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.