WALK IT OFF

I walked to work today.

You want some attention?  Tell somebody you’re walkin’ to work. Or riding your bike to the store.  Or maybe jogging down to the Post Office.  Just try it once and you’ll see what I mean.  You’ll be nominated “Freak of the Week” within seconds.

Just say you’re WALKING somewhere.  Not running, not crawling, not hopping on one leg while blowin’ on a ram’s horn.  Just say you’re WALKING...anywhere.   They’ll look at you like you’re crazy.  Their face will screw up in disbelief. They’ll look hurt and guilty and a little angry all at the same time.

“You’re WALKING?” they’ll say, “To the store?! That’s a MILE away!  Why don’t you let me drive you?”

Never mind that you RUN 5 miles every morning already, or ride your bike for 45 minutes every other day, or just got back from that survival trip in the desert; just say you’re WALKING anywhere when you could DRIVE there instead and people will have you on the “Weirdo’s Of The World” list.

The thing is...I‘ve been on that list for about...40 years now.  I’m the President of that list.  I can show you where to park on that list and where to get a good sandwich.  Being on a “Weirdo List” doesn’t bother me.  Doesn’t SCARE me. 

What SCARES ME is WALKING TO WORK!  It’s true what they say, get out of your car and walk once in a while you WILL start really SEEING the world as it really is - all of it.  Whether you want to or not.

You’ll see pretty flowers and gorgeous puppies, dead grass, half-eaten, moldy apples stuck under the bus stop, and an incredible amount of cigarette butts. 

You’ll hear the birds singin’, the clicking sound of the front door of a bank unlocking, construction workers tellin’ dirty jokes as they sweep and motorcycles that REALLY need muffler work.  

You’ll smell fresh bread from the bakery, and fresh cut grass and fresh doggie dung, and you won’t know for sure which one got you sneezin’, but you WILL know which one you stepped in.

You’ll finally notice how great the leaf blower guy is when he stops to let you pass and smiles a “good morning”; as well what a jerk the guy in the red pick up is when he nearly runs you down crossing the street.

You’ll feel the hot sun on your neck, and the beginning of a dangerous sunburn on your neck.

No wonder they think you’re nuts.  You are.  And I love it.

I think I’m gonna call Gidget to pick me up.

As together we stand and sing.

BP

GIDGET'S BACK

As together we stand and sing.
 
BP

RING THAT BELL!

I was walking to work one day when I saw a little boy, about 6 years old, across the street on the front porch of somebody’s house.  He was trying to ring the doorbell, but couldn’t quite reach it. 

Naturally I felt sorry for the little guy.  I assumed he was probably checking on a playmate or maybe selling something for school.  So I crossed the street to see if I could help out.

When I popped up onto the porch behind him, he was still hard at work, struggling to reach the doorbell. 

“Hey there, little buddy,” I smiled and said.  “Troubles?”

“I can’t reach the bell,” he said with a pout.  He really was a cute, sweet-lookin’, little guy.

“Well, here that’s no problem,” I said, “Lemme give you a hand.”

“I can do it myself,” he said; and then struggled some more.  He was determined to ring that bell.

“Oh now, come on,” I said, “I don’t mind.”  Then I reached up to the doorbell and gave it a good, long ring.

“There you go, buddy boy,” I said.  “No trouble at all.  But don't feel bad.  Listen, someday not long from now, when you’re a little bigger, you’ll have no trouble ringin' that bell either.  But I want you to know, I was impressed with the way you kept trying to ring it.”

“Thanks, Mister,” he said, a huge smile busting across his dirty face, “Thanks a LOT!”  It made me feel great.

“So now what do we do, little buddy?” I asked.

“Now,” he said with a giggle, “We RUN!”  And he tore off the porch and down the sidewalk like a maniac laughin’.

I coulda throttled that kid.   When the door flung open and I found myself face to face with ONE of the biggest, meanest, unemployed brick layers I'd ever seen,  that little punk was already half a block away. 

By the way, I have some VERY grumpy neighbors.  No wonder I’ve never talked ‘em.

I think the lesson is clear:  Kid’s are horrible.  They are a bunch of lyin’, little punks who should be in Sunday School 24 hours a day! 

And secondly...always ASK before you do any Good Samaritan work. If you don’t, you could get  punched in the nose by an unemployed brick layer.

As together we stand and sing.

BP

NO ARGUMENT HERE

I just wrapped up a fascinating and enlightening conversation with a two year old boy in a coffee shop.  I think he won.

As many of you know I routinely do a lot of my writing in coffee shops.  There's just something about trying to concentrate above the noise of a continuous cappuccino machine that I find helpful to creativity.   

Anyhow, as is my custom, I was sitting along the back wall  tip-typing away, feeling (and appearing) very productive and important to all around, when I sensed somebody very short, and slobbery staring at me.  I looked up and saw a shirt-less, 2 1/2 foot, tow-headed, 2 year-old boy in light blue overalls and sandals smiling at me and pointing at my computer.

"I Colby!" he announced.


"Hello, Colby," I said, "I working."

