What's Next, Jesus Junior?

Okay, I've been doing some research. Yes, I take my column very seriously and want to display the utmost professionalism at all times. I hope both of you who are reading this appreciate that. Anyway, more on this Jesus discovery.
I admit that at first I was skeptical. Just because one finds some bones marked "Jesus," doesn't in my opinion mean they've found Jesus.
But, here's what I have learned - the name on the tombstone was Iasus "bargainos veritas" Kristos. In other words, as any of you who have a working knowledge of Latin (or maybe Greek, or Aramaic) can figure out, the tombstone reads: Jesus "The Real Deal" Christ. So, there you have it. I guess this whole Christian thing is pretty much out the window.
But wait, there's more. Archaeologists have found a table leg and a papyrus door mat near the grave and have been able to say with 99% certainty that they found the home/retail furniture store, which Jesus and Mary Magdalene owned. From that door mat, they've been able to determine that the couple owned a two-chariot garage home in the suburbs of South Jerusalem. Adjacent to the home was a small retail store in which Jesus sold handcrafted furniture, and, on Sundays had a clown come in to do face paintings for the kids. Jesus' son, Judas (nickname Skippy) would evidently, archaeologists say, sell lemonaid from a small plywood stand in front of the store.
All I have to say is "ain't archaeology wonderful?" It's amazing how from just the teeniest of artifacts, scientists are able to tell us so much. Now, I know there are still some die-hard Christians out there who are not going to believe, and while, I hate to be a bubble burster, particularly in matters that involve everlasting life and death, I think you stiff-necked Christians need to consider one more factor. James Cameron has said that this really is THE Jesus' tomb.
Now think about this, friends. Cameron is the man who so masterfully told us the true story of Jack and Rose, who met aboard the Titanic. So, this is a man with total credibility. I'm so impressed with the guy, that I've started selling a line of jewelry displaying the engraving, "WWJCD?"
So, there you have it. Christianity is a done deal. But, before you go switching religions, wait until I finish an investigation into whether Muhammad operated a go-kart track in Colonial Williamsburg. It's just a theory, but I have discovered a wooden steering wheel.
Anyway, all this news about Jesus pales into insignificance when you hear what I have discovered. I was looking through the Richmond phone book, and believe it or not, I came across a listing for a John Smith. Do you realize what that means? Not only is the famed English explorer still living, but he's living in Richmond's West End. Wait til James Cameron finds out about this.

With Deep Regrets...

Sorry, I haven’t written lately. Truth be told, I’ve been in hiding. I’m afraid that somehow, unwittingly, I’ve broken some law. In fact, I’ve probably been breaking the law for most of my life. And, I never knew it. You see, from the time I was old enough to understand just what slavery is, I had what I would call profound regret that such a horrible thing was ever practiced.
And, now, I find out that Virginians were not allowed to have profound regret until last week when it was legalized. But, I’m tired of running and hiding. If I’m guilty of premature regret, then so be it. There are too many things going on that I need to talk about, so I’m out of the regret closet and ready to go back to what I do best.
And, in my opinion, what I do best is being totally dumbfounded by the arrogance and ignorance of the new media.
Did you hear Matt Lauer this morning. If you’re a true Christian (and, you know who you are), I hate to tell you this, but Matt Lauer said this morning, in response to a report that the tomb containing the bones of Jesus may have been discovered, “If this is true (Keep in mind this is Lauer speaking), then that changes everything,.”
Wow! The whole Christian ethic, a belief system that has impacted millions of lives, is, according to Matt Lauer, out the window. Forget the Bible, some archaeologist has proven God a fraud. Yeah, right.
A supposed discovery of a pile of bones changes everything. I guess they’re calling these skeletal remains, Christ-Magnon Man. It just amazes me how supposedly intelligent people can be so absolutely stupid.
Speaking of stupid, what did you think of Ellen Degeneris’ outfit last night? I honestly like Degeneris’ comedy. I think she’s a funny lady. I just try not to think about her personal lifestyle, just as I don’t think about what an immoral guy Frank Sinatra was when I listen to his music, or Elvis, or the Beatles… In other words, if you condemned every entertainer who lived a lifestyle that didn’t match yours, you probably would never watch a TV show, go to a movie, or listen to any commercial music.
But, that being said, the only thing Ellen DeGeneris could have done to advertise her orientation would be to wear one of those big Laverne “L’s” on her dress. I’d like to think that even lesbian’s were still female. But, maybe I’m just a tad naïve.
The only reason I tuned into the Oscars last night was to hear her monologue, which wasn’t too bad. Other than that, was there any reason to watch? How many of the movies that were nominated did you see?
If I were to give awards based on the movies I saw last year, here’s a rundown of how things would have panned out:

