Monday, August 31, 2009

Will the Good Old Days Please Stand Up

Somewhere down on the east end of my a.m radio dial, I heard a preacher the other day telling everybody that this nation was headed down the tubes and what we needed was a big revival. “We all need to pray” I think is how he phrased it “in order to get this country back to the good old days”. You know me well enough by now to know that I am going to have a few questions, even over a simply one-liner like that. Not that I necessarily disagree with his premise, but I did get my forehead wrinkled by his solution.

“We need everybody in this country to pray for a return to the good old days,” he said.

One thing that comes to my mind has to be just which good old days is this guy talking about? I know if you’ve ever listened to G Gordon Liddy, the baldheaded Watergate felon turned conservative radio strong arm, the glory days for music, anyway, was the big band era. Well he did slip once and admit he liked Abba, but other than that bunch of Scandinavian blonde hairs, I doubt the G Man’s got a single musical end product in his house on the Potomac that’s not made of wax. Of course if it’s the music that the good reverend if referring to, I’d have to throw my vote to that second golden age of country- country music that is. Around 1975- Merle Haggard, Randy Travis, Alabama; my gosh can anybody hold a candle to their wind?

But I’m thinking what the rev had in mind was something a little bit bigger than that, probably more than just show biz. OK Fine. I was born in 56, lived my formidable highly impressionable early years in the 60’s. Did have to mow the yard- that and cut the mustard in that all boys high school I was attending. Other than that, I’d say my childhood was just about perfect. And what I think I liked the most was the summers I spent up on the family farm with my grandparents. All the eggs and biscuits I could eat, a smooth running pick-up at my complete disposal; as long as I kept her on the back 40. And cute little Jean Ann “What’s Her Name” living right there across the street; with me going through the change. Not that we ever did anything. In fact, I believe the only time we ever touched was when I tackled her trying to run the double-reverse in a Sunday afternoon football game. Kids don’t seem to play like that anymore; but we sure had a good time back then. In fact, that entire summer seemed perfect. Thinking back, that was about as good as it got at least from where I was sitting. Wonder if that’s what that preacher was talking about- my summer of 1967. If I’d thought it would have helped in the least bit, maybe I could have talked grandma into letting everbody stay there. Course there I go again; just looking at things from my perspective.

OK maybe your version of the sixties was just a bit foggier than mine- if you were even alive then. So just when those glory days here were in Uncle Sam land?

I lived through the eighties and I’ll vouch that it wasn’t them. I mean glory days and leisure suits should not be used in the same sentence. Plus, you remember how bad the hair was? Maybe it was the fifties. I don’t know much about how the Dow Jones was doing back then- what was it at- 75? Seems though like things were simpler- everything in black and white; literally. No that couldn’t have been them because we got ourselves into Korea for some reason. And I do recall colored people seem to have been taking it on the chin pretty bad then too. Of course it wouldn’t have the forties either. We lost so many in the WWII, but them that made it back sure bought a lot of houses.

The depression took up most of the thirties, the twenties and thirties I've read. That left such a bad taste in people’s mouths, at least regarding work and money. My dad just turned 83, and he still talks about how tough it was back then. Now the twenties, they sure sounded fun. The roaring twenties I think they called them. Flapper dancers, vaudeville, breweries springing up everywhere. Oops- that’s what got all the holy rollers uptight to begin with; and that only brings us back to square one.

Maybe it’s the eighteen hundreds this preacher has in mind. It’s hard to get a personal rendition on what it was like back then, on account that 99.9 percent of the people who lived then didn’t make it to the 2000 New Years count down. I don’t know though; as much as those couples bitched on Frontier Life on PBS up in Montana, I don’t believe most of us today could handle that lifestyle very good anyhow. So I’ll have to say I have no clue- at least in America- what age this fellow is grabbing for.

But I guess my other question is this- ok suppose we do figure out just which years we want to dial our time machine into, what are we suppose to ask for or pray about anyway? And how are we ever going to get that many people agreeing to something like this? You know how hard it is to get a consensus? From 352 million people? I remember before he kicked the bucket, you couldn’t get Siskel to agree with Ebert about anything, at least when it came to Hollywood stuff. And that’s just two fellers. And this dude expects everybody in the country to drop and give him 20?

