MERRY CHRISTMAS!

To all our family and friends throughout the world, the Lovely One and I wish you a very Merry Christmas. We love you. May the glorious message of the Gospel of Jesus Christ burn in your hearts now and forever. And may each of you receive through God's grace that which would be best for you. Be well.

ST. HOLIDAY ANNOUNCES CUT IN BILLING RATES

Saint Holiday, positioned at the top of the spiritual services industry, announced a steep billing rate cut today in a move sure to send a profound signal to the market. Effective immediately, the firm has slashed its hourly billing rate from $575.00 to $29.95 . The landmark announcement was lauded as a good strategy for these bad economic times. According to the founder of Show Low's spiritual services boutique, the decision was not made in response to client demand, inasmuch as he has no clients, but rather as a public acknowledgement that times are financially difficult for everyone. Having no clients, Saint Holiday has been able to keep its receivables at zero without the application of any accounting tricks, a situation to be envied for sure. Though costs of doing business have risen dramatically over the past year, the firm will tighten its belt and make whatever changes are necessary to help itself and its future clients weather the present economic crisis. Saint Holiday also announced that there will be no lay-offs in the coming year. This brought a sigh of relief from the one employee of the firm, St. Holiday himself.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIG EYES!

Amanda Noelle is our fourth child, born on this day in 1977, during my second semester in law school. My last exam for the semester was in Constitutional Law, taught by Dean Rex Lee, and it was given on December 12th. I had been anxious that the baby would be born before I finished my difficult exams, but Big Eyes was kind to accommodate me. Her angel mother would have preferred an earlier birth. We had gone to Stake Conference in the venerable Provo Tabernacle on November 28th, where Elder J. Thomas Fyans of the First Quorum of the Seventy spoke, and poor Candy was very, very uncomfortable. She had taken off her shoes and later found it to be impossible to put them back on, because her feet had swollen. Before we left, she started shaking. We were relieved to get her back home. The last two months of that pregnancy were very uncomfortable for her. I wrote in my journal: "What a happy day it will be when this baby arrives! It will be like Resurrection Day to Candy!" On the day after my exams were finished, I wrote: "Candy has not yet had the baby, and she is afraid that it will never come and that she'll be pregnant forever." She was having painful contractions, but they were irregular and never any closer than 8 minutes apart. She was in tears several times because of the indefiniteness of those contractions. Finally, it happened. On December 14th at 3:10 PM, Big Eyes was born at Utah Valley Hospital in Provo, Utah. I witnessed the entire miracle with my own eyes. I will never forget how the mother and baby looked into each others' eyes when the nurse brought the baby to her for the first time after the birth. Mandy's large eyes were wide open. There was a holy communication between the two that was remarkable and beautiful to behold. It was recognition from an earlier time and place. I gave her the nickname Big Eyes at that moment. Happy Birthday, Big Eyes! I send you my blessings and thank you for coming into our family. May our Heavenly Father always watch over you and grant you the worthy desires of your heart. The old dad loves you and will love you forever, no matter what. Here are a few pictures for your viewing pleasure.

CASH YOU CAN COUNT ON!

Ending weeks of speculation, Saint Holiday held a press conference today to announce his candidacy for the 2012 presidential race. Sporting a snazzy Elvis wig to cover his baldness and to hide the gruesome scar, evidencing his recent, radical brain surgery, the holy man assumed a senior level position atop his famous Chicken Catchatorium, the coop de grace, to make his stunning announcement. "I'd first like to thank me muddah and me faddah, " he began, reading from prepared remarks written on a Southwest Airlines vomit bag. At the sound of his voice, the crowd of media representatives wept openly. Sitting in full lotus, like the incarnation of Vishnu himself, the master explained that he has no plans to slow down, despite feeling "like a cookie crushed to crumbs." His words were like an electric kundalini to every soul present. "Now that I have only half a brain, I feel qualified to serve in public office. Obama has offered only change to the American public. I offer them cash, cash they can count on!"

The saintly one glowed, as he did in his pre-digital days. He described the fundamental elements of his platform, the first of which was employed effectively during the Mosaic administration, forgiveness of all debt! He read from the fifteenth chapter of Deuteronomy: "At the end of every seven years thou shalt make a release. And this is the manner of the release: Every creditor that lendeth ought unto his neighbour shall release it; he shall not exact it of his neighbour, or of his brother; because it is called the Lord's release." Saint Holiday promised that he would cancel all personal and institutional debt for every American during his first week in office, employing the divinely-inspired program defined in the Bible. "Every debt, whether in the character of a mortgage, promissory note, credit card debt or any other, shall be declared null and void. No one will owe anyone anything!"

Faster than three Mississippi's, the holy man presented the second plank of his platform: "A check in every pot!" He explained, "During the first 100 days of my presidency, I will direct the US Treasury to issue a check for one million dollars to every household in America earning less than $200,000.00 per year. This money will be backed by the value of all land owned by the federal government. There will be no poverty in this nation during my administration!"

It was impossible to control the enthusiasm of the crowd, gathered around the saintly candidate, after they heard him give his historic speech. Now that his supply of cerebral cells is down to manageable size, he appears more fit than ever to take the helm of this great nation. For a moment, Saint Holiday almost slipped and engaged in critical thought, but he caught himself in the knock of time and excused himself to return to the sanctuary of his Show Low residence to huddle with his political advisers. In a few weeks, he intends to begin his national campaign from the comfort of his personal blimp, hovering over crowds to deliver his exciting speeches and to fight against egregious collocations of vocables, wherever these are spewed.

In a related matter, Saint Holiday's spokesperson confirmed that the holy one did indeed have a mezuzah implanted in the forefront of his skull during his recent surgery. He would be pleased if his followers would kiss or touch him gently upon the forehead as opportunities for such sacred intimacy present themselves.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, ABIDOO!