Best Special Effects: David Young, Superman Returns
Best Costume Design: Louise Mingenbach, Superman Returns
Best Cinematography: Newton Thomas Sigel, Superman Returns
Best Supporting Actress: Parker Posey, Superman Returns
Best Supporting Actor: Kevin Spacey, Superman Returns
Best Actress: Kate Bosworth, Superman Returns
Best Actor: Brandon Routh, Superman Returns
Best Direction: Bryan Singer, Superman Returns
And, the best picture of the year (the envelope please) Yes! Superman Returns

If this old world revolved around me, that’s the way it would have gone last night. But, it doesn’t, and truth be told, that’s another thing I deeply regret.

The Money of Love is the Root of All Evil

I have a rather painful confession to make. I hope that after I tell you what I have to tell you, you won't think any less of me. Please, I beg you, don't hate me because I'm beautiful. That's not the confession, but I'm sure it has something to do with it. Gulp. Here goes. My name is Steve C. and, I, well, er, well, I am the father of Anna Nicole Smith's baby.
Whew! That wasn't as hard as I thought it would be. Actually, I should say that I MIGHT be the father. Forensics have narrowed it down, or so I'm told, to me, Howard K. Stern, Bill Clinton, Tom Cruse, Stephen Hawking, Richard Simmons, Bill Clinton (a second time), Hugh Hefner, or Melissa Ethridge. So, I'm in a rather elite group, don't you think?
Actually, of greater concern than who is the father of such a blessed child, is who done Anna Nicole Smith in? Accidental? I think not. Overdose? Hardly. The woman was a saint. She wouldn't come anywhere near an illegal or even a controlled substance, unless you consider a Playtex Straight Jacket Bra a controlled substance.
Here's my question. Has anyone thought to ask Nancy Grace where she was the night Smith died? Now, I'm not suggesting anything, I'm just saying. Obviously, Grace had probably more to gain than anyone else with Smith's death. For one thing, she gets an all-expense paid trip to the Bahamas. I mean she milked that Natalee Holloway deal for all she could get out of it. Her Aruba connections have dried up, and so have her ratings, which have steadily gone downhill ever since she killed (allegedly, I have to say that), that woman in Florida.
If every time somebody died, I got a free trip to somewhere neat, I think people would begin suspecting me. Why, I'd even be suspecting myself. So, I don't think it's too great a stretch to include Nancy Grace in as a person of interest in this thing. Someone else who I wouldn't put it past, and forgive me for saying this, is Anna Nicole Smith's mother. I've seen wackos and I've seen wackos, but this woman takes the cake. Or, at least she would have taken the cake if Smith hadn't devoured the entire thing in one sitting.
I think one thing we can be pretty sure of is that Anna Nicole Smith didn't die of anorexia. Perhaps she exploded. But, personally, I think there was foul play. I'm pretty sure she wasn't step-mother of the year, so those kids should probably be high on that interest list as well.
It's hard to believe that Anna Nicole was only 39. It seems I've been reading about her for the past 30 years or so. I think that any parent who has a daughter who starts to dress, act, or talk like a tramp, should immediately go out and rent the Anna Nicole Story on DVD and force their child to watch it. What a life!
Just in case one were thinking that money might be a key to happiness, this woman's story should throw a towel on that idea. All seriousness aside, what good does money do when you're dead...except for maybe getting you a good funeral? This whole sordid affair has made me renounce the evils of filthy lucre. I don't need it. I don't want it. I want to devote my life to helping the underprivileged. My first act is to take responsibility for little Dannielynn Smith...poor thing. I'll raise her. I'll teach her to walk the straight and narrow. Just one question, does anyone know how much she stands to inherit?

There Ought To Be a Law!

