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Posts Tagged ‘general’

What happens when you diss the Commander in Chief

zap

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I’m thinking, I can’t believe we’ve been getting perfect, steady, almost nonstop rain for hours upon hours in Dallas, Texas today!

I’m thinking, you better believe me when I tell you, dear reader, that you’ll never want to hear your son or daughter or close loved one say to you someday something like, “Dad, just remember that if anything happens to me I was doing my duty.”

I’m thinking, maybe the best news I ever received in my life was the news this morning that he’d called his mom this morn to say he’s in Kuwait and will be in Ireland tonight for a layover at (how perfect!) an Irish pub.

I’m thinking, I may not stop crying today. I never dreamed that tears of joy and relief could have such a crippling effect but honest to God I may have to call in late to for hospital duty to get myself together.

I’m thinking, you just don’t know–unless you’ve had a loved one a million miles from home in harm’s way. Then you know what this crying is about.

I’m thinking, however, that the Dave Matthews Band is to be on Letterman tonight, and again Friday night, and that’s about as good as it gets unless you have a loved one coming home from war. I can’t believe I’m twice blessed today!

I’m thinking, 

Adam McKay

Adam McKay

thank you and praise you God from whom all blessings flow amen!

 

 

 

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Your Night Owl Special

Nora Jean & Lester

Nora Jean & Lester

In which we get to listen in as Nora Jean tells the kids about the first time Daddy took her out dancin, he swept her right off her feet!
No, you won’t get news, entertainment, commentary and the spirituality of Christ all rolled into one anywhere else but here at jitterbugging.
And so until tomorrow . . . . . . . .

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10. there’s just always too many cars on the highways and biways getting in jitterbugger’s way and especially on days when it’s 159 degrees, traffic is at a stall, the a.c. can’t stay cranked up enough to keep pouring out cool air, dallas freeways are really cheerless slabs of hot concrete to be stuck in when it’s 159 degrees.
9. And that’s only the 10th reason.
8. One word: toll roads.
7. Oh, that’s two words: it’s so hot my brain is fried.
6. One word: too many tollroads.
5. Dallas isn’t really a very pretty city, is it?
4. Sometimes Dallas is rainy and traffic? Forget it.
3. Yeah, yeah–I could move to Hopkins county, but I don’t remember there being any IHops there when I was in the mood for pancakes.
2. Dallas, you’re no Fort Worth!
1. How many billboards does one city need promoting one “Condoms to Go!” retail outlet!

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So I get to the hospital and make my usual 3 p.m. swing through the ER triage and waiting area and then head to the patient and trauma rooms for rounds and spot a blond woman with long hair, maybe 35, who looks somewhat familiar, and appears to be in severe pain as she holds and rubs her head in one of the beds in the hallway and no one is around her and I hate to see anybody in pain, but especially anybody in pain alone.
“Are you hurting?” I ask her.
“My head is busting,” she grimaces. “I’m having a migraine and chest pains.”
“I’m sorry, do you have any family or anybody here with you?”
“Not now.”
I tell her I’m a chaplain and I’ll be around till midnight and will look in on her if she wants and she says that’d be good.
Six hours later, she’s flat on her back and pale as a ghost and I ask the charge nurse what’s going on with her.
“That’s . . . NAME HERE” . . . and the charge nurse tells me the name, which is so unusual a name you don’t forget one like it, and now I remember why she looks familiar. She’s in ER every few months heavily intoxicated and often to the dangerous level of alcohol poisoning and many’s the night I’ve prayed with her when she came in on occasions when she was sober but all kinds of maladies.
A genuinely sad case.
Later the same night, as they say . . . one of the younger but very skilled nurses runs up to the night manager and reports that she had an argument with a woman who pulled the IV out of her arm and the young nurse got excited and said something she should not have said to the patient, who claimed she didn’t pull the needle out of her arm—it just fell out of her arm while she was sleeping.
And if you’ve ever had an I.V. stuck in your arm and taped over in the hospital, you may know that those things just don’t fall out of the arm.
But the nurse had to report this and the supervisor tells her don’t worry about it. And I do too.
And then a woman who just had chemo is rushed into the trauma room with no pulse and within minutes the trauma team has her back to life with a strong heartbeat. Her husband is outside the room and the doctors makes a point to tell him that the CPR he did on his wife at home no doubt is the reason she was able to be revived and to have such a strong heartbeat after a couple of near death episodes.
The patient will be on a breathing machine for at least a couple of days and will still have lymphoma when she gets out of ICU but her husband and family are thankful that they still have her at all, at this time.
Amen.

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Way, way back a long time ago–back on May 15, I posted a blog about my fondness for Siberia and how I’d love to go back there someday.
That’s been many postings and days ago now, so I was surprised in looking at the stats on this blog site to see that a reader who uses the handle “Miss Siberia” had viewed this website, only yesterday.
And it turns out Miss Siberia had viewed the posting about my fondness for Siberia.
Small, small world.
And yes, I wonder too–could this be like, THE Miss Siberia???? As in beauty queen?
We can only hope that Donald Trump isn’t managing her.