My precious daughter, Abigail Ann, was born on November 12, 1982, during a time of great trial for my family. She proved to be a joy during that difficult time. I remember well the comfort she brought me when I held her in my arms after my hard days. There's nothing like a soft baby to ease a man's tension and help him forget the harsh trials of time. She was our seventh child, our good luck baby. And she has had good fortune. Early in 1983, her mother fell down the hard wooden steps of our home in Merchantville, while carrying little Abby. Momma broke her foot, but Abby was not injured in any way. Heavenly Father has held His protective hand over our Abby all throughout her life. She knows this is true. I love my Abigail! She is entwined around my heart like a morning glory vine. She has brought me so much happiness. I continually pray that the best of Heaven's blessings may come to her in her marriage and motherhood. I believe she has a glorious destiny.
Happy Birthday, Abidoo! I'll love you forever.

December 1982

1983


1989

May 1986, Take One

Take Two

SCIENTISTS COAX BRAIN CELLS OF ST. HOLIDAY TO REGENERATE!

St. Holiday, a briefly-mentioned figure in anecdotal lore, in a footnote here and there, was as calm as a beanless casserole today following an experimental operation fraught with risk, performed by the clinical cooperative group of the White Mountain Brain Center. Tests have confirmed that he is still alive. His first words after the operation were, "Call me Fliptop." His wife, the Lovely One replied, "We may have to call you, Scooby Doofus." Long known to reject the blind application of standard solutions to personal difficulties, solutions such as suicide or euthanasia, the suffering soul opted for radical, invasive surgery to remove vast areas of necrotic tissue from both sides of his cerebral Partisan Divide. Sources report that when the top of his skull was removed for the debulking procedure, a cloud of dead brain cells, having the consistency of vacuum cleaner dust, caused a fit of sneezing among all present in the operating room. Oddly enough, what remained after the necrotic tidbits and itty-bitties were excised could not accurately be called "gray matter," for it had the multi-colored appearance of tutti-frutti icecream. The second part of the operation involved a revolutionary breakthrough in science. Surgeons sought to stimulate mitosis, or cell division and proliferation, by injecting an extract of cocoa into the Golgi apparati of his remaining brain cells. Only time will tell if the operation is successful. Now St. Holiday faces a long, hard struggle to recovery, as he has for the past fifty years.

The patient was awake throughout the operation and was able to carry on a conversation of sorts with the circling surgeons, nurses, media reps and members of the Obama Transition team. "I feel rattled," he said. "Someone Kevork me; I hurt," he mumbled. When asked if he would like an analgesic for the pain, St. Holiday replied, "No, that part of me is fine. Do you have a headogesic?"

A sort of minor figure among Show Low's Holy Illuminati, St. Holiday, whose very voice in days long past could make a preacher cry, confess and check into rehab, had noticed a diminishment of all his geek signifiers ever since his days as a Cold War superspy (code name: Deep Thought) and his debut in the national tabloids. Many have mentioned that every time he speaks, something ordinary comes out of his mouth, something mundane and unremarkable.

Upon seeing him for the first time, laid out on the operating table, a nurse said, "I can't believe how powerful he looks in person!" One of his surgeons replied, "Except for his body and soul, he is just like you and me." "Doesn't he look natural!" another said. "With his head shaved like that and his tongue hanging out, he kinda looks like a capital Q," added the saintly one's wife, who has a fondness for surgical procedures and insisted upon being in the operating room during the entire 16-hour operation. As a nurse shaved his head in preparation for the craniotomy, St. Holiday amused her and onlookers by singing a jingle from the '50's, made famous by Fearless Fosdick himself, "Wildroot Cream-Oil, Charlie!" This was followed by his stirring rendition of another old jingle, "Bryl-Cream, a little dab will do ya. She'll love to run her fingers through your hair."

Prior to the operation, St. Holiday put in brutal 8-hour shifts at his tee-shirt factory, The Bustin' T Party, and struggled to find energy for his quirky adaptation of the play "Death Takes a Holiday." When the Spirit moved him, he spent time playing rap records backwards, listening for cloaked messages from the angels. If the operation proves to be a success, we might hope that the holy man will recommence his retreat from private life and continue to make his small contribution to society by varnishing harsh truths for the sake of his posterity and his adoring disciples. It is also to be hoped that the surgery will influence his sins of humor.

St. Holiday's children tried to talk him out of the risky surgery, saying, "Dad, you're just doing this for your insanity defense. Besides, you haven't made your will yet or chosen your taxidermist." Despite his children's preference for cryogenic taxidermy, St. Holiday often speaks of his desired interment at Coopertown Burying Ground, where many of his ancestors are awaiting the morning of the First Resurrection. Now it appears that his burial will be accomplished on an installment plan, inasmuch as his excised dead brain cells and a canister of dead skin cells from a Kirby Vacuum Cleaner demonstration on his own bed were collected and mixed together for early burial at his Coopertown plot. A special graveside service is planned for the event, with Tina Turner singing, "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot."

As a sidenote, St. Holiday has named his new dog, Bark Obama, in honor of the victor in the Nation's presidential campaign. There is hope that the pup icon will become the first dog on the moon, a true lunar rover.

HE SPEAKS!

Saint Holiday broke away from his handlers at the executive brainstorming session of the semi-annual conference of the Show Low Temperance and Abstinence League to issue the following statement: "My permanent state of apology will end soon. I'm sorry it has lasted so long. I regret that I must cut it short. I beg the kind indulgence of the public during this period of personal transition, as I attempt to transcend the monotony of my exciting life. Beyond this, it grieves me to admit that I have nothing more substantial to add to current discourse."

HOLY COWS!

The first meeting of the White Mountain Sacred Cow Society, held in the Show Low Library on Friday, was a surprising success. There has been a remarkable flowering of consciousness in these parts, leading to a shift toward true bovine tolerance in a broader "reverence for life" movement, which has taken hold of the people here like a fever. The venerable St. Holiday welcomed a standing-room-only crowd (someone forgot to set up the chairs) of dignitaries and residents from Show Low, Pinetop-Lakeside, Linden, the White Mountain Apache tribe and other surrounding communities. After a good-natured roasting of the inspired founder of the newly-organized society by prominent members of the ranching community, time was given to a special guest, His Divine Grace B. S. Bhaktishiva Swami Bhagadung, to explain the rudiments of true ruminant enlightenment. After his stirring presentation, many made their way to the front of the room to kneel and renounce their former carnivorous ways, swearing ever after to abstain from the eating of red meat, together with green or bluish meat. Wal-Mart and Safeway are said to be gearing up for a surge in sales of soy-based products. The question of whether to admit bulls to the sacred order was tabled indefinitely. There was widespread resistance to the notion of allowing calves to participate, based upon a literal reading of the Biblical book of Exodus. A women's auxiliary was appointed and charged with fashioning colorful head-dresses for our sacred cows as a fundraising activity. It is anticipated that these floral crowns will be available for purchase in a variety of sizes and styles at the Show Low City Hall in about a month. Representatives of the governing bodies of major White Mountain cities and towns expressed their willingness to introduce municipal ordinances permitting sacred cows to freely roam throughout the communities. This prospect of bovine emancipation was met with such wild cheering and applause that several shushing librarians rushed to the scene of the celebration. St. Holiday was the closing speaker for the evening, and many were moved by the crackling precision of his participles. The next general meeting of the White Mountain Sacred Cow Society was scheduled for 7 PM, November 18th in the City Council Room of the Show Low Library. Another large crowd is expected to attend, so we would urge the public to come early for the best seating.

