Jesus: The Rolling Stone Interview

Recently we caught up with Jesus Christ on his way to save a troubled soul that he asked we not divulge though he did agree to answer several questions. This is the first published interview with Jesus since Thomas the Apostle (aka, Doubting Thomas) conducted one and I'm honored to be the first in over 2000 years to do it again.

He wanted to meet on the Pier before he walked on water to his appointment dressed in a white robe with a red sash. Blond hair was neatly coiffed, as was his beard, and his steely blue eyes carefully considered every question before answering.

Jesus, thank you for making time for this. Everyone knows how busy you are so let's right to the questions. Beatles or Stones?

"I love 'Sympathy for the Devil' by the Stones. That song always kills me! And 'The Girl with Far Away Eyes' makes me laugh out loud. But ... it's The Beatles! They bring a Hymn like quality to most everything. So ... yeah it's Beatles all the way."

So were the Beatles really more popular that you?

"Oh sure! For a while anyway."

Speaking of Hymns, what's your fav?

"Wow! That's a good question. Well ... I know it's not 'The Old Rugged Cross' ... cause that thing hurt like Hell! ... 'Jesus loves me' is really a manipulative request to get me to always look the other way ... but I'd have to say 'To God be the Glory' because it really is all about God ... oh! ... and 'Let it Be'."

Thanks for opening that door. We all know that God is the Father but who the heck is the Holy Ghost? Your brother? Some long lost uncle?

{Jesus laughs}. "We do have an unorthodox family tree. The answer to your questions are ... 'Yes.'"

Fair enough. Okay, next question ... How do you feel when people thank you at the Grammys?

"I don't really like much of the new stuff these days. It's mostly just MUZAC! The last time I really cared was when Helen Reddy won for 'I am Woman, hear me roar.' That was some good stuff! I suppose it's nice that people thank me but honestly, I think it's mostly crap."

Praise music is very popular in today's church services. Do you like it?

"It's kind of like Mick Jagger isn't it? Holding up hands and dancing around ... it's a lot like church ... if it makes people feel better I'm all for it ... but it's nothing I especially care about."

We've run out of time and I know you have to go but ... one more question?

"Sure but make it quick."

Thank you.

"Who wins the next Survivor?"

Bad Wedding Story

Charlie Sherrill and I are performing a wedding ceremony together at a farm in the country.

Charlie is an extremely talented saxophone player and entertainer who blows magic. He's a soft soul, incredibly charismatic and generates love even in the seediest of bars ... or churches.

Dressed cool and beach like, he wears purple floral shirt, white cargo shorts and sandals.

I wear the black minister's robe I bought for $10 from a Preacher going out of business.

We're conducting a service together at a farm off a dirt road in Bulloch County, Georgia ... far from the beach both of us call home.

It's also our first "Butterfly" service.

The assembly has been given small boxes, each containing a yellow Butterfly which is to be released when I pronounce them husband and wife.

Do you know that Butterflies don't like to be confined to boxes?

Charlie and I didn't.

Neither do the gathering of family and friends.

When Charlie softly blows his sax ... we can't hear a damn thing for the sound of a hundred Butterflies wildly ramming themselves against the tiny cardboard boxes.

He plays louder which seem to infuriate the already pissed off Butterflies so they try harder to escape drowning him out.

With his sweet countenance, Charlie looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.

I scream wedding vows to the top of my lungs.

"WHAT?" the Bride asks.

I scream louder.

Charlie shrugs his shoulders sympathetically and pretends to clean his Sax.

I scream louder and the couple say they "do".

Holding my hands up, I yell with everything in me "I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU HUSBAND AND WIFE!"

Over a hundred people cheer ... open up the little white containers ... and over a hundred Butterflies drop dead on the ground.

There's dead silence.

Two yellow Butterflies survive the horrific ordeal, floating together to get the Hell away from the wedding as quickly as possible.

Everyone looks at me to bring an end to the service.

I look at Charlie ... who shrugs his shoulders.

"You may kiss your Bride," I say ... not knowing what else to say.

Dead yellow Butterflies are everywhere as he kisses her.

Charlie sweetly blows his Sax as I rip off the robe and rush to my car.

He looks at me as he plays with eyes asking ... "Where the Hell are you going?"

I shrug my shoulders, get behind the wheel and leave a cloud of dust on that country dirt road.

A few days later Charlie and I are in Doc's Bar where he's the main draw and we burst out laughing when we see each other.

"Think they're gonna make it," I ask?

Charlie shrugs his shoulders and I laugh.

Grabbing me, he says, "Those poor Butterflies."

"Damn poor couple," I say as we hug.

If I were President

So much is happening in the world today that it's hard to keep up so I've fallen behind in sharing my opinions on current events.

Not that anyone asks me for my opinion.

I used to get asked my opinion all of the time but not so much these days.

My favorite is when I was speaking at Christ Church in historic downtown Savannah, Georgia.

Savannah's Christ Church is what would have happened if Jesus had gone to Peyton Place ... ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE!

But those crazy Episcopalians know how to throw a schism!

Anyway I gave a speech and it must have been good because during the Q and A (that's questions and answers for the non-doctrinated ... though Unitarians have mastered all the questions but none of the answers while Southern Baptist have all the answers with no clue of the questions) ... people asked my opinion of things.

"If you were President, what would you do first?" the beautiful and gentile Mrs. Sprague asked.

I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

When I finally stopped she stood in front of the congregation expecting an answer.

I can't recall if I was being paid for this speech as a "Professional Christian" or if I was actually being a Christian in my spare time but ... I felt obligated to answer.

"Well," I cleverly began remembering Clarence Jordan, "if I was President ..."

Mrs. Sprague and the entire congregation burst into uncontrollable laughter at such a prospect.

When they finally stopped I continued.

"If I was President I would reinstate a mandatory draft ... EXCEPT we'd only draft people 62 or older. That way we'll wipe out all Social Security/Medicaid/Medicare expenses because they'll be in the Military. The budget will immediately be balanced and nursing homes will go out of business."

