"I have nothing against members of the clergy. But if they play their cards right, that can change." - Mae West (during a special post-death appearance on my garage wall)
I've
never been religiously inclined myself, but I do keep up on the latest
plays and scores in my newspaper's Theological Sports section.
Last
I checked, the Roman Catholic Church was leading the Christian League (Western
Division) with 981,456,000 souls batted in. Now that's a lot of souls,
even if you discount the errors and the base stealers, and it makes me
glad that I'm just reading about them in the paper rather than having paid
real money to watch them all troop around the bases at the Astrochurch
or - God forbid - having to battle them all for a place in line at the
wafer stand (which never seems to have any catsup no matter how early you
get there).
In second
place - just as they have been for the last 400 seasons or so - are the
Protestants, but you have to remember that this isn't entirely due to their
possibly weaker pitch and inability to swing. At least as important
is the fact that they keep score differently. Whereas Catholics count
as a run any soul who has ever touched home plate even once in the middle
of winter on a drunken dare, Protestants count only those who hit a homer
or are batted in during an official game and then still have the strength
to brag to everyone they meet about it for the rest of their mortal career.
Despite
these differences, both Catholic and Protestant scouts now seem to be having
about equal success recruiting new players and coaches from such minor
league teams as Amway, the NBA, and the Federal Penitentiary System.
My favorite
part of the Theological Sports section, however, isn't the scorebox but
the column written by Mahatma Abraham Chiang. Mac, as he's affectionately
known to his regular readers, goes into the great beyond that lurks behind
the commonest aspects of his chosen subject in order to grapple with whatever
deep issues he may find there. Or with the closest loud-mouth fan
if no deep issues are to be found. Today's uniquely insightful column
was no exception.
It seems
there was this guy whom Mac refers to only as "Juan." Juan lives in Las
Vegas, Nebraska and wanted to organize a new bowling team called the Holy
Rollers. League rules there limited him to 5 members, including Juan
himself. Somehow, though, Juan managed to get the Holy Trinity to
agree to play for his team, then tried to tell league officials that They
amounted to just a single player. These league officials were mighty
skeptical.
"Juan,"
they tried to reason with him when no one was looking. "You've got
God Almighty on your team. You've got the Holy Ghost. You yourself
are the best damn human bowler in the entire 672-square-mile tri-county
area! What do you need three more players for? How about
giving the rest of us a sporting chance, eh?"
But Juan
was adamant: The Holy Trinity should count as a single player, even if
it meant They had to share a single pair of shoes between 'em.
In the
end, the officials felt they had no choice but to disqualify Juan and bar
him and his team from all league play. Rules are rules, they said,
but many objective observers thought their decision had more to do with
not wanting to have Jesus in a position to overhear their locker room talk
than anything else.
"What
do YOU think?" Mac ended his column, as he always does whenever he can't
find a dynamite Hindu limerick to close with.
What
do I think? I wish I knew... I wish I knew....
Right
now, I'd settle for knowing the name of the first person to use that catchy
phrase "tri-county area."
But then,
admittedly, I'm a bit distracted right now. It's Sunday, and I've
always hated this time period I long ago christened "Sunday, Brain Dead
Sunday." Samuel Johnson may have been right when he said that nothing
concentrates the mind so well as knowing that you're going to be hanged
in a fortnight, but if so, I'm afraid I'm lost, having no idea how to arrange
that state of affairs for myself just now.
It's
always been this way for me. I suspect it boils down to a primordial
dread of Monday - which, come to think of it, has always struck me as a
kind of weekly hanging, yet one which has never helped concentrate my mind
in the least, so... maybe Johnson was wrong. Is that possible??
A human being who's actually fallible???
Thank
goodness the silly bloke was a writer and not a bus driver!
Maybe
Sunday has always been this way for everybody. What else but a desperate,
mind-altering urge to flee an on-rushing Monday morning might explain
the way millions used to flock to their TV sets at 8pm Sunday nights to
watch people spin plates atop long sticks. Even now, the music
which accompanied these grim exploits haunts me - music which sounded like
some bastard child of the "Jaws" and "Psycho" themes after eating the "Twilight
Zone" tune whole.
AAAARRRRGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!!!
Ahem.
Excuse me.
I'd intended
to spend the day organizing my own religion, then signing up sponsors for
the snazzy black-and-blue uniforms, but I can't - I just can't. My
left hand is telling me to take the face I keep in a box in my right and
hit myself in the head with it until the funny little Italian mouse lurking
inside is gone - gone for good!
Wish
me luck? Please???
There
just might be eternal life in it for you, you know.
I'll
get back to you on this after the special little pamphlet I've written
comes back from the printers.
(All Material Not An Obvious
Rip-Off Of Some Other Aspect Of Western Civilization © 1999 by Dan
Birtcher)