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Deanie McKay, ‘Horseman, pass by’

So Dad,
Really miss you when Father’s Day weekends come around.
Hard to believe it’s been so, so many years since you graced this world with your crazy, fun-loving, quit-witted, hard-working presence.
I’m in College Station for the weekend with your beloved granddaughter Amy McKay–she’s 30 now!–and your great-grandson Trey Rodriguez, who’s a 6 year old fireball, and Trey’s Pop Jorgi Rodriguez.
Amy, of course, was a tender 6 months when you, at 70, had that sudden and fatal and quick heart attack. She’s smart, gorgeous, hard working, wonderful mom–all you’d expect and want in a McKay blood.
Mamaw knew her well, of course, and they were seriously close when Mamaw left this world in 1995 to join you.
Amy recited a poem, which she wrote, at Mamaw’s funeral.
Wish you could have known my second-born, and only son, Adam, blood of your blood. He’s warring in Iraq with the First Marines and we’re praying he’ll be lifted out of what the Marines call “the Sandbox” in another couple of months.
Then he gets to come back to College Station to settle down almost immediately after the Marines take him back in San Diego to get him civilian-ready a bit.
Won’t get his discharge till October, close to his 26th birthday, but he can come on home and what a Homecoming party we’re going to have.
Your other grandchild, Megan McKay, just graduated from Frisco High School, with honors, no less, from that Dallas burb. She’s also enrolling at A&M so I’ll have the whole McKay brood of 3, and Trey, a mere three hours from my home base in Dallas.
Amy recently brought down all those boxes upon boxes of familyI’ve always held of photos and Bibles, heirlooms, fading newspaper clips dating from ages ago, and all sorts of great stuff such as Mamaw’s Senior Class picture from Cameron Yoe High School, circa 1933.
Megan graduated on the same date Mamaw did, which was a pretty exciting thing to discover for her.
One of the greatest discoveries for us, and especially me, was finding a picture of you and me a month or two after I was born that day on Jan. 26, 1950. (Hard to believe I’m 59. Just hard to believe, Dad.)
Picture has you mounted on your horse (always had to be a white or gray mare for you, didn’t it Horseman?).
You’re dressed to kill, with your trademark fedora hat–did you ever wear a cowboy hat in your life? It was always fedoras!). You’re also clad in crispy white shirt and tie and khaki pants heavily pressed.
The picture was made right on the corner of the old house where you and Mamaw raised me for the first 10 years, on Elm Street in Navasota.
In the picture, you’re holding me.
I’m barely out of the womb, wrapped in total white.
Very cool–you holding me newborn Paul wrapped in white, on top of a beautiful whitish mare.
You couldn’t have been home for long because in those days you were always out in the oil patches laying pipeline for Humble Oil, but you obviously got home as fast as you could to see me your youngest and to get us pictured on your horse.
Well . . . more to say, but your great-grandball of fire is calling me to take him to the park.
His mom could use the break, for sure.
You’re here with us and I know that’s right.

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And now for something completely different

And so, imagine you’re the son of a dad who makes his living as a member of the “Geek Squad!” at some place like, say, Best Buy.
An adult male says to you, “So what does your Dad do?”
And you say with a smile and conviction in you voice, “My dad’s a total Geek.”
The adult male might say to you, “Wow!”
Because the adult male is so taken aback that he doesn’t know what to say, and is thinking to himself, “Lord have mercy! Kids today!”
Or, “What a brat!”
Or, “If I ever found out that Dylan talks like that about ME . . . !” (And fill in your own violent response to complete that sentence, fellow fathers, wink, wink.)
Or, he might be thinking to himself, “Boy! If I’d ever talked that way about my dad back in the day–and dad found out about it—I wouldn’t be able to walk from the back of the barn back to the house without mom coming out to the back of the barn to rescue me!”
HOWEVER, dear reader, let’s circle back now to the introduction of this scenario of the man asking a kid what his father does for a living.
This kid who’s the son of a Geek Squad professional is really boasting that he’s the proud son of a total Geek but you just didn’t make that connection when the Geek’s son said that to you!!!!
And if you ever learned that you had reacted in your own head without it ever occurring to you that he could really be the PROUD son of a “total Geek” (professional Geek Squad Div.), you might think to yourself, “Boy, what a stoopid moron, me.”
Yes, this are very confused times, but God’s love and grace never end.

