slothfulness.
St. H: Well, do you have any advice for me?
Himself: Yes; whatever you do, don't do it.
St. H: Do what?
Himself: Whatever you do.
St. H: Oh.
St. H: Why does she always leave me? I love her!
Himself: Love will only get you so far, fella.
St. H: But all you need is love, right?
Himself: Hey, that song was written by a millionaire. All you need is love, when you already have everything else.
St.H: You may be too cynical for me to associate with.
Himself: All I know is you're not likely to be type-cast as a he-man and forced to play the hero in a string of action films. You'd better come up with something realistic, if you expect to win her heart again.
St. H: Well, you'll be pleased to know that I have been thinking of giving crass materialism a try.
Himself: Thank Heaven! At least, I think so. Tell me what you mean by crass materialism.
St. H: You know, living to accumulate things, money, property. Acquisition as the prime directive.
Himself: Let me encourage you. I'll venture to speak for the Lovely One, too. Go for it!
St. H: There's only one thing holding me up.
Himself: What?
St. H: Those Holy Scriptures. You know, like "Thou shalt not covet." Or, "Set not thy heart upon the vain things of the world." Or, "Seek not for riches, but for wisdom."
Himself: Come on! You're a lawyer; find a loophole! Rationalize! Justify! Lie to yourself!
St. H: That should be easy enough to do...
Himself: Exactly! Money and stuff! Stuff and money! Monetize! That's the keyword. Monetize!
St. H: But will you still respect me?
Himself: Do you really need self-respect when you have money?
St. H: Like Keith Richards said, "If you want to reach the top, you have to start at the bottom."
Himself: That's start at the bottom, not stay at the bottom.
St. H: I need to nurse my infirmities first.
Himself: That's you. You're either nursing your infirmities or chasing peasant girls. I'm pessimistic about your capacity for real change.
St. H: Here I am, facing the terrifying prospect of mental disintegration and you have no pity.
Himself: I've been somewhat concerned about your darker tendencies.
St. H: Like what? My cannibalism?
Himself: No, not that. Your hypochondria, for instance.
St. H: Oh, well, I'm sure that's a by-product of my amoebic dysentery.
Himself: Didn't your new psyche prescribe something for you? Something to help you with your unhealthy attraction for comatose women?
St. H: Yeah; she said she wants to stabilize my brain chemistry, before she begins her psycholytic therapy.
Himself: Well, that sounds like a good plan. Did you take any of the new pills yet?
St. H: No, I haven't even picked them up from the pharmacy.
Himself: Why the heck not?
St. H: I looked up the side effects. Nausea, dizziness, lethargy, sweating, dry mouth, gas, abnormal vision, insomnia, nervousness, loss of appetite, constipation, extreme confusion, agitation, tremors, palpitations, seizures, increased heart rate, eye pain, mania, vomiting, migraines, hives, irritability,
decreased urination, hallucinations, stomach pain, shortness of breath, severe ringing in the ears, unusual bruising, decreased libido...
Himself: Well, you don't need that last one anyway.
St. H: True, but what about all the other side effects?
Himself: Hey, you want to be happy, right?
St. H: Yeah.
Himself: Then suck it up; listen to your psychiatrist. All those side effects will make you forget your depression. You'll be too sick from everything else!
St. H: Maybe you're right.
Himself: Of course, I'm right! Now get on down to that pharmacy.
St. H: First, I need to add a few lines to that screenplay about my first marriage. "Crazyland" - A tale of procreation, poverty, genius and betrayal. Johnny Depp can play my part. It may take me to the top.
Himself: This is what happens if we leave Afghanistan. When are you going to publish "The Crossing?"
St. H: First I need some monks to illuminate my manuscript.
Himself: Hail, holiday!
St. H: Why don't you capitalize my name when you invoke it?
Himself: That would be a crime against humility.
St. H: Oh. OK. You were were saying?
Himself: Hail, holiday! Arizona's very first epic poet in its long, distinguished literary history. Your poem, sir, is destined to take its place next to the Iliad, Odyssey, Aeneid, Paradise Lost, Mahabharata, Enuma Elish, The Fairie Queen, The Ramayana, and The Epic of Gilgamesh.
St. H: I accept your adulation, most humbly. We are left to inquire: where does civilization go from here?
Himself: Why doesn't everyone think like you? Shake thy wattles and roar!
St. H: You know, who needs the Lovely One when I have you!
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