Got Pizza?

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You snapped up that needy cape in a safe neighborhood with decent schools, welcoming cafes of worship, and easy access to major thoroughfares. But didn’t check to see if you’d live within shoe-leather pace of a decent pizza joint? Because you can’t just call and have one delivered.

Okay… downtown is wall-to-wall with nationally sponsored fast-food drive-thru’s spinning neon tiles and toga-draped Romans. But those eateries only spit-out a saucy substance to be consumed with two liter’d high-fructose corn syrup and plasticware (delivered in thirty minutes or less).

Not pizza.

Sure, you may be just as full, but not satisfied. If you’re hungry… next time, whip up a bowl of oatmeal.

Because just as a symphonic masterpiece no longer is once crammed through transistors and earbuds, so a pizza cannot be summoned by app or emoji, and bartered for with coupons.

Gluttony may be a sin but frozen pizza is sacrilege. And those cardboard discs stacked at minimum wage in ShopRite’s frost bite aisle? whatever they were, at zero degrees, they ceased to be.

There’s a price to be paid for convenience.

Sure… the Interstate gets you from point A to where you want to be in socially-distanced climate-controlled ease, but you’ll never see the covered bridges, old stone churches, and antique shops that color the local scenery of the two lane blacktop.

Those who would give up authentic flavor to purchase a little temporary satisfaction, deserve neither flavor nor satisfaction (and don’t even get me started on pineapple and spinach sprinklings).
Ben Franklin visits Papa John’s

There’s a difference between improving life and cheapening it. As any man who works with his hands can testify, shortcuts tend to become expensive do-overs.

Because a pizza is not just dough coated with tomato sauce, cheese, and some toppings.

It could be, but it’s not.

Not unless baked in an obscure downtown brick-oven outlet laced with indecipherable accents, no parking, and fewer tables.

An aromatic symphony must be experienced, not tracked on by GPS. Order in person. Pay in cash. Then wait quietly (don’t fiddle with your phone) and savor the tasteful melody.

And as the finale evaporates in a delectable wisp, discreetly fade away into the night… as old world gents leer skeptically through the smoky haze at your Bermuda shorts.

Don’t call ahead
Don’t request delivery
Don’t ask how much

…you can, but don’t. Not if you want a pizza.

Have It Your Way!
What kind of God would you like? We have: God is Love,
Our Mother Who Art in Heaven, and Somewhere Out There.

Mmm-Mmm… Bacon
It’s not just about bacon. It’s about soda straws, and Big Gulps ™, and pancakes topped with whipped cream and blueberries.

R is for Redskins

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Not for rose. But what’s in a name?

A shadow vaults a fortress wall then steals silently through a forbidden grove to the castle of his enemy. On a moonlit balcony unaware, a fair maiden appears. She speaks:

“O Melvin, Melvin, wherefore art thou Melvin?”  Melvin & Juliet – Scene 2 Act 2

Of course, Shakespearean purists will be quick to critique: Juliet wasn’t asking where Melvin was but why he was.

Melvin.

…which he wasn’t.

To thine own self be true but his one true love hated his name though not him, or so she claimed. So, was it any wonder that her romantic misplay “Refuse thy name!” ended in tragedy.

What’s in a name? Would an overall’d farm lad straw hat and cap gun, sneak into a Saturday matinee double-play featuring Marion Morrison in Soggy Oatmeal followed by Not Jane Russell and the Rather Harmless Man?

That’ll be the day, pilgrim.

If a rose were an elephant, would you really want a dozen? What if they were Redskins? or what if Moses supposes his toes were roses… ♬

Opinions ain’t a Hollywwood musical. In a free society, All the world’s a stage and offending someone is inevitable, maybe necessary. The First Amendment not only protects free speech but guarantees unpopular speech, which begs the question…

Amendment XXVIII: What Right doth Thou have to be Offended?

Constitutional arsonists defiantly deny the downright declarations inked in the Bill of Rights, insisting on silly stuff like… you can’t yell “Fire!” in a crowded theater. But what if there is a fire in the theater? or worse, what if there are…

“Redskins!”

Or what if you just need some devious diversion to rescue other hapless husbands from an evening worse than shakesperean death (…which might be preferable once they’re all discovered down at Mel’s Grill & Ale with a wench in one hand and a pint in the other.)

But with a charred wonderbra in one hand and a nutcracker in the other, society’s Juliets set out to cancel everything that offends them – everything that is not them:

Columbus day
Chik-Fil-A
The Dukes of Hazzard

And without the consent of the fans of Major League Baseball, the Cleveland (no longer the…) Injuns now suit up as dreaded Guardians – door-t’door insurance salesmen striking fear in the hearts of harried housewives everywhere.

What a bunch of pussies we’ve become.

But blinded by their own contempt, the unhinged pink pussyhat brigade failed to also censor the home of the franchise formerly known as the Redskins (a name which is actually older than the team itself) which honors the original white male himself – the one and only redskin-fighting Father of our Nation.

Guess now they’ll hafta move.

The Cowboys will be next – soon to be rebranded as The Beta Male Livestock Managers, followed by the Tampa Bay Semi-Aquatic Wealth Redistributors.

Approved rules package for the new NFL season:

• No tackling without permission
• Quarterbacks will be uniformed in pastel pleated mini-skirts
• Half of winning score differentials credited to each losing un-winning team

…resulting in – you guessed it (and fractions).

The woke League ought to grow a pair and recoin all their teams according to the fantasy protocols found in backroom bars and poolhalls. Something like…

Flaming Rat Breath Snot Nosed Puss Picking Belly-Button Lint Lickers.

…or the new Jets. (Oh, c’mon – this is football: Wear a helmet!)

If changing your name doesn’t change your identity but you change your identity anyway, maybe you should just go ahead and change your name: The National Hm-hmm League – yet another Shakesperean tragedy.

Yeah… the truth hurts.
The truth nobody wants to hear is hate.

But names don’t hate. Hate is not a logo, a monument, or a flag painted on an orange car. Hate is heart issue – yours. You are what you see in others. And when everything you see is hate, hate is everything you see.

So there can be no Redskins, no Dilbert, no Blazing Saddles – not until the closed fist is replaced by an open heart…

The Golden Rule
a few Beatitudes
and Love thy Neighbor

The ground is level at the foot of the cross.

Juliet may have been right about one thing: The Redskins by any other name will still be smelly.

X is for Christmas
If your neighbors accused you of being a Jesus freak, would there be enough evidence in your seasonal display to convict?

Dear Diary
Day 1: Hello, I must be going! I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going… ♬