Again it goes back to the bigger question. We probably won’t get any agreement just to where we’re going, and you probably won’t be able to get everybody along on the same ride. Seems to me like- wouldn’t just one guy- with a real good prayer- be able to get us all back into some sort of civil shape that could make everybody happy? Just one person, with a good attitude and some real prayer power; why he ought to be able to move mountains. That’s what they’re always promising. Just one guy- or it could be a girl- though it seems more like a guy’s job; one guy praying on behalf of the rest of us, getting us to move down that straight and narrow in lockstep; how about one of those dynamic and tv hogging preachers we see every Sunday; or maybe somebody like the pope or something. Just one fellow, giving it all he’s got, with one of those long winded prayers for our nation, our people, our children, our safety, our jobs, our health, …….

Hey wait a second. I think we’ve already got somebody doing that.

Oh well- back to the drawing board.

Monday, August 24, 2009

Nation Under Who

There’ve been a lot of news headlines lately about this being a nation, a nation under God. Nothing like taking a slap at one of our American symbols that will sure draw the ire out of good folks. I don’t blame them on this one. Some dads need to focus more on junior’s multiplication tables and sentence diagrams rather than hauling the school system into court over a simple pledge.

I never served in the military. They quit enlisting right after I got my draft card during the Vietnam era. But I do love this country of ours. I fly the flag daily, take my hat off at the national anthem, and get big chills when an F-16 flies by or I see a bald eagle. And I’d watch a presidential state of the union everyday if he felt so inclined for the chronic updates. So patriotic? Me? You bet your bottom dollar.

But this being a nation under God? I really don’t believe that’s quite my call. I am aware that it was the brainchild of those remarkable forefathers of ours, Thomas Jefferson et all; but I don’t think I would have ever come up with that moniker myself. Nor would I sue somebody over a few words and ruin everybody else’s parade, but I do like to ponder it.

I know there’s a lot of folks in this country who think the sun rises and sets around their derriere, but this being a nation under God? Wow, that’s a toughie. I can see how that might sound a bit presumptuous to a lot of our foreign friends, leaving them out in the cold and all. Then again who cares what the French think. It does make you wonder though. Who created their nations? Beelzebub and Brown and Root?

No, it seems to me, based on my readings, that this is more probably a whole world under, or maybe a solar system under God, or whatever the biggest word we can come up with to describe everything. So just trying to claim Him as our own? Kind of reminds me how the kids at day care shared their candy after Easter.

But now that we’re on the subject, let’s just suppose that this really is a nation under God. I’d like to taste the proof in that pudding?

Maybe God was on our side early on when we got here and wiped out all those eastern seaboard Indians, and then when we headed west and wiped out all those mid-western plains Indians, and of course after we settled Florida and herded up all those southeastern Indians and sent them to Oklahoma. Yep, there was no doubt a lot of divine providence going on back then. Though it probably didn’t hurt that we had whiskey; whiskey, rifles, and syphilis on our side.

And I’d like to think that it was God who helped us against the Nazis and the Japanese and all those other evil empires of old back during WW’s I and II, but there again I’m guessing it really came down to good ole American military firepower. Like today, look around. Sure we can still win wars, but how’s the rest of our landscape look? Where’s God in all of that?

It’s not like the Christians haven’t established a pretty good foot-hold for themselves here in the contiguous forty eight. Though the percentage has been dropping since they started polling in the mid 1900s, some 77% of the population, or approximately 280,000,000 Americans claim to be Christian. There are approximately 68,500 Christian churches here in America. The Christian products industry tracks approximately $4.2 billion dollars in annual sales. There are approximately 43 different Christian TV shows beaming out to the four corners. Finally, Americans are as charitable a bunch as any nation in the history of the universe; tithing some $103.3 billion dollars in 2008 alone. Simply amazing. Some folks just can’t hang on to a dime. I do wonder though how smart and selective they are dropping their ten percent in the wicker basket each week.

Far be it from me to lay all the blame over there, but you have to admit, by in large the church population in our country has suffered, on a statistical basis at least, just as much divorce, bankruptcy, unwanted pregnancies, murder, drug abuse, prison time, school drop outs, suicide, incest, and felonies as the rest of us. Of course, were this just another organization, the Boys Club for example, or the Daughters of the American Revolution, then I’d chalk it up as just another case for the law of averages. But these are supposed to be church folks.

In a recent report from the US Department of Educations’ National Center, the Secretary of Education tells us that basically we’re just average. Finland and Canada cleaned our clocks in reading, where we tied the Czech Republic. In math and science- you guessed it. Japan and Korea held top honors where we again tied the Czech Republic; the Czechs and the Norwegians if that makes you feel any better.