What’s the big deal with these payday loan people? So what if they’re crooks. It’s not like there aren’t plenty of other crooks out there in business. So, why do state lawmakers turn their attention to just this one industry?
Why do they feel they have to protect us country bumpkin citizens of the state from the payday loan companies? And, if they do feel we need that sort of protection, why stop at payday loans? I can think of plenty of other businesses that stupid people need to be protected from. So, here’s an open (non-political) message to the legislators: If you feel the need to play daddy to us, you need to do it much more thoroughly. As a public service, I’m providing some suggestions for additional legislation:

Cigarette Manufacturers – If you really want to protect us, why not stop the production of cigarettes? Excuse me, but is there anything they’re good for, except the economy? Lawmakers want to ban smoking in public places, which, as much as I hate the smell of tobacco, I have to admit, doesn’t make sense. If cigarettes are legal, how can you stop their use by state law? I certainly think it’s proper and wise for the owners of any business to ban cigarettes in their place of business, but if the state can ban smoking, what’s next? Chocolate can kill you. I hope that’s not banned. Or how about diet sodas? I hear they cause brain tumors in mice. That’s a proven fact, and yet, as far as I know, any mouse in town has the right to order a Diet Coke anytime he or she wants. So, if the Virginia legislators really want to protect us, they need to outlaw the manufacture of cigarettes.

Tanning Salons – Talk about stupid. People pay good money to let someone bombard them with deadly radiation (or whatever it is they use). I’ve seen women who’ve spent years going to tanning salons. They’re tan all right. Their faces look like tan handbags. Why should the state stop businesses from making outrageous loans, and allow other businesses to literally (I hope this is one time I can say, “literally’) burn our bodies to a crisp cinder?

TV Meteorologists – This is one group that needs to be shut down. They’re not only wrong most of the time, but they’re intentionally cruel. They know that most of their most avid viewers love snow. They know that there’s no chance of Richmond getting any snow, and yet they insist on teasing snow. Last week we were led to believe that we’d be in blizzard conditions this morning. How cruel. How heartless. I know they don’t actually charge us money, but I still think they’re doing us snow lovers irreparable harm. I say shut ‘em down.

A Certain Regional Grocery Store Chain – The chain shall remain nameless. Well, I’ll make up a name…let’s call them Grocery Gazelle. It’s the store you swear you’ll never go back to, and yet most of us do keep going back. Why? Because they tell us that they’ve got these fantastic bargains. Filet Mignon for $1.99 a pound, as an example. Only problem is, when you actually get in the store, no one seems to have ever heard of that promotion, and if they did have it, it must have expired. And when you show them the ad, they look at you as if to say, “So… What do you expect me to do about your problem?” I hate this chain. I know they must have corporate meetings to decide how best to hide the most wanted items from shoppers. The other day I was looking for Kool Aid. It was Jim Jones’ birthday and I wanted to do something special. Now, wouldn’t you think Kool Aid would be under drink mixes? I did. How stupid of me. The Kool Aid was on the aisle marked “BREAD/BABY FOOD.” How could I have been so uneducated not to have figured that out? I definitely think that during this session, the state lawmakers need to shut down this grocery chain. Protect us before we shop again! Come one Frank Hargrove. Can’t you do something about this?

Now these are just a few ideas. Of course, the big question is, is there anyone out there who can do something to protect us from the legislators?

That's Mighty Big of Me

I had an epiphany the other night, as I was enjoying my third, or maybe fourth, petite filon wrapped in bacon at the local Golden Corral. It dawned on me as I ruminated on a succulent morsel of meat, reflecting on the many nuances in the tastes of Golden Corral cuisine, that most of the people there, in fact, virtually everyone, except me, were morbidly obese. Now, I don't know exactly at what point a person officially becomes morbidly obese, but when a person looks hideous, I think it's proper to call them morbidly obese.
As I sat and stared, maybe even glared, at these monstrosities of humans, most of whom apparently feel most comfortable wearing bib overalls, it hit me like a bolt out of the blue...humans are changing.
If I was one who believed in evolution, I might even think we were evolving into a new lifeform...a lifeform that has a voracious appetite accompanied by a very slow metabolism. If I believed in evolution, and if I were the scientist allowed to name new lifeforms, I'd call this new human sub-species, Abdomenabominable Slowman Species, or AS for short (scared you, didn't I?)
Anyway, it seems to me that probably through some sort of genetic mutation, rather than evolution, humans are becoming more and more obese.
And, I for one, intend to do something about it. I intend to milk this phenomenon for all it's worth. Let's make money off of these AS people. I've been trying to think of ways to do just that.
I am not a fashion designer. I know nothing of ergonomics, and medicine is not my strong suit. The one thing I know how to do is write.
So, as my way of capitalizing on the new wave of fat, I'm going to begin writing a soap opera for fat people. So often, thin, or otherwise normal people, tend to think that even those of us who are only grossly obese, are not romantic...have no sex appeal. Now, we fat people know that is not true. But, try and convince the entertainment industry of that. For instance, when was the last time you saw really fat people play the romantic leads in television shows or movies? Maybe never?
I'm going to start with a sweet little soap. But, I envision a day when there will be an entire network devoted to fat people.
Anyway, I'm at work now on my new daytime drama. I'm calling it The Folds Of Our Flesh.Catchy, don't you think?
Unfortunately, that's as far as I've gotten thus far. I've developed a bit of writer's block on this. And, so, I turn to all of you Anonymi out there. Surely, you can help me with character and plot development. I'd welcome any advice. Just be sure that all your characters are fat, and that food plays a large role in any plot.
Now, go to it. I think if we put our collective heads together, we're sitting on a goldmine here...or at least a good buffet.

