For Florida

You Know You're a Presbyterian When...

...your church government reneges on the divinity of Christ, the immaculate conception, the Resurrection, and the doctrine of salvation, resulting in an enormous schism that splits the church in half. Oh wait...that really happened!

Delicious!

This baby has been carved out of marzipan.

Marzipan: (mar-zee-pan) n. a sweet paste made of ground almonds and sugar, often with egg whites or yolks, used as a layer in cakes or molded into ornamental shapes.

I'm just gonna leave it at that. This one's just too weird for even me to touch.

You Know You're a Presbyterian When...

...you ask the person next to you to be quiet during the annual Messiah Christmas sing-along.

"This isn't a game, solider!"

Well? Do YOU have FEAR? I know I have it. I have it in spades. Although I just HAVE to say, I've started doing something ever since playing Halo on my PC that is greatly affecting my FEAR experience...

Since the hero (the person through whose eyes we see the action--that's why they call it a First Person Shooter) never speaks in these F.P.S. games, I've taken to speaking FOR him and responding to what the supporting characters have to say. Maybe it's because I've been playing so much 'Phoenix Wright: Ace Attorney' on my DS (you talk into the DS microphone during the trials! "Hold it!" "Objection!" "Take that!"), or maybe it's the effect of living alone for so long.

Whatever the reason, there's nothing more fun than being briefed by the chief who points at you and says, "You're the man for this operation!" and shaking your head NO, saying to the computer screen, "Get somebody else! I-I've got a dental appointment!"

So it's my first day on the job. Me and my partner are investigating a haunted office building and we stumble across a body that's had its lower jaw completely removed. My partner says, "I'll stay here. You go on ahead and check things out." And what do you think I said?

"Are you KIDDING? I'm the newbie! And there's a mangled body drenched in blood sitting here! Why don't YOU go and I'll stay here with the body?!"

"What are you waiting for? Move out!" comes the response from the partner that cues up automatically if you stand still for too long.

"I'm going! I'm going! But this job SUCKS! "

As a result, the whole FEAR experience, which is meant to terrify the pants off anyone who plays this game, has become quite comical. Take, for example, what happens moments after leaving your partner to investigate the deserted building. You're walking along...suddenly, you see the figure of the cliché little-Japanese-ghost-girl-with-hair-covering-her-face dart past a partially open door. You could be quiet and let the tension mount--or you could say what I said: "HOLY CRAP!! What the crap was THAT?!"

You burst through the door only to find that no one is on the other side. Then you walk very slowly through the next room, saying, "He-hello? Hello? Um...hello?" like Madeline Kahn in "What's Up, Doc?"

I might as well be playing the Looney Tunes theme as I play. But you've got to do something when you've got dialogue like:

Aide: Senator, Mr. Fettel has escaped from the psychic insane asylum and is controlling an army of clone soldiers with his mind.

Senator: (very Charleton Heston--a bit TOO serious) My....God....!

You Know You're a Presbyterian When...

...you go to a concert or play and everybody claps at the end...while you fight the urge to sit on your hands.


**Note: As a member of the Presbyterian Church in America, I'm allowed to make these sorts of nose-tweaking observations. You know. Like Catholics poking fun at being Catholic (and honestly, what's NOT funny about being Catholic?). It's all in good fun. Unless, of course, you're NOT a Presbyterian and start making fun of us. Then it's a hate crime. There's the disclaimer.**

Women and the Wheel

DISCLAIMER! To females and Presbyterians: THIS POST IS NOT MEANT TO BE TAKEN SERIOUSLY! Enjoy!

I'm madder than a NASCAR racer with square wheels over this claptrap that women are just as safe behind the wheel as the only people who ought to be driving: red-blooded American MEN!

I've replayed the car crash I was in this weekend over and over again in my head. For those of you who don't know, I was sitting at a stoplight on Friday night, minding my own business, when suddenly I heard I loud crash and everything went black for a split second. I opened my eyes. Thinking rapidly, I realized that the reason my neck was hurting was because of whiplash. Then it occurred to me what had happened. Some fool rear-ended me!

With a newfound sense of mortality, I flicked on the emergency lights and looked over my shoulder at the driver of the other car. Her eyes, for I'm sure you've already guessed it was a girl that slammed into my completely stopped car, were wide with worry. She followed me into the parking lot of a nearby apartment complex.

I hopped out, assessed the damage, then walked over to her car. Knowing that stressful situations are only made worse when people are hopping mad, I assumed an air of deep concern as I stooped by her window and asked, "Are you okay?! Oh, I'm so glad you're all right!"

I was met with the following words:

"I am so sorry. I wasn't even paying attention. My mind was in a million other places."

Of course it was! Folks, driving is a privilege, not a right. I shudder to think what would have happened had that ding-bat been driving one of those gas-guzzling SUVs. I realize the ladies like to drive those things to feel "safer" because it makes them bigger than everybody else on the road, but let's think about this: When a woman is sitting in a car, the seat all snug and cozy, the air nice and warm, soft music playing, a toasty mocha latte in her hand, and the pretty scenery racing by, what is she most likely to do?

That's right! Snuggle up and go to sleep! Or put on make-up!

As I write this there's an army of mini-tanks being driven by emotional and unstable females who are more interested in primping and keeping their eyes on their hair, rather than where they should be keeping 'em; on the poor Joe they just squashed under their two-ton wheels!

If I had my way, women who want to buy one of those Death-UVs would be required to participate in a special class that would evaluate their driving before the salesman handed them the keys.

It would be similar to a monster-truck rally only better. The women would have to drive around a fairly straightforward obstacle course full of fluffy critters like bunnies and squirrels. Then we'd get some really big truck, like that Big Foot from the 1980s, to chase after them while their husbands sit in the stands and rate their driving skills. If she can get through the course without swerving off the road to mourn for Little Bunny Foo-Foo or try to talk to about her feelings, she's okay in my book.

And if she doesn't pass the test, she would forfeit her license for a whole year and only let her husband drive. If she's not married, she'll have to walk or take the bus or hire somebody to drive her around. Unemployment would decrease and it would give our economy the much-needed shot in the arm it needs to get itself back on track.

Mark my words, after experiencing Forky's Monster-Truck driving test, she'll know how the rest of us guys feel when we see her careening down the highway in six-passenger vehicle with herself as the sole passenger. She'll think twice before saying, "No, honey, let me drive."

And I wouldn't have to get myself a new bumper!

These women are right where they belong: in the back seat!