And have you seen Greg Critser’s book "Fat Land" in your local bookstore yet? He tells us sixty percent of Americans are overweight and twenty percent are obese and approximately one quarter of Americans under the age of nineteen are too heavy, a figure that has doubled in the last thirty years.

I know there’s more to life than looks and academic inclination. But I thought this body, this nation of folks presuming to be under God above all others, is suppose to have that heavenly host, that invincible shield watching their collective backside. Really makes me wonder though. From the looks of it, we’re about like most of the other countries in this ole world. Not pointing fingers or nothing. I say, if this really is a nation under God, all playing children of God, then we’re owed some back-due child support.

Wednesday, August 19, 2009

Kirk's Old Testament

Growing up in Nashville, the very buckle of the proverbial Bible belt, I suppose it was inevitable that I too would launch my very own spiritual journey. Though 53 years later, I am truly amazed that I've ended up here; while it seems that everybody else is way over there. Are we all looking at the same thing I wonder?

Our family weren't church goers. Apparently mother's Missouri Catholic and dad's Alabama Baptist roots were too dry to blossom in our middle class ranch style in the 60s. So I was left to fend for myself in the war between good and evil. And in those very early days, it looked like good may have won. Not bragging but I was a great kid. Kept my hair cut short, fed the dog, and I loved going to Mass with my Aunt Pearlie. I really didn’t understood what was going on, and never did figure out all the standing and kneeling. But the place always smelled good when the priest scattered that incense. And I sure loved the doughnuts when it was over.

I got into college, the University of Alabama. Here my religious trek went off in all different directions; not so much caused by the liberal philosophies I was learning in the classroom. Rather due to all the girls I was dating. You see it was a common courtesy in Alabama to go to church with any girl you were seeing. So one week I might be a Methodist, the next week an Episcopalian. While I couldn't vouch for the specific homilies of either, I can say that those Protestants sure had some good looking members.

In order to help cover the financial costs of going to college, I got involved in a summertime activity that I suppose, looking back on it, brought me in touch with more folks than a hundred missionaries. I sold Bibles door-to-door. Straight commission work and strictly business; I wasn’t trying to save people; I wanted to sell them something. I did pretty well at it, number one salesman in the company and saved over $6000 in 1976, working not too far from where I live today. Yep after six summers, six different states, and seeing over 10,000 families I learned a real truth about the Bible- some folks had one and some folks didn’t.

It wouldn't be too far down the road though before evil completely took over my whole existence. I married my first wife. This really was hell.

But even in that despair, whether it was Providence or just the United States Postal Service, I would receive my revelation, that angelic message, a helping hand cast down from above. It was a piece of junk mail, bulk code, inviting me to an eschatological lecture. A quick glance in my Webster’s confirmed what I only suspected- world ending events. This was great news. My matrimonial burden didn’t seem quite so heavy anymore.

As it would turn out, the lecture was just a front for an indoctrination process hosted by the Church. But as miserable as I was at home, and as crazy as everything else was in my life at the time, I bought it hook line and sinker. I finished that ten week course and got baptized by immersion one Sabbath Day morn. I was a changed man. Stopped going to pool halls, stopped drinking, started reading my Bible every day. I can say that group of church people were as genuine and sincere and caring a bunch of people as I have ever known in my life. I tried hard to fit in. I played on the softball team, helped out in the nursery, and even mowed the church lawn from time to time.

Down deep I was still miserable. While I didn’t know exactly who I was, this church Kirk just wasn’t it.

I remember my epiphany just like it was yesterday. I was out on our boat in the middle of Watts Bar Lake. I cracked open the first cold beer I had had in seven months. I was going through the motions, doing and saying what I thought I should be doing and saying, giving and giving and investing my time in spiritual matters. Doing my best to refrain from the world- however the heck you’re supposed to do that. But nothing was coming back in. My well was running dry. This newfound relationship with Jesus, or God, or whoever, felt just my old relationships when I was by myself. Would it require more time, more money, more prayer, more church? Was I ever going to be truly happy?

Slowly my church life faded.

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Give Me That Old Time Religion

You know how kids like to holler, “They get all the good stuff!” I think I’m starting to feel like a kid again, because when it comes to religion in this country, they, the people who lived long ago, most definitely got all the good stuff.

What am I talking about you wonder? I’ll tell you what I’m talking about. Two thousand years ago, twelve, or I guess it was eleven after the one guy killed himself; anyway eleven dudes got to watch Jesus fly off up into outer space. I would love to have seen that. What do we get? 200 middle aged Catholic codgers learning how not to play with little Johnny’s pee-pee.