Mrs. Sprague and the congregation seemed confused but were pondering what I'd said.

"It gets better," I said sounding like every other President shoveling promises down throats, "all these AARP heroes aren't going to carry packs or guns making it difficult to engage in war. I believe we've had enough wars in America!"

Some members of the congregation clapped while others prayed for deliverance though one veteran stood and demanding to know how we'd protect the country against our enemies.

"We'll send our troops over to show the enemy pictures of their grandchildren! Who doesn't love grandchildren? The enemy will pull out their own photographs and before you know they're all planning some reunion."

The congregation applauded ... well except for the ones leaving in a hurry.

"Now isn't that the kind of war we want to fight in America?"

That was the last time I've been to Christ Church to speak.

But they've been busy at war with themselves ever since.

Explaining the 70s to a child

"Mike what are you listening to?" Sarah's 7 year old asks having crashed my quiet time on the beloved back deck.

"70s music," I answer. "Just music from the 70s."

"It's weird," she tells me.

"You should have lived it," I retort.

Pondering this as she plays a game on the I-pad, she says without looking at me, "God wasn't alive in the 70s."

"Naw," I explain, "God was just on vacation in the 70s."

She stares at me.

"Nixon was President. Terrorism was born. OPEC was conceived. Kent State happened. Floppy Disks were invented. The Beatles broke up! God had to have been on vacation."

I can't tell if she's ignoring me or considering the whole "Death of God" controversy which also occurred in the 70s ... Elton John said so.

"The music's weird," she finally says.

Disco is streaming.

"Yeah well," I agree. "There was a lot of bad music in the 70s.

Actually I enjoyed the 70s a lot, starting High School at the dawn of the Decade and graduating from College when it ended.

"You couldn't have been alive in the 70s," Cassidy finally concludes.

"Why not?"

"Because you wouldn't be alive now," she explains putting her elbows on the table to look at me as if I'm an idiot.

"I'm pretty sure I was alive Cass," I reply.

"Well," she says reversing her opinion, "God was alive in the 70s."

"Alright then," I shrug, "God was alive in the 70s and I was too otherwise I wouldn't be here now."

"No," she says.

I count the decades my fingers which she ignores.

"The music's weird," she concludes as John Lennon sings "Imagine."

God's will for me

I need to go ahead and win the Lottery.

It'll make planning easier and cause less stress.

I understand I have a better chance of being struck by lightening in the North Pole, which is far away from where I sit, than of actually winning the Lottery but that's not stopping me.

I have tremendous faith and know God will make certain I win at the right time with the right amount ... not too much but not too little ... and everything is going to work out fine.

As a matter of fact, I have much faith in God making it happen I don't even have my own special numbers like our anniversary or the kids birthdays.

I figure God will make it happen regardless of such things so I just get the "Quick Pick."

It's God's will.

In the meantime, I'm just living as though I've already won the Lottery, pretty much doing what I want ... when I want ... and with who I want.

Sure my check book consists mostly zeros on the wrong side of an actual number and my accountant burst into tears whenever he sees me, but I'm of the opinion that if you believe it ... it'll come true.

Besides God's got my back.

It's not I'm going to spend the money frivolously or anything.

I'm not going to buy clothes or silly things like that because who really needs them? The car I drive is fine though I may get cloth falling from the roof tacked back up. And the windows that don't open in the house will probably get replaced though they work fine in the winter.

Though if it's God's will that I win "Mega-Millions" I'll likely buy Delta Airlines so I can fire everybody or pay off Congress so they'll just stay home and not bother us anymore.

But I'm not planning on "Mega-Millions" because God and I both know I don't need that much.

I just need enough to keep doing what I'm doing now.

Well ... and buy a House Boat with an icemaker, large screen plasma television, large kitchen and a great bedroom.

Oh ... and I'll need another smaller one for Sarah's girls which will be tethered 30 feet behind ours so we can hear them they call.

Oh ... and one more for my kids when they come to visit!

Other than that, I'll just keep being my usual humble, satisfied self and the only difference is this wonderful lifestyle will finally be adequately financed!

Oh ... and I'd hire Dicky Trotter to take all of my calls so he can decide if it's Gods will if I make investments, personal or otherwise, in all of my new best friends.

Anyway that's the plan.

Sometime today, I need to ride my old rusty bicycle up to Chu's so God can do the "Quick pick" for me again this week.

It's just a matter of God's timing now.

You're Never Too Old

"Sir, your Dad is missing from the Nursing Home," the caller explains.

"Oh?' Neil asks with a sigh.

"Yes Sir, it appears he left in his Golf Cart."

"Yeah," Neil explains, "he can't drive anymore so we got rid of his car. It almost killed him so I got him the Golf Cart."

"It seems he may be on a date in it."

"He's 89 years old," Neil exclaims.

"Another resident missed curfew. Mrs. Bodie is 67 resident in the main building."

"He's out with a younger woman?" Neil is smiling.

"Sir, this is serious. You need to find your father and Mrs. Bodie if she's with him. She has a medical condition that merits continued supervision."

"Okay," Neil sighs fishing for his truck keys and rushing outside on a chilly Wilmington Island night.

Two miles later he finds the Golf Cart abandoned in the parking lot of "Gilligan's Party Beverage Center" with no sign of his father or Mrs. Bodie.

"They can't be far," Neil says out loud and heads across the street towards the nearest bars.

They're not in Basils or Cancun's so Neil parks, heaves himself out of the pickup and meanders into "Molly McGuire's" where he discovers his father and Mrs. Bodie having drinks along with a good time.

It's almost midnight.

"Ummm Dad, we have to go."

"What's wrong with us kids having a good time every once in a while," the 89 year old snaps taking a puff from his cigar.

"Yeah," Mrs. Bodie slurs sipping her Cosmopolitan.

"Look," Neil explains with his hands in his pockets trying to not laugh, "they can get you for kidnapping. Mrs. Bodie's confined to campus."