In a completely unrelated development, closely connected to the afore-mentioned proceedings, we have learned that attorneys for St. Holiday and his wife are finalizing an agreement of reconciliation. This week, the holy man's embarrassed wife fled to Albuquerque to avoid her commitment at the White Mountain Institute for the Clinically Addicted. The discovery of her chocolate addiction was widely reported last week through the organs of our national media. Informed sources are saying that agents for the two are applying last touches to an accord, which will permit each of them to consume liberal amounts of chocolate without criticism from the other. It is now expected that the Lovely One will join her husband tomorrow at the International Lego League Championship.

HYPOCRISY EXPOSED!

Disturbing news has been leaked from the Monasterio de Santo Holiday today, which throws new light upon the true character of the one commonly known as the Venus de Show Low. Humor has it that Yo Yo Pa, as he is affectionately called by the adoring acolytes who manage his exclusive compound on the city's fashionable 8th Avenue, took a fat fatwa to the heart in the midst of his own sanctuary early this morning. While searching for his personal Blarney Stone, a gift from Hym Selph, the exiled King of the Emerald Isles, he opened a drawer of the Lovely One's desk and discovered a massive, secret cache of assorted chocolates. For nearly eight years, the Right Rev has been happily-married to the provocative mall-mouse and henherdess, who is sometimes justifiably compared to Raquel Welch in her hayday, and yet he never once suspected that she has been living a parallel life of her own, consumed in her own addiction to chocolate. This has been the most shocking thing he has experienced since the pecking of Tippi Hedren. In response, St. Holiday has cancelled tonight's meeting of the White Mountain Sacred Cow Coalition and has suspended tomorrow's expedition in search of Occam's toothbrush. There is fear that he may lapse in preparation for a relapse and revert to a cowboylike silence.

This revelation of his wife's duplicity could not have come at a worse time. Paying the wages, principle, interest, tithing and taxes of old age, tectonic pressures of daily life have placed St. Holiday a mere heartbeat away from the low swing of the sweet chariot. In his mind, he has always been the shirtless, dirty coalman, shoveling coal endlessly into the locomotive's unsatiated steam furnace, vainly hoping for the station at the end of the eternal tracks. Recent events have thrust the holy man from the comforts of domesticity and from the maternal care he has always craved. He has worked at the limits of his strength, quelling national rebellions, and struggling against enormous odds to express his deep-seated opposition to resistance in all its contrary forms. However, he has learned through it all that patrician cheekbones can only get one so far. In his world of ruptures, the Lovely One always supplied the trusses. Nevertheless, it is expected that he will haul her hallelujah corpus down to the White Mountain Institute for the Clinically Addicted and enroll her in the same program that recently upholstered him for recovery.

Our sung hero is intensely public and notoriously reluctant to discuss his personal life anyplace but on television, radio, the internet, in all forms of print media, face to face or by telephone. However, in view of today's distressing revelation, he has decided to quit all public speaking in order to spend more time with his family. He will recommence communication tomorrow.

WIFE TIRES OF BOY TOY, BEGS TO COME HOME

Soon after returning from his pilgrimage to the Ganges River, where the holy man, in the company of sacred cows, spent a week ridding himself of the filthy excreta of this present world, Saint Holiday was surprised to receive several emotional telephone calls from his distant wife, who pleaded with him to take her back. She has grown weary of the young Asher Guillory. He lacks maturity, she said. And though the Marquis de Sad may not be able to surpass his rival in maturity, he does have the advantage of height and reach. Because the pious one dispenses mercy and forgiveness the way the US Treasury prints tens and twenties, he has agreed to receive his prodigal wife with open arms.

There he was, sitting cross-legged on his living room floor, singing, "Felines; nothing more than felines! trying to forget you, and these felines of love!" when the first call came. He listened as the Lovely One whimpered on the phone, allowing himself to be drawn from his great, overarching ideas into a few moments of pity for his anguished bride. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know I've hurt you deeply. You didn't deserve what I've done to you. I was carried away by infatuation. O, how can you ever forgive me? I was so wrong! Did you get your paycheck yet?"
"Come home," he replied. "Let's take it one stipulation at a time."

Since the collapse of the subprime market, Saint Holiday's struggle to find liquidity led him to the Ganges. There, among a poor and simple people, the holy man was inspired from on high. He now plans to establish the Equatorial Center for Middle Intermediacy, where he shall assume a state of equipoise in this unbalanced world, and where he shall offer courses for mental and emotional steadiness and physical equilibrium to the masses of staggering humanity. Voila le philosophe! Here is a man to be wrecked with. In the alternative, he has been training to become a hand model.

REMEMBERING ST. FRANCIS

On the sandy bank of the Ganges River, St. Holiday paused from his ablutions today to remember St. Francis of Assisi, who died on this day in 1226 Anno Domini. He is greatly admired by St. Holiday for his reverence for life, his exceeding kindness to animals, and his sincere efforts to imitate the character of Christ is his own life. The following poem is attributed to St. Francis, and though it has not been possible to prove an historical connection to him, it can at least be accepted and enjoyed as a reflection of his spiritual nature and consecration to charity. God bless St. Francis.