Now I know there’s a lot of things in this ole world that you just can’t control; like when you were born, or where you were born, or who else is alive when you are. And as tickled as I am to have enjoyed contemporary things like Willie Nelson, man landing on the moon, and Alabama winning back to back national titles, when it comes to the religion sector around here, these modern times are definitely the pits.

It just seems like we can’t get a good old juicy miracle like they used to. No, we get stuck with trying to find something special in those nice but not too fanciful pretty sunsets, or a tumor that disappears for no medical reason, or, and I always like this one, when our favorite ball-team takes the title. Can you say Diamondbacks?

I mean wouldn’t you just once like to see a woman turn into a pillar of salt? I’ve got an ex-wife I would pay to see that done to, a couple of times if you could. Maybe Mortons can recommend somebody. I have seen it hot enough when I was in Tucson, Arizona to cook eggs on a sidewalk, but I’ll bet that drew nowhere near the crowd that that bush did catching on fire that time all by itself in the Old Testament. And I’m a handy one around the kitchen; why I even make my own beer, so I could have probably picked up a tip or two if I had just had the chance to see all that water turn into wine. Of course, you don’t want to do that too fast. If your specific gravity hasn’t settled out, you can blow the tops off your bottles; but I’m sure the Big Man had that part completely under control.

You know to think of it; maybe I have been privy to more miracles than I first thought. I know you won’t believe this one, but, when I was about seven, I had a wart on my hand. I tried everything under the sun to get that off. I dug it, rubbed it, picked it, poked it, put Compound W on it; but nothing ever seemed to work. My mom’s mom was visiting us. She was in her sixties at the time. Anyway, she told me to get a piece of string, so I cut some newspaper cord about six inches long. She took that string, tied it in a knot over my wart and told me to go bury it in the yard. I did what she said down to the t, and sure enough, sometime over the next few days that wart went away, and I’ve had the prettiest hands ever since. My girl friend thinks I have Richard Gere hands. I guess that’s a good thing, but that sure was a surprise.

I don’t know if it came out of the Bible, but my other grandmother would always do things on the family farm according to the signs, signs of the moon I think she meant. We couldn’t doctor cows, or plant gardens, or mow hay unless the signs were right. I’m not sure what her final batting average was but things usually worked out to plan.

Would these count or be considered in the same level as Biblical miracles? I don’t believe I’ve got enough to start my own religion or anything like that; I just wonder.

The Catholics are about the only faith I know of that seem to have had any miracles lately. I recently passed through a little community down in South Louisiana Cajun territory. The sign at the city limits said that there had been a miracle in that very spot only 150 years ago. Dang; missed that one too.

I don’t know, seems like the people back then were a whole lot more colorful, larger than life in every way. I would love to been in the locker room in 1099 when Pope Urban gave the dramatic and all inspiring speech that sent hundreds of thousands of Christian soldiers storming out across Europe to take back what was rightfully theirs from those stinking Muslims. He must have been a real man’s man to have pulled that off; a big stout son-of-a-gun I’m guessing. Today’s pope? An octogenarian with a spit cup grabbing on with dear life to a golf cart as he tools around the Vatican. Sometimes life really isn’t fair.

There have been several big trials in religious history. Of course, first there was Jesus, and then Stephen, and later Paul. Jim Bakker had to go to trial. I remember he cried like a baby when they threw him in the patrol car. Like the evil guy in Austin Powers says, “Throw me a bone here”. A few more modern day miracles would go a long way towards changing us skeptics in the world.

It just seems like you have go back, way back in time to see any sort of miraculous occurrence. But I ‘m not so sure you can believe what you read anyway. Nope, they weren’t covered live in the news, no eye-witness accounts. Heaven forbid somebody standing there grab a pencil and come up with a few measly one liners on what just took place. It seems, as the story would go, these miracles were only written about later, much, much later. Of course everybody talked about them. They talked about them for years, hundreds of years in some cases, put their spin on it of course, and then passed them on down the line. Eventually years, decades later, some guy then got the clever idea to put it into print. I say a day late and a dollar short. Though I’ll tell you, if I ever see anything that comes close to knocking a wall over with a bugle, or however that one went, I’m writing it down. Why I’ll even take a picture.