"Bastards," he old man puffs.

"Here's what we're going to do," Neil presses. "You and your date finish your drinks, then I'm going to drive you to your Golf Cart and I'm going to tie it to the truck and pull you back to the Nursing Home. It's cold so Mrs. Bodie will sit in the cab with me. You'll have to sit in the Golf Cart to hit the breaks when I stop."

The old man blows smoke in his son's face.

But that's what happens.

When Neil told me this story, I laughed my ass off.

His Dad claims to have no recollection whatsoever of that night.

And Mrs. Bodie can't corroborate because she died peacefully two months later.

The point of the story is ... you're never too old to do what you're supposed to do ... no matter what they say.

The Principal's Office

I tired to stay focused on his nose.

It was a beak nose sitting in the middle of a long narrow face, with black hair greased back in the style of the older folks in those days ... lots of Brylcreem. His blue and black checkered suit was rumbled and hung on his six foot skinny frame.

Gene Prevatt and I were sitting on the other side of his desk in the Principal's office of Groves High School were we had made the grievous error of duct taping Mrs. Johnson's English class in her room.

The door opened to the inside so it was pretty funny when the tenth grade class rushed out as the bell rung while Mrs. Johnson screamed the homework assignments.

The fastest students ran right into the door of duct tape and bounced back into the second wave of slower students.

Principal Andrews was asking what we knew about the incident.

Gene locked guilty because he looked at the floor.

I remained zoned on Mr. Andrews beaked nose.

It would have been an immediate death sentence to look him in the eyes ... because one forever strayed to the right and the other to the left.

There was no way to look the man straight in the eyes.

Gene continued to stare at the floor and I was focusing so hard on his beaked nose I was starting to sweat which, of course, Mr. Andrews took as a sign of me cracking under pressure.

"Mr. Elliott," he said clearing his throat, "did either you or Mr. Prevatt bring duct tape to school with you today?"

It's hard to shake your head from side to side and remain focused on a nose when wild eyes are bouncing in every direction.

"He did," Gene announces now staring at his fingernails.

"What?" I exclaim.

"Mr. Prevatt," the Principal says. "Please proceed."

"We both had to bring duct tape for Shop Class," Gene explains. "But it was stolen from my locker."

Mr. Andrews shakes his head which is like trying to watch marbles bounce at the same time.

"It was," I offer remaining intensely focused on the beak nose. "I gave mine to Gene for safe keeping and it was stolen from his locker."

"And how do you know it was stolen?" Mr. Andrews presses looking somewhere pass Gene and it was at this point that he faltered.

Every so quickly Gene stole a glance at the Principal seeing the eyes looking at both his ears but not meeting his own eyes.

Gene busted out laughing.

Which of course made me bust out laughing.

Mr. Andrews found nothing funny in the room.

"Mr. Elliott," the Principal finally snaps, "do you have anything to add?"

"Yes sir," I say wiping tears from my eyes. "It wasn't me."

"Well it wasn't me," Gene quickly added.

"I see," Mr. Andrews concludes while staring off into another Universe.

We spent the rest of the day sitting there with Mr. Andrews until the 3:00 bell rang and he had to let us go.

Mrs. Johnson waited outside the office when we exited.

"You did it," she bellows, blond hair askew from frustration and the school's limited air conditioning system.

"Did what?" Gene says.

"It wasn't me," I add.

And that's all I have to say about that.

My Happy Journey!

Obviously I'm having to wean myself off posting song titles as my daily Facebook status updates.

Even though I said I was stopping, I haven't yet.

I amuse myself too much and occasionally they make others happy too.

People asks, "Micheal, why do you use song titles for your status updates?"

I'll tell you why!

It makes me happy!

Happy is something you can never have enough of and dammit, I want more so I'm going for it!

The other thing I'm still doing is writing everyday and that's going to remain a constant too. We are changing the platform though.

If you want to keep receiving them every day, THAT's GREAT!

Just click to www.meellc.com and look at my picture.

Then stop looking at me and look under my picture though this may prove more difficult than you think because it's a damn fine picture!

You can sign up and there I'll be for your reading pleasure, discomfort, spiritual awakening or the first moment of utter confusion in your day.

It'll be fun.

You may be asking, "Why in the hell is he doing this?"

I'm happy to tell you.

After you sign up.
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Sign up now for my daily blog or risk burning in Hell by going to www.meellc.com

Our Neighbor, The Bride of Frankenstein

"Can I have your pumpkins when you're finished with them if they are still viable," read the note taped to the front door, "I will even bring you a treat back."

We'd been away for several days so we had no idea how old the note was.

A week earlier we'd carved pumpkins, placing them in the front yard with six different facial expressions cut, some menacing and others goofy. One was smoking a giant "Doobie".

The note was from our neighbor, the crazy woman who gardens in her underwear.

Before you jump to any conclusions, this is not a pretty sight!

Nevertheless she strolls outside, wavy white hair blowing in the wind, wearing a dirty white bra and granny panties, happily singing to prune her garden. She's a fatter version of the Bride of Frankenstein.

Birds flee, dogs moan, doors are locked and even the Cat Lady's feral cats hide. Winston, the Little Gay Dog, darts to his pad under our bed and Goddess lays in the floor covering her head with her paws. Sarah frantically tries to cover the girls eyes as they try to look. I throw up a little in my mouth.

Throwing the note on the table we unpack and get on with our day.

Later it looks like rain and the dogs haven't had a walk so I hurry and take them. Just as mist turns to light rain, we return home and I look at the pumpkins.

One's completely caved in one itself. A few are black and a couple are moldy so I grab the trash can and throw them inside and hurry to make my way inside.

"Why did you do that?" I hear just as I open the door.

Turning, the fat Bride of Frankenstein stares at me from under an umbrella, wearing the dirty white bra and granny panties, white hair askew as though she's just been hit by a bolt of lightening.

"They were melted from the sun," I explain trying not to look.

"THERE IS NO SUN," she yells.