Then Colby screamed with delight at this hilarious joke.  It was then I realized just how intelligent he really was. Intelligent people always "get" my jokes. 

I then pretended to choke on my coffee which really brought the house down.  My coffee choke bit rarely fails.  I was on a roll with this kid. 

Of course, Colby's ever-present parents were nowhere to be found.  Apparently they were of the mind that having named their offspring after their favorite cheese, their work as care-takers was finished.

"Where's Mommy, Colby?"  I asked.

Colby looked at me like I had gone stupid.  Wasn't it obvious?  Then in all seriousness he said, "Blah wah, sping tater wah tah nah?"

I realized there was no need to call the police with this vital information.  They wouldn't have known what to do with it.  And my GPS would be no help either.  So I decided to excuse myself from the situation before being accused of a kidnapping cover up.

"OK, well you better go find her.  Go find Mommy, Colby.  Go find Mommy," I said, as if he had suddenly turned into a Pound Puppy.

"Go find Mommy, Colby" I said again.

Then Colby flung his scrawny, little body backwards, as he lifted himself up on his tip toes and screeched, "Wah goo soo dskfsdljflkdjf!!!!!" 

Then he laughed hysterically.

"OK, have it your way, Mouthy" I said.  "But you know you're supposed to have a shirt on in here.  This isn't like those other dumps you usually get your coffee from.  This is a NICE dump. Go find Mommy and your shirt."

To which Colby responded, "Sha sha sha shoe shee shoe?"

It was an excellent point.  One I had not considered before.  Then he shook the table where I was sitting and made a monster growl.

"I think I see your point," I said.  "I was just informing you on store policy.  If you wanna go all Maverick and shirtless, it's on you.  You do what you want, Tough Guy.  But if they kick you out, don't blame me."

Then he started walking around in circles hummin' a tune.  I knew it was time for a new approach.

I said, "Colby, sha shoe shee shing ting do dah do?"

His head snapped around and he looked in my direction, a huge smile on his face.  I knew what he was thinking: at last, a fellow native speaker.  The old man was one of the tribe.  We spoke the same language.  We understood each other.

"Sah bah blwa boo" said Colby.

"Bing a ding do dah shing," I said.

"Wah woo ding, ding, ding, ding," he countered.

The kid was right again.  He was unbeatable.  What a mind.  Then I heard a man's voice calling, "Zander?  Zander?"

Colby had gone back to walking in circles.  I had tried to go back to writing.  Then the man came up to Colby.  

"Zander!"

Then Colby/Zander looked at me and pointed.  I pointed back at him.  I wasn't fallin' for THAT old trick. I wasn't going to go ANYwhere with that strange man.

Then the man said, "Zander, come with Daddy, right now.  Mommy has hot chocolate ready."

Zander/Colby screeched and skipped to his dad who scooped him up.  Had I known there was hot chocolate I might have reconsidered.

"He wasn't any trouble," I said.

To which Daddy said, "Zander, stop sucking your fingers." 

I love parents.

"Bye Colby," I said.

Colby/Zander laughed and said, "Sho zing dah pah dah?"

"Shing zoo too," I said.  

Then Colby/Zander just looked at me and smiled.

He knew I was right.  Who could argue with that? 


As together we stand and sing.


BP

THE GREAT SERMON SWIPE

Preachers are stealing my sermons.

To say nothing of my Blermons (blog-sermons). 

Not long ago, after completing another award winning, weeklong Tent Revival (yes, they still have them - don’t look so surprised), a friend turned to me and said, “Brother Preacher, do you write you own sermons?”

This question struck me as odd. 

“Of course I do, “I said, “Every amazing word.” 

I had no idea I had a choice.  Had I known there was a sermon writing computer program out there that allows you to type in a topic, press RETURN and then automatically have it throw together a joke, a poem, two scriptures and a dog story and spit it out the other end - sign...me...UP.

But that wasn’t what he was getting at.  Apparently there are preachers out there in the Preacherhood who have been stealing my sermons and using them as their own.  Outright.  Word for word.  Tragic.  Weird. 

I really can’t say that I blame ‘em.   I suppose if I didn’t have access to my own brilliant sermons, I might be tempted to swipe of few from time to time from somebody else.  Although I have to admit, I don’t know if I’d be able to pull off preaching another guy’s sermon.  Sermon titles often tell you more about the guy preaching it than the sermon itself.  It can get scary.

Here’s a quick list of just a few REAL sermon titles I found just now:

IT IS NEVER RIGHT TO DO WRONG IN ORDER TO GET A CHANCE TO DO RIGHT.

WHY TRIMMEST THOU THY WAY?

HE SAW ME IN A TREE

WHEN LEFTY STUCK IT TO HEFTY

TELEGRAPH, TELEPHONE, TELL A WOMAN

4 SKELETONS THAT PREACHED THE GOSPEL

THINGS I LEARNED FROM A TREE CLIMBING MIDGET

WHAT MADE THE JAILHOUSE ROCK?