Monday, August 17, 2009

Pen Pals Anyone

Hey I know the benefit of friends in high places. There’s nothing like having that contact, that friend of a friend, that person on the inside when you need one. I guess that’s why everybody was so tore up when John Gotti died. Even behind bars, he apparently was the go to man. Now I’ve never ever had any dealings with the mob; I did have a rather suspicious neighbor one time when I lived in Texas. But from what I’ve seen on the movies, there’s nothing that could fix the flat tire on the road of life like being on the good foot with the Godfather. Need rent money, call the Godfather; Susie needs braces, call the Godfather. Neighbor’s dogs bark too much? Just tell him when you want it done. So what, if he lived and breathed on the wrong side of the law; that guy could get things done.

I guess that’s why I never really understood what it meant to have that personal relationship with Jesus. Come on now; nobody’s seen hide nor hair of this fellow for two thousand years. Sure he’s in books, and lots of them, and he’s in pictures, and lots of them too. And everybody sure talks about him all the time, especially on the weekend. But it seems to me like we’re the ones doing all the work. Granted, he’s one of the most popular figures in world history. Time can do that to a guy. But what would you think if you’re neighbor had a thing for some other ancient figure, say like Julius Caesar, or Marco Polo. Wouldn’t you have to agree that they were just a little bit nuts.

I tell you what I’m talking about. Some people, and a lot of them, go through their whole day acting like Jesus is right on their shoulder, with them on every move. They talk to him, they sing to him, they ask him questions. They plead, they beg, they argue. Jimmy Stewart did that in the movie Harvey, and everybody called him crazy.

Dad always taught me the way to do business is to look the fellow in the eye, shake hands, and you had a deal. This messianic arrangement doesn’t go by those normal rules. It seems to me to be so lopsided, almost a no win situation. I mean it’s just you, and you.

Yeah, if I was going turn my life over to anybody, I think I’d have to know what he looked like first, or at least have some way to get in touch. Just in case he was late, or I was late, or something. I mean there’s a whole lot to this.

I noticed on the Survivor show the other day, the black fellow from Harlem. He bragged all the time about his personal relationship with Jesus. And it looked like it might have paid off when he busted all those coconuts the fastest and won that red mini-van. But I guess Jesus must have gotten tied up with somebody else’s game show somewhere, because the he got booted off the next go-around. Funny thing was though I didn’t see Jesus taking any of the heat for that one.

Come to think of it, that seems to be the way a lot of folks use or deal with Jesus in their so called personal relationship. He always came across as being a lot tougher than that in print, but in real life, most of the time people only want to give him credit when something good happens; the same way people treat their little lap dog or a brand new baby.

If I live to be 800, just like Methuselah did, I will never forget the prayer groups and all the hoopla before the OJ Simpson verdict came down. Relatives of the victims, bless their hearts, had prayed that God and Jesus would do the right thing. OJ’s mom and sisters had prayed that God and Jesus would do the right thing. Well as it would turn out, I guess Jesus must have been a Buffalo Bills fan or was at least hoping to see Police Academy IV, because the jury dropped the ball and let the a-hole loose. But at least Jesus was happy. His will be done, right?

Yeah the idea of Jesus as a buddy system has certainly grabbed hold. Of course it hasn’t always been like that. In their on again-off again affair, there were times when it would have been easier for Abraham to get into a Tiger Woods foursome than sit down and break bread with the Big Man.

Us, why we treat Jesus like he’s our favorite drinking buddy, a real pal. There are even folks today who want to take it to the next level and argue via their license plates. Everybody’s seen the tag that reads God is my Co-pilot. Well some outfit, and it must be an even more right winged fanatic group, have put out their own plates to counteract. If God is Your Co-Pilot, You Better Change Seats; no doubt some real brainiacs running this public awareness campaign. I wouldn’t like riding with any of them if you want to know the truth.

I’ve given this a lot of thought. Just think about it. Some guy claims to have a personal relationship with the essence, or being, or whatever that perhaps created the earth under their house; not only that but all the land across the entire state, why even the whole nation; and not only that but we’re talking these same folks have this personal one-on-one with the entity that created not only our earth, and moon, but all the other planets, plus the sun, plus the ga-zillions of other stars and moons and planets and everything else out there that is. Do you hear what I’m saying? People here actually claim to have some type of something with whatever it was that made all things, and still they can’t drop fifteen pounds or get little Johnny to do his homework. If that’s the case, I think I’d find another friend.

