Friday, May 28, 2010

I really hate Christians, sometimes.

So I am talking with a friend of mine the other day.  This friend and I have been meeting together for a couple of months now.  We basically get together and talk about life, and football, and God.  This friend is a player on the football team that I have been coaching down here.

Just to clarify, I am talking about real football, american football.  Football with pads, and hitting, and blood, and pain.  Football.

Anyway, so he asks me a question that kind of makes me think.

Why are you spending time with me?

I know the answer, but I do not want to damage the relationship with a hasty response so I take a few moments to really think it through.  A few moments to make sure that my lack of spanish doesnt make him storm out of the restaurant because I insulted his mother.  A few moments to make sure I answer the question "correctly".  A few moments.

The answer is simple, because I like to, but who is going to believe that.  Truth is, I like having him as a friend.  I like finding out about his life.  I like talking to him about God.  I meet with him because I like to.  So I tell him.

I tell him with all the passion I have, but he doesn't look convinced.  So a few moments later, he tilts his head, raises a brow in the universal sign of "BS" and asks me a follow up question.

Well, why are you always talking about God?

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

What's In A Name

Recently The Very Worst Missionary informed me of a request for information from one of her followers.  Being that the term "recently" is highly subjective, in this particular instance meaning within the last month or so, and for the life of me I cannot remember the exact verbiage of said request, I will attempt to use a bit of literary license in order to convey the emotion expressed by this reader.

El Chupacabras?  What the HELL!?  
Doesn't that piss him off?

While the answers are simple the reasons are somewhat more complex so in an effort to completely and exhaustively put this matter to rest we need to travel back, way back, to my formative years growing up on the mean streets of Loomis, California.

You see I am a rather large man, and like most rather large men I was a rather large child.  Just so you don't get the wrong idea, when I say large I mean tall, that is not to say that I am not be a little paunchy right now, and a tad more so back then, but for the sack of my ego can we please just focus on my height.  I am 6'6", or six feet six inches, or 78 inches, or 2 meters, or 200 centimeters tall.  Obviously, I have not always been that tall, but I was always the tallest kid in my class until fourth grade when Elizabeth Diebels surpassed me by an inch or so, but I outgrew her by the next year.

To continue unraveling the mysteries of my life we need to know a little about agriculture. When you have a very tall tree you always have very large roots.  These roots either dive straight down into the soil to incredible depths or they spread wide. Either way, a large tree needs a large base to keep it upright.  No base, no tree.   Likewise, a tall man needs a large base to maintain a vertical posture.  

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