My Hero

I don’t know what triggered it, but I got to thinking about Johnny Venesky last night. I hadn’t thought about him in many, many years, but somehow he popped into my head. Chances are great that you’ve never heard of Johnny Venesky. The truth is he lived and died and was, for the most part, unknown.
But, when I was about five years old, Johnny Venesky was my hero. I guess kids are always fascinated by uniforms. That’s probably why so many boys aspire to be policemen or firemen when they grow up.
Johnny Venesky wore a uniform. He worked for the government. He was also a neighbor of my grandmother’s, living two doors down with his wife, Mabel. Mabel was a large woman, always laughing (as I recall), always friendly to the kids in the neighborhood, and when I was a kid, I spent many hours at my grandmother’s home, and accompanying her on visits with her neighbors.
The thing I remember about Mabel Venesky is that she had a talking dog. Mabel swore the dog could talk, and my grandmother attested to the dog’s rather unique ability herself. My grandmother once told my mother, "That dog looked at me and said 'Good morning, Mrs. Carter.'"
"Carter," however was not my grandmother's name. She had remarried by this time. So my mother replied that Mabel's dog must be pretty stupid not to know that my grandmother's name had changed. My mother always knows just what to say.
In retrospect, trying to remember Mabel, I think she was probably a somewhat educated woman, but the years had apparently not always been so good to her. By the time I was old enough to understand such things, it was clear Mabel suffered from agoraphobia. At least, that was my diagnosis. For the last twenty years or so of her life, Mabel Venesky would venture no further than her front porch. Even when Johnny died, Mabel refused to go to the funeral home.
Whether Mabel was a good wife, or Johnny was a good husband was a subject that never entered my little kid head. At the time, I didn’t know much about happy marriages or miserable marriages. Mabel and Johnny just were.
As I said, Johnny was a government worker. He had a uniform. He had his equipment, unique to his particular job, and Johnny kept his equipment in spic and span shape. I can remember Johnny returning home from work, going into the back yard and spending hours (or so it seemed) cleaning his gear and getting ready for the next day’s work.
I didn’t fully understand just what Johnny did for the government, at the time, but I knew it must be intriguing. Even though my father was on the verge of graduating from MCV, and then setting up a medical practice, I had no desire to be a doctor. I wanted to be like Johnny Venesky.
Johnny was friendly. Johnny always seemed happy. I think he genuinely loved what he did. And, while I can’t prove that, he exuded so much pride in his work that I knew I wanted to walk in Johnny’s footsteps when I grew up.
And there were plenty of footsteps in which to walk. Johnny spent a lot of time on his feet. You see, Johnny Venesky was a street sweeper. Not just any street sweeper, but a Carytown Street Sweeper, although, I’m not sure they called it Carytown in the mid-fifties.
Johnny had his little cart, replete with trashcans, brooms, dustpans, a shovel, and, as I recall, other pieces of equipment to help him practice his profession. Johnny’s cart seemed to me to be the most exciting contraption I had ever seen. On those summer days, when I was at my grandmother’s house, I couldn’t wait for Johnny to come trudging down the alley, no doubt fatigued by a day of pushing his cart through the streets of (then) West End Richmond.
Looking back on the conversations I had with Johnny, the truth is he probably wasn’t the most brilliant man to ever walk the streets. But, through the years, I’ve learned time and again that brilliance doesn’t always lead to success or happiness. What Johnny lacked in mental prowess, he more than made up for in dedication to his job. He had a job to do, and my guess is that he did it well.
On those cold winter mornings, and remember, this was before global warming, when the winter mornings were often hovering around the zero mark, and I mean Fahrenheit and not Celsius, Johnny would be up and out the door, even before daybreak. He’d pick up his little cart and push it out the back gate, down the alley, and out into the city streets…streets just waiting for Johnny to work his magic.
I never accompanied Johnny on his journeys, as much as I would have liked to, but I can imagine the day was long and hard. My back hurts just sweeping the kitchen floor, and I’m probably, today, about the same age Johnny was at the time he was sweeping streets.
Johnny Venesky, I am sure, took pride in his work. If most folks today took the same pride in their work as did Johnny Venesky, I imagine I’d have a lot less things to complain about. So, I guess, from the standpoint of my having material about which to write, I’m glad there are so few Johnny Venesky’s today. I’m definitely not Johnny material. I whine and gripe and complain about every little obstacle, which I encounter in my day-to-day.
And, unlike Johnny, I never have to sweep up cigarette butts, discarded newspapers, and, a never-ending supply of dog manure. I never have to walk the streets from sunrise to sunset. I gripe if I can’t find a parking spot right in front of the store.
I realize that as much as I admired Johnny Venesky, I never thanked him for cleaning my street. I never told him that I wanted to be just like him when I grew up. But, in reflecting on how proud Johnny was of his job…in reflecting on how happy it seemed to make him that I was so keenly interested in watching him organize his equipment each evening in preparation for the next morning, I think Johnny would have liked that.
That’s been a lifetime ago, but I think the next time I see a McDonald’s wrapper, or a discarded beer can lying on the road, I’ll stop and pick it up…just a little tip of my hat to Johnny Venesky.