Shrugging my shoulders, I turn to walk away.

"WHAT ABOUT MY PIES?" she demands.

"What's going on?" Sarah asks, suddenly appearing from nowhere.

Stopping dead in my tracks, the hair on my neck stands straight up. The air is suddenly sucked out of the entire block. There isn't a sound. Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, rush down and stand on either side of me.

We know ... this was going to be bad ... and they don't want to miss any of it!

"YOUR HUSBAND JUST LIED TO ME AND TOLD ME THOSE PUMPKINS MELTED IN THE SUN ..." the fat Bride of Frankenstein starts.

I've never heard a nuclear explosion so I don't really know. But I imagine it sounds something like what happened next.

The fat Bride of Frankenstein stops talking because she sees it coming. Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, turn their heads just in the nick of time. Sarah's girls rush outside to watch.

KLA-BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOM!

Sarah explodes and there's this flash of white light.

When I open my eyes the fat Bride of Frankenstein is gone.

The sky's blue, the sun shinning, birds sing and I swear to God Angels are singing with them.

Sarah stands before me as beautiful as ever with Goddess and Winston, the Little Gay Dog, standing beside her. Sarah's girls are cheering.

"Don't worry Honey," she sweetly says, "I took care of it."

Rushing inside, I pour a glass of wine, gulp it down and pour another. Frantically, I search for the "To-Do" list that my wife had given me several days earlier, find it and start knocking things off of it with frightening speed.

"HOLY SHIT!" I keep saying.

"I didn't know she could do that!"

So who are you in this story?
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♦ “Derrick disappeared for like 2 HOURS last night when your book came in the mail!”- Michelle Hodge

Order your copy now at www.meellc.com/newbook

Hanging Out

Back when I was a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, I mostly tried to figure out how to keep drunken homeless people from falling asleep during my Sunday morning sermon.

We did lots of crazy stuff and we must have been blessed because it worked more often than not.

Once on Easter morning we covered the stained glass windows with thick brown rolling paper so the Sanctuary was pitch black. Everyone had to reach out in darkness to find a pew to sit on and of course everyone fought to sit on the back row so there were lots of giggles and curses as people plopped down on one another.

A guitar was plucked as a lone voice sang, "Anybody here seen my good friend Martin?"

A lone candle was lit in the front of the Chapel and the entire earth was silent for a second.

"HE LIVES!" Cindy Weber screamed at the top of her lungs as the paper was ripped from the windows. Light exploded in the room as though Jesus himself were sashaying down the aisle.

"Hallelujah!"

"Shit!"

"Glory!"

"Stop hitting me!"

Those are the reactions I remember being said all at the same time.

We were a crazy Church doing crazy stuff.

But the most popular service of the year was my son's Jeremy's birthday.

Everyone loved Jeremy. He was the six year old who turned the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub! Homeless guys would lounge in it with him, candles lit, a Boom Box playing Jimmy Buffett as they all achieved a peace that passeth all understanding.

On the Sunday closest to his birthday, instead of preaching a sermon ... cause enough for a major celebration ... I read a letter I'd written to Jeremy.

Homeless men would cry in joy because (a) I wasn't preaching and (b) they all loved Jeremy and his sister Kristen. She blatantly took advantage of this by getting them to panhandle enough change so they would buy her a Happy Meal from McDonalds. Once, I found her with 5 at the same time surrounded by happy men.

Jeremy was never that way. He liked to just hang out with the guys.

Now, decades later, he still likes to simply hang out. We do it pretty naturally together. He's here now, grading papers for his students at the University of Georgia as we listen to Bob Dylan wonder "what's a sweetheart like you doing in a dump like this?"

Sarah wanders in and out. Her girls wanted to skip school today so they could hang out with him too. They're excited he's here and stayed up late to talk with him. He rode with me to take them to school and now we're just hanging out.

He flipped through my new book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts and said, "It's nice to read a book I've already read."

We have no real plans. There's a birthday party to attend tomorrow, some football to watch over the weekend, see his Mom and a few friends and drink some beers. We're just hanging out and I can't think of a better way to spend a weekend.
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Another Tybee Update

I suppose it began when the sad, little holy dock became a private gated community but that was merely the beginning of strange things happening on Tybee Island.

Against a backdrop of wailing police sirens, a now extremely common occurrence on the island, I ponder the single biggest question being asked.

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO HODAD??

Hodad, affectionately known as HO to his friends, unexpectedly resigned from the Police Department. By far the island's nicest officer everyone is aghast and asking, "What happened?"

The answer is evidently personal terrorism initiated by one of the numerous cells on the island, this one operating on the corner of 13th and Butler Avenue.

If this isn't enough, our neighbor Art has suddenly turned into a Bible scholar which is very scary shit!

"What's Lot's wife name?"

He quizzes me as Sarah and I walk the dogs.

"Beats me," I reply.

"You are correct," he says.

"Now let me ask you a more difficult question," he presses.  "When God sent Adam and Eve out of the Garden of Eden and they had Cain, then Cain got married ... where did his wife come from?"

"Beats me," I answer.

"Me too," he says.

Sarah pulls me away before Art can ask another question.

This is weird!

Vandalism is a regular method of paying it forward on the island and I understand Johnny O and Judy O's porch chairs were recently accosted by a giant fly swatter. Every afternoon they have "Whine and Cheese" on the porch though I hear Judy O now refuses to sit in her chair and whines about having to stand to sip her wine.

People are being ticketed for driving on Lewis Avenue which has a speed bump every ten feet. I can't figure out how you can break the 25 MPH speed limit in 10 feet but it's apparently happening and the Hodad-less Police Department is all over it!

Plus it's election season and there's nothing stranger than politicians.

SpongeBob Squarepants is back on the island filming a movie, transforming the parking lot down front into a garden and planting Palm Trees on the Pier.

There's a full moon but no Full Moon Party at Marlin Monroe's which is how Sarah and I celebrate our anniversary every month so we're confused on what exactly we're supposed to do.

I already miss tourists season.

