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November 2, 2002 Lucy wasn't listening
Thanksgiving is just another day to me because I'm the kind who, if not always thankful, is, at least, prayerful. This prayerfulness is a function of both my Roman Catholic upbringing and the sophisticated polytheistic belief system I developed during my years as a devout drunkard. Perhaps a "day-in-the-life" narrative will aid the reader's understanding.
I awoke early this morning and whispered a quiet prayer to Shiva The Destroyer that he might disembowel my ex-wife's lawyer and feed the entrails to The Flayed Lord, Teotihuacan Xipe. I saw little need to petition Ammut to devour the barrister's soul. He has none. Following my waking prayer, I turned my television to the Weather Channel to see if Marshall Seese would break his own record for Most Frequent and Inappropriate Use of the Word "scenario." He failed on this occasion, but my disappointment was mollified when he consistently substituted "the wet stuff" for rain and "the white stuff" for snow.
Before stepping into the shower, I saw a commercial I detest more than any other commercial in the history of television, one which I thought I had yanked from the airwaves through a fortnight of novenas to Bernadine of Siena, the patron saint of advertisers. I refer, of course, to the ad for Alleve in which a Totally Hip and Modern Woman, cap turned backwards and sweatshirt tied around her waist, recounts her Charity Walk Experience. It seems that she, alone, among all the charity-walkers, had the foresight to swallow some Alleve before the hike. While the Slightly Less Hip and Modern Women come up lame with arthritis pain and aching muscles, our heroine keeps on truckin'. The crippled women suspect a drug-enhanced performance and eventually score some of the over-the-counter pain reliever. By the end of the event, the now spry former-stragglers hail the commercial's protagonist by her newfound moniker, "Alleve." Like a Greek chorus, they chant in unison, "hey, Alleve!"
"Oh, magnificent Ba'al," I bellow. "With thy horned helmet and short-wrap kilt, take up thy lightning-bolt staff and smite 'Alleve' about the head and shoulders. And, whilst thou art at it, turn around her cap so that the bill is in the front, for she is neither a hip-hopper nor a cameraman."
After my shower, clad only in Calvin Klein boxer briefs, I knelt, bowed my head, and invoked the names of Saint Martin of Tours (sober alcoholics), Christina the Astonishing (depression), Saint Fabiola (divorced people), Saint Eugene de Mazenod (dysfunctional families), and Saint Clotilde (people in exile). I finished dressing and ate breakfast. Because the eggs were rather old, I beseeched Agapitus the Merciful, patron saint of dyspepsia, that I be spared abdominal pain, vomiting, and diarrhea.
I ran some errands, but only after a quick offering to Zita, the champion of those who have lost their keys. Then I returned home, prayed to Saint Lucy, and wrote this journal entry. It is apparent Lucy wasn't listening.
© 2002 by the beastmaster