Won’t Let Him Push Me Down

I was watching a religious channel the other day, one of those daytime programs. Everybody in the room was stomping, jumping up and down, hollering, and celebrating something that I wasn’t too clear on. But the major focus seemed to be on the preacher, and his next move. You know who I’m talking about, the short little fellow, soft skin, looks like he gets his nails polished daily, got that weird bowl haircut, and likes to wear those Paul McCartney looking Nero suits; the one with that accent. Heaven forbid he talk like the rest of us. Benny Hinn, that’s who it was.

Anyway, it was him and he was up on stage, and the amazing thing was that he was pushing all these folks down using only two fingers. Upfront, I have to tell you it wasn’t a Mike Tyson sort of hit; no it was much slighter than that, an amazingly soft two finger push down. Looked like he might have been using the cub-scout salute to floor folks. When I think back on it, I’d say he was trying to look like the Jesus picture you see on those religious calendars.

I couldn’t quite catch just what they were talking about, but these folks would mosey out on stage, whisper something, he would mumble a few words, lay his hands up on their forehead, or chin, or some other protruding body part, and then push them down. And there they’d just lie. Bad for me, the camera cut away to a commercial, so I don’t know for sure if they ever got up, or gained their senses, or died, or exactly what happened. All I know is that little Benny sure could push them folks down.

I don’t know if Jesus ever pushed ‘em down; I haven’t read that one anywhere. But you know who the modern day king of pushing ‘em down was don’t ya? It was Ernest Anglesy. What a TV evangelist icon he was. God love em. All over the airwaves in the 70’s and 80’s. I sure miss watching that guy. I believe he might have invented pushing ‘em down. I always thought Ernest acted a lot like Liberace, but he looked like he came from a long line of used car salesmen. Though when it came to pushin’ em down, ole Ernest could push em down as fast as people could haul em up. I remember watching one night during a revival from Mississippi, and Ernest had them hitting their backs faster then Madame Sophie’s on ship day.

I’ll long remember a story my second brother in law used to share about Mr. Angelsy. Erney was working it hard one night, had a long line of folks on stage, when one fellow came up to get his cure. Ernest, not recognizing the return visitor, asked what the guy needed. The fellow exclaimed, “Don’t you remember Ernest, you zapped me once!” Yea, those were some great days for religious TV.

Of course the other important person in a push em down is the catcher. My guess is that this was probably the prototype for Daniel Webster’s definition of “handler”. On the surface these guys are pretty cool. They never say a word. Everything they do is based on eye-to-eye contact. They look like they could be secret service agents if they could only pass the test, but they do have a very important role- catching the folks who the preacher pushes down. After all, if they don’t do their job correctly and on time, then the push em down people could literally get their noggins knocked. Just imagine, some Joe Blow from Anytown, USA makes the trip, goes up on stage, gets his spleen cured, only to get twenty two stitches in his cranial back side just because the catcher didn’t catch him on the push em down.

Yep, I’ve about decided I’m going to go to one of those push em down heal-a-thons. You don’t suppose it’s rigged do you? I know how hard it is to get on Survivor show these days, but how about being one of those push em down people. Do you need an application, or survey, or entry form, or can you just show up? And once you do show up, you suppose somebody on the inside tells you just exactly what and how you’re suppose to do act during the push down, or is it as simple, and miraculous as it comes across on television? I did do a gig one time for the NBA, and it’s amazing the behind the scenes effort that goes on to make a smooth production.

I’m ready for anything; I just want to do it right. Yep, I’ve made my mind up. I’m going to do one of those push em down shows. The tough part is that they don’t hold those push em down shows just anywhere. No, there usually in one of the more medium size communities across this wonderful country of ours. I doubt Beverly Hills or Lower Manhattan ever hosted a push em down, but I do know that places like Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Birmingham, Alabama and Ft Worth, Texas have them all the time.

I tell you what I’m going to do. The next time they have one of those push em downs in a town, say a half a days drive from here, I’m going. I don’t know for sure what I’ll tell the preacher. I feel like I’m in pretty good shape; I’ve got all my hair, no signs of cirrhosis yet, and my weight is at decent levels. I do have two teenagers who sleep till noon; that and I could use a little better annual return on my 401 K. I know if I can get those two wishes I’ll be in like flint. And you know once you tell them to the push em down man then they’re as good as gold, as solid as a birthday candle blowout.

And I’ll promise you this. If that little fellow can push me down, and I’m 6’ 4”, weigh about 225; he’s a little guy who looks like he may play tennis at best. I doubt he’s ever broken a sweat inside a weight room. But if he can push me down, I’ll buy everything he’s selling.