As long as tourists are here we feast on them.

But they're gone and the only thing we have to feast on is each other.
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Friday at the office just kills me!

On Fridays people don't read my stuff.

I'm savvy enough of a social media guy to occasionally read the tracking of whose reading what I write. It's looks pretty good except on Fridays when the lines on the graph plummet.

On Friday's you people suck.


I don't blame you.

We're all excited it's Friday.

Who want to read?

Who wants to do much anything except ... PARTY!!!!! ... however you define it.

But it's not officially the weekend yet. I have lots of work to do today.

Making it worse, the managing partner is in her office, clamoring around and banging stuff. Occasionally she glares this way so I'm trying to look very busy.

Goddess is passed out in the kitchen and Winston, The Little Gay Dog, is wearing a sweater vest that reads, "Homosexual Agenda ... spend time with the family ... be treated equally ... buy milk" while he kisses the managing partner's ass.

His nose is so freaking brown!

Literally!

The little son-of-a-bitch (and I mean that literally too)!

Gypsy, the gender confused, paranoid personality disordered cat, is giving himself a bath in the kitchen sink which is just ... bizarre.

The Cat Lady has the day off and is on her back deck wearing a dirty yellow bathrobe, fuzzy pink slippers, and a blue towel wrapped around her head so she looks like Marge Simpson on meth. She's staring at a weed whacker. Her buff boyfriend of the week is lighting candles in her bedroom. I'm trying very hard to not think about what they're up to.

I just threw up in my mouth a little thinking about it.

The managing partner just stormed out of my outdoor office. She told me a bunch of stuff, apparently each thing important, but I have no idea what she said.

I'm trying to concentrate on writing.

Besides it's Pirate Fest on Tybee Island and I wonder how we're dressing. Our friend Wen McNally is evidently wearing an eye patch and flip flops.

It's going to be hard for Sarah and I to top that costume!

Winston storms into my office, lays at my feet and starts licking his G-spot.

I guess his weekend is starting early.

I wish mine could too but I have to finish this blog no one's going to read anyway.

It's Friday.

God wants me to whack what???

Genesis 17
Micheal Elliott Revised not-so-standard version

1. Abram saw God when he was 99 years old and it's a miracle in and of itself he could see anything. Making it even more miraculous is that he  heard God too and there weren't even hearing aids in those days. Just for fun God says, "Walk this way ... you lead ..."
2. If you don't fall down or walk into anything I promise you this ... I'll make sure you have a lot of kids."
3. Of course Abram immediately fell down. 
4. "We're talking lots of kids," God continues while Abram lay in the dirt.
5. "And I've never liked your name either. We're changing it to Abraham ... it sounds more fatherly. We're talking about you having a shit load of kids."
6. "I'm making your loins machine gun powerful and not one bullet you shoot will be a blank. We're talking lots of kids."
7. "And I promise to be there for them just like I'm here for you now."
8. "You're going to need a really big place for all your kids so I'm giving you Canaan. It's very prime real estate. And I'm going to live there too."
9. "What?" Abraham says so God repeats everything.
10. Rolling Her eyes God says, "To make sure you don't forget, I want you to circumcise yourself. All your kids too. Well, not the girls but every single one of the boys."
11. "So go circumcise yourself and that's your end of the bargain."
12. "But wait until your sons are 8 days old before you do them. They'll scream like crazy. Oh yeah, if you have kids with Hookers or lose women ... Hell even if you adopt ... circumcise them too."
13. "And that'll be the bond between us forever."
14. "And if you don't circumcise one of them ... put him for adoption."
15. "Oh yeah! We're going to change your wife's name too. Sarai should be called Sarah. It's just sexier."
16. "And she's gonna receive those loaded bullets from your loins and pop those little blessings out!"
17. Still laying on the ground from falling down, Abraham starts laughing. "I haven't gotten it up in years! And have you seen my wife? She's older than dirt."
18. "Plus she's already got a kid. I gotta whack him too? His name's Ismael. You're going to look after him too, right?"
19. And God said, "Listen you old fart! Your wife is getting ready to be knocked up and you're the man whose going to do it. And I want you to name him Isaac ... I like these naming opportunities. He's going to have lots of kids too."
20. "Yeah, I hear you about Ismael. He can have lots of kids too. It'll be great!"
21. "And Sarah's going to be knocked up with Isaac by this time next year."
22. Then God left.
23. Now Abraham had been having kids all along, just not with Sarah, who already had the one, Ismael, so they'd both been around the block. Abraham had obviously been with lots of Hookers because there were lots of boys running around. He whacked every single one.
24. And at 99 years of age, he circumcised himself (which I just can't imagine!)
25. Ismael was 13, much older than the 8 days God had instructed the old man to circumcise his sons at but ...
26. Pissed off at how much it hurt, he grabs Ismael and whacks his pee pee next ... POST PUBERTY! (CAN YOU SAY "OOOOUUUUUCCCCHHHHH"?????")
27. And Abraham was like Slingblade, whacking penises one after the other. It didn't matter who they were. (While this was going on , God was nowhere around).

If you don't believe it, read it for yourself in whichever version of the Bible you like best!
_________________________________

Interested in becoming a better writer. Start now by enrolling as part of a select group to work exclusively with me beginning in November 2013 at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/writingworkshop/

Great Sluts!

The conversation at our house currently centers on great sluts of history.

"What?" you ask, spewing whatever it is you've just taken a sip.

It began over the choice of a Halloween costume.

Have you seen them recently?

When I was a kid, I draped a bath towel around my neck and told everybody I was Superman. This resulted in many compliments and tons of candy.

Once I found an old wig and a trench coat and transformed myself into "Tiny Tim" ... no one complimented me and I didn't get much candy.

It's not that way anymore!

The right Halloween costume is serious stuff and planning begins weeks in advance.

Last year, Sarah was Cat Woman in a tight fitting silky skin suit and a mask. Let you tell you ... the moaning that took place later that night downed out everything the Cat Lady and her feral collection next door has to offer.