Many Are Cold; Few Are Frozen. I'm Frozen

I am certainly thankful for global warming this morning. Think about it. If it were not for global warming, life as we know it would have been extinguished throughout much of the United States within the past few days.
I’m imagining that if we were not creating that greenhouse effect with our deodorant cans (or whatever, I don’t really care), the wind chills in Michigan and other northern states would have dipped down to, oh, I don’t know, maybe 500 degrees below zero.
They tell me that when it gets that cold, it’s almost impossible to start your car, or flush your toilet. And, if you can’t do either of those, what really is the point in living?
Speaking of wind chill factors, isn’t that about the most ridiculous thing you ever heard of? Jim Duncan tells me how cold it feels to me. How does he know? I think he could tell you his personal wind chill factor, but what might feel like 17 degrees to him, might feel like 15.75 degrees to me.
But, don’t get me started on weathermen. That’s about the most unnecessary job on earth. When you think about it, all they can really do is tell you the current temperature and what it’s doing or not doing outside. Once they get into prognostication, their abilities somewhat fall apart.
For instance, last week, several school systems shut down because the weathermen (and ladies, better known as weatherpersons) were calling for some sort of winter precipitation. We certainly got that. Years from now, they’ll be calling it the “Drizzle of ’07.”
The kids who were dismissed early from school last week will be telling their grandchildren, “When I was your age, the temperature dipped down into the mid-thirties, and a cold rain fell intermittently for much of the day. It was so bad, they had to shut the schools down.”
Of course, by that time, with this global warming thing, the kids will be sipping pina coladas under palm trees at their winter homes on Cape Cod. Due to glacial meltdowns, Cape Cod will be relocated to the Chicago area by then, I’m guessing.
Anyway, back to the present…I’m freezing this morning. I have my BVDs on. I only have one pair and I intend to wear them all week. The way I look at it, it’s better to feel good than to smell good.
Besides, it’s too cold in our office for smell to travel. Our boss Ebenezer Davis, keeps the thermostat at 60 degrees in here. If you notice any typos here, it’s because it’s just too hard to type with gloves on.
I hate gloves. I don’t know if I have a particular sensitivity to gloves or not, but once I put gloves on, it’s like I have shoes on my hands. I can’t pull anything out of my pocket. I can’t dial my cell phone. I can’t put the key in the ignition. I can’t even pick my nose. Actually, I can pick my nose, but…well, never mind.
My whole point here is this…I’m cold, uncomfortably so. Here, then is an open letter to big commerce. I’m appealing to the big corporate giants.

Dear Ruthless Businessmen and Unconcerned Contaminators of our Atmosphere:

Can’t you turn up the pollution just a bit more? Can’t you emit some additional gasses over the next few days? Can’t you speed up this global warming thing? If there’s anyway the temperature could be in the mid-70s by the time I head home this evening, I would be very appreciative. Thanks in advance for anything you can do.

Your frozen friend,

Steve