Lord, make me an instrument of Thy peace;
where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon;
where there is doubt, faith;
where there is despair, hope;
where there is darkness, light;
and where there is sadness, joy.
O Divine Master,
grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console;
to be understood, as to understand;
to be loved, as to love;
for it is in giving that we receive,
it is in pardoning that we are pardoned,
and it is in dying that we are born to Eternal Life.
Amen.

ST. HOLIDAY CLEANS CAT BOX!

The Relief Society refused to send help. "Clean your own damn cat box!" yelled the Relief Society President, as she slammed down the phone. "She must be having a difficult moment," thought St. Holiday. "I'll try her again in a few minutes."

The Relief Society has changed. It used to give more relief. Back in the day, representatives of that once charitable organization would show up faster than Dominoes Pizza, whenever a cry went out for help managing the gross domestic product of his children. Jenna, Ethan, Josiah, Amanda, Micah, Hannah, Abigail, Noah and Jonah were all beneficiaries of the Relief Society's Sacred Diaper Changing Service, during those difficult times when their angel mother was hospitalized to deliver a baby or to be treated for some disease. After such a long and satisfying history, one could hardly blame St. Holiday for assuming that the Relief Society could be relied upon to save him in the hour of this latest category five emergency. It was not to be. The poor man was left to deal with the dire consequences of his wife's cruel departure alone. He may never forgive her.

A children's choir sang Panis Angelicus outside the saintly one's Show Low retreat, as he brought the heavy bag of used cat food to the trash. Then he headed for the airport to catch the first of several flights that would take him eventually to Global India, where he plans to bathe in the Ganges, soaking with the ashes of the dead, in an attempt to restore the pure patina of saintliness that, until today, was a grace to gaze upon. When asked who would tend to the cat box in his absence, St. Holiday said simply, "The Sisters of Mercy."

BEWAIL THE BAIL!

Saint Holiday, doing his boogie best to maintain some particle of equilibrium after the loss of yet another wife, called the Chairman of the Federal Reserve this morning and told him, "Joo got sum splainin to doo." The celebrated comic, poet and holy man has long been a controversial figure, epitomizing the tragedy of human existence and the consequences of severe cerumen impaction. The Fed, aware that the commonly-used shortened form of its name sounds eerily parasitic, decided after intense discussions with St. Holiday to change its name to The Feed, and, as a goodwill gesture to the Man of Infinite Gestures, to send him the trickledown for which he has long waited. Since St. Holiday is a vegetarian, this bailout falls under the category of Bean Barrel spending, as distinguished from the porcine variety. From the time his fortunes began to evaporate in 1951, he has been under-capitalized, poorly-regulated and likely to crash. This bailout may have come just in time to avoid a serious meltdown.

Our readers are aware of the mythic struggle St. Holiday has had with a chocolate addiction run amok, and it may be too early to tell whether his stay at the White Mountain Institute for the Clinically Addicted was effective or not. When asked whether he has thrown off the chains of chocolate addiction at last, he replied, "I'm just taking it one bite, um, I mean, one step at a time. I'm relying upon a higher power." This correspondent could not tell whether St. Holiday was referring to a Divine Power or to The Feed, from which he may soon receive a large bailout payment. Trouble has henned him long before the Great Westward Migration of his family, but many have viewed him as the author of his own problems. Weakly supervised for too long, St. Holiday has been failing and on the verge of collapse. It has become obvious to a few that the government had no alternative but to act.

Both presidential candidates offered unqualified support for the proposal, declaring their fondness for George & Georgie. In a joint statement, issued from the Capitol Rotunda, the contenders for our nation's highest office said, "The option of doing nothing, which would be our normal course of business, is simply not an option in the case of St. Holiday, whose contributions to our national identity, security and prosperity can not be understated. We will stand with him. We congratulate The Feed on its bold wisdom and decisive action to rescue the Escaped Crusader with a generous handout."

It is to be hoped that this bailout will provide a jump start for St. Holiday, who is still reeling from the loss of the Lovely One. This has been his worst crisis since his Great Depression. Rumors have been swirling in the media since she was photographed Sunday in the company of a young, good-looking male by the name of Asher Guillory. The couple made no attempt to hide their affection for each other.

LEFT IN THE DUST!

It is sad to relate here that on the very morning of St. Holiday's release from solitary refinement at the White Mountain Institute for the Clinically Addicted, the one once known as the Lovely One has abandoned him. "I can't take anymore," she was heard to say, as she headed for the Show Low Airport, bags in hand. That might be because she had already taken everything, and there is nothing remaining. Except for the cats, that is, which were left behind, like their master, to pile it higher and deeper. So, the Bliss Queen has gone, leaving a poor, afflicted shell of a man to sift through the ashes of a misspent life alone. Confidential sources inform us that St. Holiday's immediate plans, after he retrieves his fan mail from the local Post Office, are to relocate to the limestone caves of the Mogollon Rim and to mourn out the remainder of his weeks planning his posthumous work and perfecting his revolutionary hair-restoration formula.

SAVED FROM THE SURGE!

In the Name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful, praise be to Allah, Lord of the Universe, and peace and prayers be upon His Final Prophet and Messenger, and also upon His Servant, Saint Holiday, the humble and oppressed, whom I, Abu Farou bin Sabib, the servant of the servant, am most pleased to assist on this blog. Allah, Allah, oxen free! We are happy to report that St. Holiday's grandchildren will not have to call him Amps instead of Gramps. Watt? Watt, you ask? On Sunday, an Arizona judge ruled that St. Holiday, the notorious mass chocolate eater of Show Low, is too mentally unstable to be subjected to therapeutic electrocution. The judge issued the ruling only hours before St. Holiday was scheduled to be strapped down and plugged in, ignoring the advice of experts from the Institute of the Clinically Addicted. He found that the holy man, who has been on a chocolate-eating rampage for decades, may possibly be too psychotic to comprehend the nature of the proposed therapy and to give an unqualified consent. The judge suggested other more benign forms of behavior modification like acupuncture, country music or flagellation. St. Holiday's loving wife objected strenuously and vociferously in the courtroom, demanding that her husband "receive the electrification he deserves," as she put it, and she had to be tasered and dragged away by the bailiff's deputies. As she left the courtroom in handcuffs, she vowed to file a Motion for Reconsideration. St. Holiday is touched by her love and concern for his well-being, and by her sweet, conditional forgiveness.