Sarah also got shitloads of candy, twenty-two business cards, phone numbers written on paper napkins all thrown into bag made soggy by salivating fathers ... and mothers ... tossing things her way.

Her girls dressed accordingly.

Planning has begun for this year and one of the initial comments made was, "That costume will make you look like a slut. Let your grandmother make you one ... out of wool."

Of course this made me laugh like crazy and wanting to be a good influence, I've offered sound advice.

"Look," I said to the crushed child, "history is full of great sluts. There wouldn't be a Bible if it weren't for the sluts in them. Just tell them you're going to be a Biblical slut. Bathsheba for example. Or Rachel ... if you want to step out of the Bible into other religions you can start with Aphrodite ... if you want great historical sluts you can be Catherine the Great, Coco Channel, Madonna or Bill Clinton."

She stopped crying beginning to understand for the first time the preponderance of great sluts who've made contributions to history.

The great theologian Larkin Rossitter, at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel when I was employed as the "Professional Christian" explained ... "Look everyone is a whore. The question is whose you're pimp?"

We thought this a brilliant analogy ... which could be part of the reason I became an "Unprofessional Christian."

Regardless, I think it's harder to be a kid these days than when I was young. Today they control the universe through the Internet by the age of five. By 11 or 12, they're navigating the sexual landscape. By the time they're 14, they have defined their identities for life.

I'd rather work through these challenges with them than define the rules. The truth of the matter is we make our own rules anyway. They're made by dictatorial rule or in partnership. I prefer the latter.

When she got out of the car this morning, after spying her friends and immediately screaming, "HEY! Stop the car now! Those are my friends. Please, Please, Please, Please, Please ..."

So I did and she's immediately surrounded by love at that age ... boys and girls displaying affection for one another, obviously looking forward to the day ... the weekend ... Halloween.

"HEY!" I yell and she turns to look with an Angelic beautiful face, "Have slutty weekend."

And she laughs and dives into her friends which is what matters most to any kid.

Driving home, I reflect on last night when she, Sarah and I sat in the living room, flipping channels and talking. Making plans as partners do.
________________________________________________

An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. His musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.

Order your copy now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

Hope

"I'm sorry sir," she says as we enter the Club House at "The Landings", "but I can't let you in."

The elderly man and I stop in front of the maître d, smartly dressed in black slacks, vest, starched white shirt with a beatific smile.

"You're wearing a tee shirt," she explains.

Of course I'm wearing a tee shirt. When shirts are necessary, tee shirts are my first option. Today's choice is a formal black cotton with gold embroidery proclaiming to the world that Sarah and I along with Jan and Dick had dined at "Palm Coast" in St. Martin.

My 94 year old companion leans on his cane and waits. We're close friends. He's a mentor and in his twilight years, when most of his friends have died or no longer bother with him, I make the hour long drive every month or so to spend time with him. I owe the man a lot.

"Well then," I say in exaggerated fashion, "what can we do about this travesty?"

Smiling, the maître d tells me she has a collared shirt that I can wear above my kaki shorts with tons of pockets and flip flops. The Club House at "The Landings" is serious about dress codes!

She hands me a God-awful orange, gold-fish colored collared shirt which I slip on in front of everyone already seated in their collared shirts. All stare at me, forks suspended in air, tea glass in hands and the more refined taking quick gulps of white wine.

"Hey!" I say to the maître d, "I look damn good in this God-awful shirt! Will you take our picture?"

Thrusting my I-phone into her hand, she giggles as she snaps our photo. Then we're allowed in the Club.

Earlier in life Ben would have been embarrassed but he no longer cares. Every Club member watches as we're led to a window side table. After we're seated, he laughs.

"You've always love to make an entrance," he says tucking his cloth napkin into his collared shirt.

"I think it's a great tee shirt," I explain. "It matches my shorts and flip flops."

As he giggles, we can't help but notice that every single employee of the place, loves us! We're given the best service by multiple waitresses. They share laughter with us. As soon as we take a sip, our glasses are refilled while the collared people wait for more wine.

We talk as people stare, two old friends who have done a lot together, spend a while looking back. Ben repeats himself several times and I'm not used to it. I don't like thinking about when he's gone.

"What are you doing now?" he suddenly asks and I explain that we sell hope in desperate times.

Greying eyes suddenly burst into the crystal clear baby blues I've always known him to have. Half-an-hour rushes by as we have an intellectual conversation about hope. Lots of people are selling it. Everybody desperately needs it. Most of what's sold isn't meeting people's needs. He questions, challenges, debates and ... is inexplicably young and full of venom and vigor.

At 1:45 I hold up my hand and say "Betty told me to have you back before 1:30. You have a doctors appointment at 2. I think we're in trouble again."

"Screw her!" he yells ... obviously ready for more debate and the entire room is as silent as a church as I burst into laughter.

The next moment takes a thousand years.

Greyness returns to his eyes. He asks if he's paid the bill. His back hunches forward. He searches for his cane. He struggles to stand. He doesn't want to leave.

I drive him home and when we arrive Betty is obviously not pleased.

"You're late," she says with her hands on her hips.

"We were picking up girls," I explain.

Without missing a beat she counters, "I'm the only girl for him. Ben, get in the car."

He does as he's told but as I turn, he winks at me with blazing blue eyes.

And I cry all the way home.
_________________________________________

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Jonah's Whale

The Book of Jonah
Chapter 1
Micheal Elliott Revised Standard Version

1. God said, "Hey Jonah!"

2. "Go to the city. It's a wicked place with bars, strip clubs, football, American Legions, prayer meetings, live music and political parties. Preach against that stuff."

3. Liking virtually everything on the list except the Democrats, Jonah made a run for it. No way in Hell he was going to say bad things about them, so he booked a Carnival Cruise heading for Tarshish, an exotic island filled with bars, strip clubs, football, an American Legion, live music, one Democratic party, two Republican parties, a big Tea Party and a lot of people who could care less about any of them.