KILL THE COW AND BURN THE PLOW

A NUDE DUDE IN A RUDE MOOD

A FAT SERVANT IS BETTER THAN A SKINNY CORPSE

HONEY, WE NEED TO SHRINK THE CAMEL

THE BUTS OF THE BELIEVER

SLIDING TO HELL ON YOUR BUTS

WAKE UP AND SELL THE COFFIN

THREE REASONS TO COMMIT FORNICATION.

SIN SUCKS

On second thought I might nab a couple of these.  “When Lefty Stuck It To Hefty” could be a whole series.

As together we stand and sing.

BP

THE "NO PROBLEM" PROBLEM

I was watching one of those interview/news shows the other day on TV.

As the host was wrapping up the interview she said to the guest, “Thanks for being with us, Jim.”

Jim said, “Well, thanks for having me on the show.”

To which the host replied, “No problem!”

I thought “no problem”?  Really?  Well THAT’S a relief. 

I’d hate to think that the host of an interview show had been inconvenienced in any way by having guests ON the show to answer interview questions.  It’s ALWAYS easier to have an interview show WITHOUT all those bothersome guests on.  What good news it was to learn that it was “NO PROBLEM” to have Jim on the program!  Whew!

I’m not sure when “No problem” replaced other more traditional responses to the phrase “Thank you” - (phrases like, “My pleasure” or the increasingly unpopular and quaint, “You’re welcome”) - but it IS the “go-to” response of the day, and I suppose I should just get over it.  But no matter how I try, it still BUGS me in professional settings.

When a waiter brings me a hamburger and I say “Thank-you,” and then he says, “No problem,” I kinda get the feeling he shouldn’t be charging me for this honor. After all, it was NO problem.  We’re kinda buddies now. 

I get the feeling he may have personally overseen the preparing of my burger himself, making sure it was just the way I like it, with the perfect pickle on the side.  It was “no problem” for him to do this, and then bring it back out to me and to refill my water and bring another napkin, because I’m such an adorable, hilarious, great guy.  

"Terrific.  Make it free then, Sam!  See you tomorrow for more of the same!"

Well, guess what?  When I was a waiter, it WAS a problem and an inconvenience to do my job.  Because it WAS a job.  Same goes for whenever I hold open doors, write BlermonsTM, or donate vital organs.  Every time I donate kidneys, it is a HUGE problem.  It can really put a kink in my day. 

"You're welcome" let's BOTH parties in on this little secret.  It WAS a bother, but I am happy to do it because it's my job - now pay up.

Sadly, I think it’s too late to stop this alarming trend.  So I’ve decided to try another approach.  I’ve decided to MAKE it problem. 

When a waiter brings me a hamburger today, instead of saying “thank-you” I’ll say something like, “Well it is about time!  Now go finish my taxes and wash my car!  And where’s that pony I ordered!  I HOPE I’m not being a PROBLEM!”

I still may not get a “Your welcome” out of ‘em, but I will consider a nice, stiff, “Get out of here,” a start.

As together we stand and sing.

BP

BIG WORDS

I love BIG WORDS.

It’s just one of my many IDIOSYNCRASIES. They just look so impressive on the page.  I don’t mean LARGE words - anybody can be a font freak.  I mean BIG, long, scary-lookin’ words.  I guess you could say I’m zestfully enthusiastic or EBULLIENT about BIG WORDS.

As many of you know, I don’t usually use BIG WORDS.  I’m PARSIMONIOUS about using them.  I’d hate to seem all braggy and GASCONADING about my big word usage in front of people.   So naturally, I try to show some EQUANIMITY about the whole thing. 

Besides, letters tend to hop around on me a little bit when I read ‘em - a CAT can easily end up being a TAC with me if I’m not careful. And as a public figure, there is nothing worse than MISPRONOUNCINATING a huge word in front of people.

Of course, misusing a BIG WORD can also get you in trouble.  After I lived in Los Angeles I went around claiming to be CALLIPYGIAN -which for the record, does NOT mean “used to live in California” but it could make you more popular on the beach.

Sometimes BIG WORDS can make not so nice things a little more pleasant.  For example, I’d much rather have a touch of HIRCISMUS than offensive armpit odor.  Who wouldn’t?  I’d rather be CORPULENT than really fat any day.  And I would gladly be a PENULTIMATE Preacher than coming in second to last behind Joel Olsteen.

One of the greatest things about BIG WORDS is that you can really set somebody straight without the danger of getting clobbered by ‘em later.  Big Bible words work great for this. 

One time a guy cut me off in traffic so I called him a stiff-necked, uncircumcised, whitewashed sepulcher of dead men’s bones.  He had NO IDEA what I was talkin’ about.  Of course, I didn’t either - but it felt great sayin’ it and I think it scared him a little bit. 

Of course if there ever comes a time for me call somebody a SCOLECOPHAGOUS, BATRACHOPHAGOUS, JUMENTOUS NINNYHAMMER I’ll be ready.  But I haven’t met a LOT of worm eating, frog eating, morons who smell like horse urine yet.  But when I do...look out.   

Well, I think I’m gonna go do a SABRAGE in the kitchen now...if I can find a bottle and my trusty saber.

As together we stand and sing.

BP