A senior judicial official, who spoke on condition of non-anonymity ("Hey, man, you have to promise to put my name in your blog before I'll tell you anything."), gave details of the scene inside the closed courtroom. For the record, the official's name is Albert Salazar. (O.K. Albert, are you satisfied?) Infidel! Anyway, during the proceedings, St. Holiday sang an old Glen Campbell song, something about being a lineman for the county, and repeated the phrase, "searching in the sun for another overload" in a stentorian voice, over and over, disregarding every warning from the judge. All the while, the holy man was occupied in a vain attempt to peel a little oval sticker off a plum. When St. Holiday began to yodel the word "overload," the judge ordered the bailiff to gag him. The picture emerging from these events is of a man riven by internal conflicts. May Allah save him!

The judge made it clear that his decision could be reversed if St. Holiday shows any signs of sanity in the future. Hearing this, a gentleman sitting next to the subject of the proceeding, later identified as John Orio, laughed out loud and said, "That will never happen!"

UPDATE ON THE SAINTLY ONE

NOTE: Due to his sequestration, Saint Holiday has turned over the day to day operations of his blog to his good friend and spiritual advisor, Abu Farou bin Sabib, also known as Abdul Ali Hakeem al Tamim. Abu is a novice commercial airline pilot. END OF NOTE

A major news network reported on condition of anonymity today that it had succeeded in penetrating the heavy security of the White Mountain Institute for the Clinically Addicted (ICA) to secure an exclusive interview with the Inaction Hero, known in some circles as Super Van, strange visitor from the Planet Krapton. His recently-disclosed overuse of performance-enhancing chocolate has drawn the interest of federal investigators, and a grand jury has been convened in Phoenix. His story has completely stolen the media spotlight from the presidential campaign and the mess production of our Bottoms of State. To the surprise of many, St. Holiday has managed to win a marginal fan base, even among some of his own children, who view the national mockingstock as one who has always stood for reform, having tried to reform himself for the past 40 years. OK, maybe 4 years. 4 hours? Once under a media microscope, he is now under a media telescope, because "he is so far out there." One of his own daughters was overheard to say over the phone, "Dad, I have one word for you - get help!" Latest observations appear to back up earlier findings.

The clandestine reporter was able to interview St. Holiday only briefly, speaking with him through a screen in what appeared to be a confessional booth. There he sat, wedged into the strait and narrow on genuine Naugahyde, shut off from all avian interaction, accepting submission to mounting pressures, mumbling a sort of quasi-scripture, such as, "I will lift up mine eyes unto the bills, from whence cometh my stress." The intrepid reporter remarked that St. Holiday appeared "highly sedated and sedately high," though we are informed by other sources that his placebo has not yet begun to kick in, providing the 24-hour relief he needs. The one, who considers Rollos to be miracle pills, is struggling to stay sober and is off to a good stop, as usual, but at least his tantrums are now temperate. He is expected to begin daily rounds of electro-shock therapy on Sunday.

From what could be derived from the short interview, St. Holiday believes that he should be treated as an individual, as opposed to a group or something else in the plural. He said he is planning to retract certain statements he has made over the past 38 years, which may clear up everything. He begged the reporter to help him "return to the shire." There was a certain incoherency in his speech. Long known for his whining tradition, St. Holiday complained that he is a victim of racial profiling and of a hate crime. He said,"They revile against me and vilify me, simply because of the way I talk and act and write and sing." Moreover, he said, "They can't pin that bank heist on me. I'll get off. All they have is circumstantial evidence."

St. Holiday's long-suffering wife has vowed to stand by him, despite the humiliating revelations of his chocolate addiction. "He was swept away by a power that is greater than any of us," she said. "He looks so lost and overwhelmed. How could I leave him now? I'll wait a while longer." Many wonder whether St. Holiday will rally sufficiently to appear in this year's Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. He had previously announced his plans to dress as a root beer float.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EEHEE!

Here's to a man of exceptional artistic talent, who has distinguished himself through concentrated effort and the application of his God-given gifts. He is a devoted husband and father, and the Lord has blessed him in his family and in everything he has undertaken. He is being prepared for even greater things. It is scarcely believable that he is 34 years old today. I deeply appreciate the love and respect he has always expressed for me, even in the course of our most difficult trials. He is more than a son; he is a dear, dear friend to me, and I love him with all my heart. Happy Birthday, Ethan. May the Lord keep you in His care always.

Love,
Dad

NOTICE TO THE PUBLIC

Because of concerns expressed with great emotion regarding my mental health, and misunderstandings which have arisen over my poor attempts at humor, I have decided to end my writing in this medium. I will continue to post my daily comic strip, George & Georgie, but otherwise, I am retreating into the safety of silence. Until recently, I did not realize that so many harbor severe antipathy towards me. I sincerely apologize for my intrusion. I meant no harm. It occurs to me that I will always fall short of expectations and that I am utterly incapable of truly sharing my unique consciousness with others. Farewell.

ST. HOLIDAY STAYS MUM ON ACTUAL NUMBER OF PROGENY

Recent rumors that St. Holiday may have sired more than his acknowledged nine children have set off a firestorm of speculation and intrigue, not only on this continent but across the Pacific as well. Currently in an undisclosed rehabilitation facility for treatment of a serious chocolate addiction, the saintly one has refused to either confirm or deny the rumors, stating through his spokesman, "I can not discuss this sensitive subject, especially without the permission of my secret children, and especially at this trying time when I am dealing with an affliction that threatens my marriage, health, life and even my very credit rating." Pressed for further information concerning the Colonel of Truth, St. Holiday's publicity manager reminded the restless crowd of media representatives gathered outside the poet's Show Low home that on this day in 430 AD, St. Augustine of Hippo died. St. Holiday can be expected to spend this significant day of remembrance as is his holy custom, by searching for some modern Pelagian heresy to oppose in word and deed. His publicist said that St. Holiday has also been preoccupied with perfecting his signature look, though he has been having some difficulty getting his eyebrows just right, and the clamoring public may have to settle for mere profiles in the future. Furthermore, he has been wrestling with whether to use the word "insouciant" in future blog posts. A confidential source has leaked that St. Holiday is also considering offers from the Federal Witness Protection Program. He may need it if rumors concerning his so-called unacknowledged children are born out.