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Regarding “An Elvis on the TV”

A friend from my church in Allen, who is a seminary student at SMU’s Perkins School of Theology and in the grueling candidacy process for ordination some day, sent me a very gratifying response on my Facebook to my posting about “Miss Caleefornya.”
I loved the zinger she threw in at the bottom of all the flattery. She wrote:
Paul,
I was just reading your post about Miss CA, which I really enjoyed. There were times I just had to chuckle or shout Amen. I wish I would have read it last night while I was studying for my last exam. It would have invigorated me and allowed me to stay up later and perhaps nail down a few more Hebrew verbs, which I wish I would have had this morning. All that said, I have to ask what doing an Elvis on the TV is…
I also wanted to say how much I am looking forward to seeing your ordination in just a few weeks.
See you soon,
Julie

Well, Julie, I sometimes forget that I’m well into official geezerhood and that a lot of jitterbuggers, like yourself, are closer to my oldest daughter’s age than my own, and that you relative youngsters may not always understand historical or cultural references that other geezers would get.
So here’s the deal on why all this exposure on TV of Miss California, and all her twisted, in my opinion, horn blowing about her Christian convictions, could drive me to the sort of madness that could make me snap, if you will, and “do an Elvis on the TV.”
Way back when–when Elvis Presley was into his slow, but steady decline into certifiable madness and drug abuse–the story has been well documented that Elvis, who watched a LOT of TV, was increasingly disgusted by all the anti-authority dissent and anti-war demonstrations and all that counter-cultural protest craziness that was ripping the country apart in the late sixties and early seventies.
Remember, Elvis was such a conservative and patriot–and was so aroused to anger about all the very public, rebellious, countercultural drug use among the sixties generation kids–that he very famously was deputized by none other than Richard Nixon as an “official” drug enforcement agent.
Yes, it’s very bizarre and ironic, since he was already slowly destroying himself with drug abuse when he posed with Nixon for pictures of his “deputization” at the White House.
The story is that he was watching the TV news one time, which was showing the “long hairs” and hippies and yippies and dippies in a nasty standoff with riot police or whomever or whatever. I forget the details, but you get the picture–very conservative, anti-drug, Nixon-supporting superstar Elvis was getting himself worked up into a rabid lather about those disgusting hippies and their anti-authority stuff.
He got so worked up that he reached for the pistol that often kept him warm at night and blew away the TV he was watching!
And so, years later when the story came out from the many, many loyal Elvis insiders who had witnessed first-hand the descent into drug abuse and madness, doing “an Elvis on the TV” became a favorite line of a lot of comedians.
And then, the line sort of spread into the everyday culture for a while. It wasn’t unusual for somebody to say to somebody else who got disturbed about something they’d seen on the news or on a TV show to say, “I got so disgusted watching that stuff (or fill in a stronger word), I could have done an Elvis on the TV!”
It was a long time ago. You had to be there. And like I say, I forget that I’m at the age where I’m older than whole generations who may not get the lines I throw out and assume that everybody would get.
That’s the difference in blogging and being, say, a newspaper writer or reporter (and I was both in my pre-ministry life), where a sharp editor would have said, “Hey, Paul–lots of readers out there weren’t around during all the Elvis weirdness and won’t have a clue what this sentence means.”
Very interesting that I read a lot of bloggers of all kinds myself, and, in thinking like the former reporter and editor I used to be, I think to myself, “I wonder how many readers know what this oldtimer is talking about there?”
Hope that clarifies what I was saying, that I was beginning to get so disgusted with all the TV coverage swirling around Miss CA that I was about ready to do an Elvis on the TV.
And may yet if she doesn’t go away.
Oh well–thanks for jitterbugging and believe me when I tell you, I feel your anguish in “nailing down a few Hebrew verbs.” I’m not long out of seminary myself, as you well know.
And, look forward to you being a witness to my ordination and look forward to being a witness to yours some day.
Grace & peace,
Geezer

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A serious point about — B.O.

This is the first “news” story that I saw when I turned on the computer this morning:
“Body odor reveals more than when we last showered – it also packs important biological information. And apparently women are better at catching the scent of body odor than men, a new study found.
“It is quite difficult to block a woman’s awareness of body odor. In contrast, it seems rather easy to do so in men,” said Charles Wysocki, a behavioral neuroscientist at the Monell Chemical Senses Center in Philadelphia.
The researchers think women are more attuned to underarm stink because the biological data it contains helps them choose mates. “The fact that most women are even better at smelling male body odor than female body odor seems to support this idea. ”
Yeah, yeah–it’s easy enough to laugh this off and joke about it, and it made a thousand jokes spring to my twisted mind.
But I remember back a few years into the Iraq War, the mothers whose sons were killed in Iraq rose up and demanded that the military stop burning their son’s clothes.
Those mothers wanted their deceased soldiers and Marines’ clothes sent to them along with all the other valuables–even if the combat clothing they were wearing when they were killed smelled of burnt material or whatever it smelled of.
Those mothers could smell their children’s bodies in those clothes.
Now, if you have a son or daughter killed in combat, you’ll get the clothes your child was wearing at the time, right down to the underwear and socks.
It’s going to come as no surprise to women that they have an incredibly keen sense of smell.
Guys tend to smell nothing but food.

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