4. Then the Lord saith, "Oh Hell No You Don't! Watch this!" And a great wind suddenly blew a violent storm against the Carnival Cruise Ship so that it lost power and there was no air conditioning, flushing toilets, big screen televisions, or working slot machines.

5. All the sailors said, "Oh God" as they puked into the sea ... to lighten the load but ... Jonah was passed out in his cheap cabin with no windows on the bottom deck.

6. The Norwegian Captain was pissed after the crew did the deck drill preparing everybody for the Lifeboats and only one person was missing ... JONAH. He marches down to the bottom deck, shakes the passed out Prophet demanding to know, "How can you sleep through this? Get up! Say something! Anything! God! Whatever! We don't want to die!"

7. Meanwhile the Sailors had figured out you could play roulette, Blackjack and Poker without electricity so they were having at it. But they really wanted to play the slots! "Who in the hell's responsible?" they demanded over warm beer and someone said, "Jonah."

8. And they saith, "Is he Republican, Democrat, Tea Party or a Damn Liberal? He is black or white, gay or straight, man or woman, have work or no? Where's he live? Does he work for the Government? Is he a real American ... white and all? How do you spell his last name?"

9. Now awake, Jonah answers the Captain and the Sailors, "I'm Jewish. I don't have a foreskin. Wanna see?"

10. This scared the living hell out of everybody on the broken down Carnival Cruise Ship and when he whipped it out, they screamed in glee, "What have you done?"

11. The surf was really up now and the Carnival Cruise Ship was rolling from side to side like Jonah's exposed anatomy. "STOP IT!" they yelled, "That thing is whipping the seas up even higher."

12. "Aw, it's my fault," Jonah said pulling up his pants. "Throw me overboard."

13. Instead, the men ... it was a gay Cruise ... wanted to keep Jonah and his foreskin-less self so they tried to row back to shore but they weren't looking at where they were rowing because they were looking at Jonah instead and the ship  got further and further from the land.

14. "Oh God!" they screamed. "We don't want to die and we certainly don't want to throw this fine looking specimen overboard. But you're God and we don't want to be held responsible. What do we do?"

15. God didn't say anything so they grabbed Jonah and threw him overboard.Immediately the sea was calm. "Oh God," they exclaimed on the gay Carnival Cruise ship without electricity, "that's one fine flat ocean."

16. And the men sacrificed all of their clothing and called upon the name of the Lord often.

17. But Jonah was swallowed whole ... and it took three days.

If you don't believe it, read it.

In one of the 16 versions of the King James Version of the Bible.
__________________________________________________________

An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. His musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.

Never letting the truth stand in the way of a good story, Elliott’s ninth book takes you on a wild journey of “Wow! Really! I can’t believe that!” every day moments. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts exemplifies his gift of capturing common thoughts and painting them perfectly into words.

Order yours now at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/newbook/

Music, Jeremy and me

Every morning I fire the computer up and the first thing I do is go to Sirius radio where I'm presented with an array of musical options. Beginning with current hits, I choose genres or decades to listen.

There are DJ's but no commercials.

There are countdowns from this week in whatever decade I pick or guest DJ's like Bob Dylan or Bernie Taupin spinning their favorite wax.

I listen to the Sixties and flip to the Eighties then back to the Sixties.

My son Jeremy loves music as much as I do and the only time we ever had an argument was over the music of the Sixties as opposed to that of the Eighties.

The Eighties had Michael Jackson, Madonna, Prince and Run D.M.C.

The Sixties had the Doors, Marvin Gaye, the Who, the Grateful Dead, and the Rolling Stones.

"Jeremy," I said. "They may still write their songs, but they don't play on their recordings, use drum machines and the concerts are Madonna rolling the floor in a wedding dress with no really good guitar solo."

"That's crap Dad," he fires back.

"The Sixties had real music son," I reply. "It was about real stuff. It charged the course of history. That decade of music beats the 70s, 80's and the 90s combined."

"Come on Old Man, 'Love grows where my Rosemary goes? ... seriously?"

He had me for a moment.

"Lady in Red," I counter feeling my confidence restored.

"Yummy Yummy Yummy I got love in my tummy," he shoots. "For Christ's sake!"

"Oh Mickey I love you," I laugh. M-I-C-K-E-Y!"

"TINY TIM," he yells, again painting me in a corner.

So I have to throw the Ace card that I'd been holding back. I savor the moment because I know I have him.

"Beatles," I calmly reply.

He knows that I know that he's got nothing to counter with.

We're more mellow about it these days. We share music with each other often and enjoy going to shows together. Whenever we're together we bring a play list. Music hovers in most everything we do. Both of us think in lyrics.

But I'm missing him today.

I want him to Don't Worry, be happy.

I want him to say Rock Me Amadeus.

I want him to stand with men without hats.

That's enough.

It's time to light my fire.

Parking Problems

Aside from the constant buzz of the unrelenting chain saw two houses away, it's a stunningly beautiful day.

The ocean is flat, the breeze slight, the sky blue as the sun plays hide and seek with puffy cotton clouds. The island is lush and green. Flowers bloom the colors of the rainbow and a choir of seagulls sing.

At least it was that way before the chain saw was cranked.

Now it's hell on earth!

I'm trying to work but can't concentrate with all the damn noise.

When the chain saw is turned off, two men yell at one another as through it's still on.

They are renovating apartments that Poor Pat used to own. She was a pioneer in squalor living developments and they're now being restored to their original squalor by some dude from California.

Our neighbors are all up in arms because the City of Tybee has given approval for the weekly tenants to park on public right of ways ... meaning our front yards.

This is because there are 8 apartments but only 4 parking spaces in front of the development.

To protect homeowners the City of Tybee has given permission for us to build fences on the aforementioned public right-of-way in our front yards.

This is because we cut the grass on the public right-of-ways.

The City of Tybee is busy eliminating public parking spaces because the island has more day visitors than ever before.