AMAZING GRACE - ST. HOLIDAY FOUND!

Authorities called off the search for St. Holiday earlier this morning, when he was discovered in the Chicken Catchatorium in his own backyard, huddled next to his hens, shivering and pale. Witnesses report that he looked barned beyond recognition. When he was found, he was conscious, and none of his vital signs seemed impaired. According to one officer, there was a distinct odor of chocolate on his breath. Later, his spokesman released a statement from the father of at least nine, which reads in part: "Of my own free will, I have voluntarily agreed to enter a facility for the treatment of chocolate addiction. Otherwise, the Lovely One won't let me back in my house. I ask for respect and privacy for myself and my children, as we deal with this situation as a family." His wife said, "I'm glad he's alive, but he owes me a couple bags of Hershey's." The name of the rehabilitation facility is a closely-guarded secret, a move designed to thwart the paparazzi. It appears that St. Holiday has hit rock bottom. This stunning development came as a shock to his closest associate, who said, "I saw him just yesterday. He seemed so totally normal. Sure, he staggered some, slurred his speech and collapsed from weakness off and on, but that's just the way he is."

St. Holiday's mother, Gloria Van Sciver, was contacted at her South Jersey residence for a comment. She was busy with her sister, Margie, dipping the last few hundred pounds of chocolates for this season's customers, as she has done for many years. "I don't understand how this could have happened," she said. I warned him about those dark chocolates. If he'd stick with the milk chocolates, he'd be OK. I tell him, no more than a pound a day, like when he was young. He's tall; he can handle it. But will he listen to his mother? No! He never would, not that boy. He's got a mind of his own. Well, now he'll have to pay the price, speaking of which, he better not ask me to pay for his rehab. He got himself into this fix." As she spoke with our source, she began to put together a two-pound box of her mixed milk chocolates with nuts, saying, "I've got to find a way to get this into the rehab facility to him. It will help with the withdrawal."

St. Holiday's latest trouble suggests that he has demons at war with his angel-may-care affability. We can only look upon his willingness to obtain treatment for his chocolate addiction as a positive and courageous act, which will help him move on with his life at last. We will attempt to keep the public informed of his progress as new details are released by the family.

NEWS FLASH - ST. HOLIDAY MISSING!

This just in from our correspondent on the scene. St. Holiday, sometimes referred to as the Dalai Lion of Show Low, has turned up missing. Nationally-known for his absolute obscurity, the quirky, aging hippie was last seen just before neighbors heard his wife scream, "Holiday, did you eat my chocolate?!" According to investigators, the so-called Lovely One discovered incriminating wrappers in the wastebasket of St. Holiday's Throne Room. These wrappers were for Hershey's Nuggets, the special dark chocolate with almonds. Since it is well-known that St. Holiday prefers the milk chocolate variety, police are wondering if perhaps someone else may have deposited those wrappers in the trash. However, the Lovely One has repeatedly employed wild and emphatic gesticulations to assure investigators that no one else would think to enter the Throne Room, unless he was either dressed in full bio-hazard apparel, completely insane, or under the influence of mind-altering drugs. The door is kept safely shut, she stated, and no one, except the Past Master himself, is permitted entrance into his "sanctuary," as he calls it. The family is rattled by this latest development. Some are already tacking missing posters to telephone poles and yellow ribbons to neighborhood trees. Authorities are combing the area with cadaver dogs. There is early suspicion that the Lovely One may have something to do with his disappearance, and it is expected that she will be hauled in for more thorough questioning later this evening. There was mention made by one confidential source of a life insurance policy, but details are sketchy at this time.

Recently, there has been mounting speculation over St. Holiday's health. It was revealed only a few days ago that he is losing his battle with Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and that he had suffered a relapse into a weekend of shallow thought. The pre-Apocalyptic visionary and Pop of Kings has managed to elude commercial success with his recently-released, shocking expose of the widespread popular discontent with material insecurity, and it is thought that this new failure may have been the proverbial straw that led to present events. Or, he may just be hiding from his enraged wife, who is quite protective of her chocolates. Sweet talk, personal charm, clean jokes and reverent wit may only go so far with the Lovely One.

St. Holiday has never been known for merely flirting with disaster. No, he has a way of embracing it like a lover, kissing it full on the lips, taking it home and feeding it like a poor stray. He is the most self-unmade man to be found among anatomically-correct specimens of mankind. Over the past few months, his agent has been engaged in serious discussions with the Acquisitions Department of the Museum of Natural History concerning the eventual donation of St. Holiday's brain for scientific research and public display. Negotiations have reached an impasse over the color of the jar in which it is to be preserved. The donor has insisted upon a tinted jar, preferably in rose or chromium blue, to mask the depressing gray of his whorly organ. If St. Holiday has finally met his fate, as many hope and some few fear, this issue of tissue may be resolved rather soon.

A PRESSING RELEASE

Early today, sources close to St. Holiday announced a significant symbolic achievement by the trippy quipster so few have come to know and love. Fresh on the behind of his convincing victory in Monday's extreme breakfast competition, the man now known in private circles as Sir Real, is ending speculation by pulling himself out of the running as the Republican vice-presidential candidate. This was entirely unexpected, since he is a registered Independent. Since being passed over by Obama just as Moses was passed over by the Angel of Death, St. Holiday has been inconsolable and almost unavailable for comment. He is a victim of his own non-existant approval ratings, oddly philosophical theatrics and a botox procedure that went horribly wrong. His ragbin style has not helped him either. We hear that recovery efforts are underway. Over the weekend, our subject was spotted on one occasion, clothed in bubblewrap, hollow-eyed and unshaven, muttering, "I hate them; they killed my son." Yet, only hours later, he stood in the doorway of his humble chateau, dressed in his trademark shiny vinyl raincoat, with his palm on the very forefront of his well-informed mind, preparing, as he declared, to rush into a phone booth to change. We believe he meant, to find change, an activity he pursues on weekends to supplement his family budget. Our readers will appreciate that St. Holiday is always unpredictable, except after sunrise.

