Undercover for Jesus

"What do you do?" she asks with a twang in her a voice from south Alabama or Texas.

"About what?" I reply sipping coffee at the counter of "The Breakfast Club" where she's taken the stool beside mine.

On her other side sits a man who waited in line beside her for the world famous restaurant to open and he's suddenly intrigued by our conversation.

"What do you mean about what?" she demands in a very high pitch Soprano on steroids voice that can shatter stained glass.

Simultaneously the staff stops cooking, waitressing, bussing and washing dishes because her voice is that grating.

"I dunno," I continue. "You talking about achieving world peace? Ending homelessness? Getting Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi to sleep together? How to prevent a last second score in a soccer game?"

"Did y'all watch?" she suddenly squeals.

The man on the other side admits he did not stuffing a fork full of over easy eggs and hash browns in his mouth.

"I was out on a date with my wife," I explain.

"It was so exciting," she claps and I swear her Dolly Parton hair moves.

Taking a sip of coffee she stares at me intensely with deadly eyes that betray the sweetness of her voice.

"I want to know what you do for a living Silly," she explains with a politician's smile.

Not wanting to talk, I give my stock answer that always shuts people up who want to know what I do for a living.

"I'm a Southern Baptist Minister," I confidently announce dropping my voice two octaves.

"Ooh," she claps again. "I'm Baptist ... Pastor."

"Shit," I mutter as Jessie the cook and Denise the waitress stifle giggles.

Darkness returns to her eyes as she stares at me again while taking another sip of coffee and she dubiously says, "You don't look like a Baptist Minister."

"Thanks," I say taking a sip of my own coffee.

The man on her other side laughs and if looks could kill she would have sent him straight to Hell in that instant.

"Alright," I say standing up. "I'm going to go proselytize or something."

Confusion fills her face.

"Save the heathens," I explain.

"Oh," she nods. "Is that why you dress wear black running shorts, a vulgar tee shirt and flip flops?"

"Yes man. I'm undercover for Jesus."

"God Bless you," she says as I leave and the entire staff bursts into glorious laughter.

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.
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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/