I’m brand new to bloggering. I’ve never believed in it. It seemed to me a bit porlicious and transitorial ummm…a big waste of time.

But recently, I read an article on the potential usefulness of bloggering. It’s supposed to be good for you.

And I’m all about making belief changes that are good for you.

So, I’ve decided to change my blog belief and become a bloggerer after all.

But there’s so much for me to learn. For example, the article I read states that, as a new bloggerer, I must produce something each and every week–preferably on the same day. That’s a bloggering rule.

I picked Mondays.

So now, each Monday–without fail–I must produce. Or the whole world falls into ceaseless wailing, I guess.

A world wailing without cease. Yikes.

The Vatican would have to intercede, divinely smiting Mondays from the Vatican calendar for the misery of it all.

God’s own calendar. And me to blame for Mondays being smote.

It’s too much pressure.

They did something like that in the 1960s to a bunch of saints who had quit working miracles. Right after our shiny new catholic church was named for Saint Christopher, the Vatican fired him–stripped him of his saintly stature. So anything’s possible. I think he was the Patron Saint of Crummy Drivers.

Anyone who’s been on the road lately knows smiting him was a huge mistake.

Makes you wonder about your own job security though, doesn’t it? I mean, if they can fire the saints?

I always thought the saints worked for God.

Father Percival MacDonagle was our parish pastor. It was his very first parish. Everyone called him ‘Father’ except for me. I called him Percy because that’s what his parents named him. No one names their kid Father. It would confuse the other children.

Percy hated me.

You should have seen the look on old Percy MacDonagle’s face when the Vatican fired Chris a few weeks after the opening of his new church. He was blubbering and snorting like a volcano; his displeasure running off his face in viscid torrents, right into the sacred chalice–like a commoner weeping over his pint of bitters.

Naming it The Church of St. Christopher had been his idea.

And now, Percy was consigned to offering mass at what the disillusioned faithful were calling Christopher’s Place. It sounded more like an Irish pub than the House-Of-The-Most-High.

Father Percival MacDonagle–fated to serving wine and wafers at Christopher’s Place every Sunday.

He was inconsolable.

My brother Paul was altar boy that Sunday. He refused to drink from Percy MacDonagle’s chalice because of what he saw floating in it. No one else saw it though, and they all drank. My brother was mirth with laughter.

Percy was a mirth-less man.

When he saw Paul laughing, he invoked a pox upon his soul, directing him straight to hell complete with a letter of reference. And that was my brother’s last day as altar boy.

Anyway, my real article isn’t ready. So I wrote this in the meanwhile.

Hi. Welcome to my Universe.
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And thanks for being you. You’re the only you there will ever be. That makes you awesome.