It probably has not helped his cause that he has long been under surveillance, wanted for questioning, and awaiting amnesty as the most notorious member of Show Low's fashionable underground. How he has eluded the justice system after so many years is a wonderment to all who hate him. Some might think of St. Holiday as just another shot at the buzzer that did not go in, but many recognize that at least the shot bounced around the rim a few times. However, what should we expect from one who grew up during the Great Depression, his own? The few who care for him applaud him as one who is occasionally capable of emotional depth and nuance, who keeps his phaser set on stun, his triglicerides at optimal levels, and his hands from clutching his own throat.

An anonymous source has informed this writer that St. Holiday intends to make a dramatic comeback through a computer-generated replica of himself in high resolution. This is news indeed, since he has never been known to have any resolution at all. We hear that St. Holiday has been working on this project for many years and that he has finally succeeded in constructing a completely-convincing digital doppelganger with realistic facial animation. This he intends to send to assume his new employment as Show Low's grantwriter/housing coordinator, having programmed it for high definition output. Having freed up his time, St. Holiday will download his aging corpus, made of the finest molecules known to man, onto his livingroom couch, where he will devote considerable time to the issue of how to complete the final two things he must accomplish before his own death. It is to be hoped that his digital clone will not fall into the wrong hands.

St. Holiday's name may not be widely known, but the letters of his name, every single one, are known wherever the English alphabet is acknowledged and employed. Therefore, it can be truly stated that much of the world is acquainted with him in a particular manner. Though disappointment and failure are his nightly lullaby, he has at least achieved this measure of global celebrity. One might hope that someday the world will put the pieces together and come to know the entire puzzle which is St. Holiday.

ODES OF SOLOMON, Part 3

The 42nd Ode, which we quoted in a previous post, belongs in substance to a large and greatly neglected body of ancient literature dealing with Christ's descent into Sheol, or the world of the dead, after His crucifixion. The early Christians had an answer to the question of whether the blessings of salvation in Christ are available to the billions of Father's children, who have died not having heard or known of the Gospel plan, its principles and ordinances. Blessed be the name of the Lord, the answer is affirmative.

The fundamental principles of the Gospel are faith in Jesus Christ, repentance, baptism for the remission of sins and confirmation for the reception of the Holy Spirit by the laying on of hands. Jesus taught Nicodemus that "Except a man be born of water and of the Spirit, he cannot enter into the kingdom of God." (John 3:5). That teaching raises the question, what of that super-majority of the descendants of Adam and Eve who have passed through mortality without an opportunity to receive the ordinances of baptism and confirmation, which Christ taught are a necessary precondition to one being able to enter the kingdom of God? Most who have lived upon the earth have never been acquainted with the doctrines of Christ. How does that square with our notions of the justice of God?

The early Christians believed and taught that Jesus, between the time of His death and resurrection, entered the vast world of spirits and inaugurated a great work of redemption there, preaching the good news to our ancestors and opening the way for their salvation.

The Chief Apostle Peter referred to Christ's work among the dead:

For Christ also hath once suffered for sins, the just for the unjust, that he might bring us to God, being put to death in the flesh, but quickened by the Spirit:
By which also he went and preached unto the spirits in prison;
Which sometime were disobedient, when once the longsuffering of God waited in the days of Noah, while the ark was a preparing, wherein few, that is, eight souls were saved by water. (1 Peter 3:18-20)

For for this cause was the gospel preached also to them that are dead, that they might be judged according to men in the flesh, but live according to God in the spirit. (1 Peter 4:6)

To quote from the 42nd Ode, "And I made a congregation of living men amongst his dead men, and I spake with them by living lips, because my word shall not be void." What word of Christ would not be void? The promise contained in John 5:25 and elsewhere, "Verily, verily, I say unto you, the hour is coming, and now is, when the dead shall hear the voice of the Son of God: and they that hear shall live." This is such an essential and hopeful teaching! Sadly, it has been forgotten or ignored through the ages, leading to many errors in doctrine. The Gospel of Jesus Christ reaches every generation and every nation, if not in mortality then in the realm of spirits. No one of Father's children is denied the blessings of Christ's redemption because of the time and place of their mortal lives. The Lord has and will save all who will adhere to His word, whether in this life or the next.

In a post to come, I will quote from other ancient writers on this important subject.

THE DRAMA & TRAUMA CONTINUE

Well, there's nothing like a polite conversation with a nurse around a cup of your own urine. One look, and she knew immediately that I take vitamins. Totally embarrassing! I had to wait forever for the procedure to take place. I said, "Come on; hurry up; my drugs are wearing off!" The Lovely One was doing her best to shush me up. Finally, after jumping up and down in a public and suggestive way, the nurse came running. The City is invading my privacy as a condition of employment with them. I've always tried to avoid drug testing. Well, let's put it this way: I've always tried to avoid urinalysis.

Tonight is a big night. I am performing another of my scientific experiments in the interest of expanding the knowledge of all mankind. I will be feeding baked beans to my skunks. Wish me luck.

ST. HOLIDAY SLASHES DEPENDENCE ON FOREIGN OIL!

In an act of patriotic sacrifice, after which his name should at least appear in the footnotes of the Annals of Nobility, Holiday quit his job. By so doing, this paragon of the genus hetero sapiens has reduced his personal fuel consumption by an astounding 80%. Of course, now he may not be able to pay for the other 20%, but that's besides the point. This correspondent can almost hear the shrieks of the sheiks when they learn of this startling development, which is sure to inspire imitators across the nation and is already earning the admiration of the Powers that Bedevil. Who would be surprised if St. Holiday is tapped to become our next Energy Czar? He has always been slightly ahead of our time, setting a pace for the rest of the nation. Experts predict an increase of unemployment throughout the country on the heels of Holiday's heroic act.

Reached at his footquarters in the newly-renovated Off Center, the saintly one said, "Now, I recognize how wrung I've been." Pressed for further comment, he said, "What do you expect from someone tortured at Gitmo? I don't know nothing. I'm innocent." He declined to elaborate.
The Lovely One was heard to say, "Holiday, you need adult supervision," to which he responded, "You mean like Superman?"