In the meantime, our street is a virtual cornucopia of fence displays. There are white pickets, natural posts with ropes, metal fences, wooden fences and the Cat Lady next door has grown her own Rain Forest infiltrated by feral cats to prevent parking in her yard.

Taking an anti-fence position, Sarah placed large red flower pots in our yard which have drawn the praise of our neighbors who hate their fences.

Great!

They've apparently finished because I don't hear the chain saw and they're not yelling either.

Now I've got to get things done.

If I can just block out the sound of the traffic jam on Butler Avenue.

Going back to college

Mitch Wesley and I went to college many years ago.

Decades really.

Yesterday we went back.

Not literally.

Neither of us are literalists.

We also went to a liberal Seminary together, well, at least at the time it was liberal but when we left it had experienced a hostile takeover by a raging group of Baptist As Terrorists ... or B.A.T. ... which Homeland Security probably has on its top ten list.

Neither Mitch nor I were members of B.A.T.

Mark Wood was probably a member.

He's the quiet type. And he always has a smirk on his face. Quiet smirking Baptists merit suspicion. Plus he infiltrated Baptist Headquarters on the college campus and kidnapped Gyni who is the daughter of "The Bird," the mastermind of all things Baptist at the college we all went attended.

It's not that any of this is relevant.

But Mitch and I carried on a virtual conversation yesterday for an hour or so only using the titles of songs by Elvis.

It's the kind of the conversation you have in college and in our non literal way we may as well have been on campus.

Had Mark virtually skipped class like Mitch and I were I'm certain he would have participated.

I was on the back deck writing the curriculum for a class I'm teaching in October. The class is "Finding Peace in your Life" and I was really into it until Mitch posted his status on Facebook.

The status had nothing to do with Elvis but, as everybody knows, "the spirit of The King" is everywhere. Before we knew it, we'd wasted an hour speaking in Elvis tongues.

Both of us were all shook up.

I have no idea what Mitch was supposed to be doing. He works for HOSPICE. He could have killing time. But he proved once again that there's always time for Elvis.

Anyway, I've got to finish the curriculum before Sarah finds out about this. I'm behind schedule and I've got to get it to her immediately.

It's now or never!

Because she's one of those people with suspicious minds.

I want to stay her Teddy Bear and if I can get this finished I think she will love me tender.

If it's not then it's Jailhouse Rock for me.

So ... thank ya. Thank ya very much!
______________________________________

Interested in more. Check out "Finding Peace in your Life" at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/indepthclasses/

Her name is Sandy Bottoms.

She's sitting in the sand on the beach flashing a smile that duels with the blazing sun in a blue postcard Caribbean sky. More than sitting, she is one with the sand. Her brown wrinkled legs are white as she's rolling around in it.

"It's important to exfoliate," she explains with an academic seriousness.

Then she burst out laughing in a little girl voice.

Extending a brown wrinkled hand towards me, the seventy-one old beach queen radiates a sincere warmth.

"She's quite something," says the old man wearing nothing except a straw hat standing next to me. "She's really something."

Greg is Sandy Bottoms husband. He's almost eighty and is sipping a Pinna Colada through a straw from the coconut he's holding with both hands.

"Why don't you meet us for dinner and dancing tonight?" Sandy Bottoms says from the sand.

"Ah, that'd be great!" Greg says before sucking on the straw again.

"Dancing?" I ask.

"Oh," he says in a long drawn out way with a smile breaking over his face, "Sandy loves to dance."

Giggles erupts from the beach below.

"You dance?" I ask looking at the old woman with young smile.

"You betcha," she exclaims and I immediately know with everything inside of me that the woman can dance.

"Ever since I had my hip replaced," Greg explains, "I can't keep up with her. It would be much better if she dances with you."

"Me?" I say in wonderment more than surprise.

"Yes sir," Greg continues as he sits the coconut down, "we've seen you dance and Sandy likes the way you move."

"You're pretty reckless," Sandy Bottoms adds.

I am at a complete loss for words.

But that night I wander into the beach restaurant and there they sit, sipping Grand Marnier to top off a Lobster dinner. Sandy Bottoms flashes the blazing smile and Greg shakes my hand and pours me a glass of wine.

The music starts.

"Well," Greg says. "Go cut that rug."

Sandy Bottoms gingerly stands and I escort her to the dance floor covered in sand. My hand's on her curved back as she walks with the hunch that comes with age.

Let me tell you something!

Sandy Bottoms can dance!

We spin and twirl, shag and bop, twist and shout. She giggles the little girl sounds as her eyes flash energy.

Twenty minutes later we both soaked in sweat.

The music ends and I bow to her on the dance floor. People clap as I escort her to a beaming Greg. My friend Carlos is laughing as he brings me a towel. I collapse in a chair, drowning an entire glass of wine.

The next day on the beach, Greg is wearing the straw hat and sipping another Pinna Colada from the coconut. Sandy Bottoms is rolling in the sand.

"Good morning Micheal!" they joyfully exclaim as I stumble to the ocean so I can fall in and wake up.

Knee deep in the aqua Teel water of the Bay, I fall forward and float until I need air. My legs are sore from moving in directions they haven't moved before. I need to stretch. Maybe I need to go back to bed. Standing, I stumble back towards the studio for coffee.

"Micheal," Greg says as I stumble by, "Sandy wants to know if you want to meet us again tonight."

"Oh My God," I mumble.

But don't let appearances or old women fool you.

Sandy Bottoms can dance!

________________________________________________

An eccentric life dotted with eclectic characters pop from the pages of award winning author Micheal Elliott’s newest book Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts. Over 200 pages of his musings immerse you in a world of headshaking wonder, gut wrenching laughter, heart touched tenderness and empathetic tears.

Never letting the truth stand in the way of a good story, Elliott’s ninth book takes you on a wild journey of “Wow! Really! I can’t believe that!” every day moments. Sandy Bottoms & Duct Taped Hearts exemplifies his gift of capturing common thoughts and painting them perfectly into words. Release date (pre-order books ship) is September 23, 2013.