Fans of the cyber-hunk might well wonder what is in store for him. According to his publicist, St. Holiday hopes to exploit the rich mineral deposits in his own backyard. Moreover, he is currently trying to obtain funding from his mortgage company and other creditors for his next mammoth project, the complete and utter construction of a colossal Statue of Slavery to be erected at the mouth of the Delaware River on the soil of the People's Republic of New Jersey. This he intends to donate to the American people in a gesture inspired by the French. What's more, our New Wage Guru (No Wage?) seems to be infected with a sort of joie de livre, as he pours himself into his latest literary venture, an expose to be entitled "Colonoscopy of the American Government, A Deeper Look at Our Political Polyps." His representative asserts that competition among prospective publishers is sure to be hot, and a seven-figure advance can be expected.

Contacted at her infamous retreat in the suburbs of New Jersey in the middle of her bridge match, Gloria Van Sciver, mother of our hero, said, "I'm glad he's finally using his talents in a productive way. I can't take credit for his success." Her last statement raised a general chorus of cackles among participants in the tournament and onlooking family members. One was heard to say, "That's because he hasn't had any success!"

To the blind, St. Holiday is still exhibiting remarkable immunity from the visible signs of aging. This he attributes to secrets he derived from his meticulous studies of Egyptian mummification techniques, in addition to regular topical applications of fruit preservatives in his nightly "jam sessions," as he calls them. Moreover, he is eating lots of fiber to add volume and vigor to his morning routine. While others all around are dying of meat, St. Holiday is beating the medical odds, still disease-free after nearly 3,000 weeks of mortality. His example and innovative spirit are certain to have a salutary effect upon... Well, that remains to be seen.

MY FANTASY

Welcome back to the seventh and deciding game of the World Series. Here we are in the bottom of the ninth inning, Yankees leading 7 to 4, but the Phillies have the bases loaded. There's been a pitching change, the Yanks bringing future Hall of Famer, Mariano Rivera to the mound. He only needs one out to wrap up the Series for the Yankees. The batter is St. Holiday, and he's had another great season, but an unproductive day at the plate today, going 0 for 3 with three shallow pop flies, hardly what we've come to expect from the slugger. Now all of the hopes of the Phillies and fans up and down the Delaware Valley rest on his broad shoulders.

Rivera winds and pitches, strike one, fast ball, right down the center of the plate. He really challenged St. Holiday with that pitch. 0 and 1 on the batter. Holiday steps out of the box, adjusts his gloves, takes a practice swing, and steps back in, set for the next pitch.

Rivera gets the signal from Posada, nods, checks the runner at third, winds up and delivers .... Strike two! Oh that was a doozy! A slider that caught the outside corner of the plate. Impossible to hit. 0 and 2 on St. Holiday.

And now the Yankee fans are on their feet. Listen to the roar! Only one strike away from another World Series victory. I should have brought ear plugs. Rivera steps off the mound and motions to the crowd to settle down. The place is shaking from the noise. Everyone is standing and screaming. And, look at that! Holiday is laughing! He's laughing! That bespeaks confidence. How can he be laughing in a situation like this, two outs in the ninth, with his team losing 7 to 4, and with him in the hole 0 and 2. Amazing.

Mariano Rivera doesn't like it. He throws the rosin bag to the ground. He sets, takes the sign, shakes it off, takes another, shakes it off, takes a third, nods, goes into the stretch, looks at the runner on third and fires the pitch.

Oh! He brushed him back! Holiday dives to avoid the pitch. That pitch nearly hit him on the side of the head. He got out of the way just in time. Holiday gets up and brushes himself off. He's still smiling. The umpire is going out to the mound to admonish the pitcher before this turns ugly. The Phillies are yelling obscenities from the dugout. Holiday is signaling to them to calm down.

OK, here we go. Order has been restored. Everyone is still standing. There's chanting and cheering from fans of both teams. What a game! Holiday steps into the batter's box, taps the plate three times, and lifts his lumber. Rivera takes his sign from Posada, sets, begins his wind-up ...Wait! Holiday calls time and steps out of the box. What's he doing? He's pointing to center field! He's pointing to the upper deck in center field! O baby! That takes a lot of nerve. Listen to the boos from the Yankee fans. But the Phillie fans are drowning them out! Oh, Jove, help me! This is unbelievable!

Rivera is really upset now. I wouldn't be surprised to see another pitch high and inside after that display from St. Holiday. Here comes the Yankees pitching coach to the mound, no doubt to try to calm the seasoned closer. I can't tell what the coach is saying, but Rivera is nodding. He only needs one more strike. The coach is probably telling him to focus and not let Holiday's antics at the plate distract him from the business at hand.

Alright, Rivera is ready. Holiday is in the box, set for the pitch. Runners will be going. Rivera takes the sign, winds and throws ..

Holiday swings, and Oh, Brother! It's a long drive to deep left center! Look at that baby go, back, back, outa here, home run, grand slam! The Phillies win the Series! The Phillies win the Series! Oh, he smoked that pitch! What a mammoth drive, deep into the upper deck of left center field. Rivera threw a blazing fastball, and St. Holiday got all of it. What a shot! Holy macaroni! An upper decker; one for the books. There is pandemonium in the stands! 8 to 7, Phillies win the series. Un-believable!

HUMMER!

No, we have not suddenly acquired an expensive SUV. Rather, our beautiful Rufous Hummingbirds have returned from Mexico to perpetuate their species here in the White Mountains of Arizona. They arrive every year around July 15th. As can be seen in the photos posted here (taken by Raelene), the Rufous possesses exceptional physical charm. The male is distinguished by his holographic gorget, pronounced "gorjit." This is a bright patch of metallic color on his throat. It seems to change color from a fiery orange to a stunning green, depending on the angle of perception. The female Rufous lacks a gorget, but they have a sweeter, non-aggressive personality. The male is the most territorial bird I've ever seen. Though we hang four nectar feeders, it will claim possession of all of them, allowing none but their mate to have access to the sweet drink. It does not appreciate the concept of sharing. I take delight in watching their aerial dogfights with other males and with other varieties of hummingbirds. The male Rufous will dominate over every other species. He is quite selfish. He'll even buzz my head when I'm changing the nectar in the feeders. He will take a perch above the feeders and exercise the greatest vigilance, ever ready to swoop down on any trespasser. Other hummingbirds employ the strategy of distraction, sending one to the feeders to draw off the dominant male Rufous, and then flying in for a drink while he is chasing the decoy. It's a constant game.