Cup of John

In a recent New York Times article about a Vatican envoy sent to Iraq in order to prevent war, the Pope was quoted as saying “No to war!” Now c’mon. An exclamation point? We’re talking about the pope here. The pope doesn’t yell. Maybe sometimes he has an elevated mumble, but never his is voice at a decibel level that would deem the use of an exclamation point in a quotation. (For those of you out there saying, “How do you know he doesn’t yell, what are you married to him?”, I remind you that if it wasn’t for a number of Catholic priests gambling and fooling around, then Martin Luther would have never had inspiration for the Reformation and none of those other little religions would exist. You should be kissing our feet and rolling the die. So I am not married to the pope you jackass.) Even when the pope tries to yell at his doq to sit, the pontiff himself needs to rest in a chair and catch his breath and recover from his attempted exclamation. (Note to God: This is not blasphemy – I’m merely making fun of his age not his faith. Of course, you are old as well but I’ve always pictured you as a Jack Lalane type, you know, in his 80s but fit like an ox.)

I’m upset with the Times for adding such a quotational emphasis to the holy leader of one religion and unfairly elevating his voice level above those of theological leaders in other faiths. It’s just one of the many anti-Semitic messages hidden throughout the Times everyday.

Recently I noted that I have become completely oblivious to normal social pleasantries associated with greetings. Here are some sample exchanges:

1. Person: “How are you?”
John: “Nothing”

2. Person: “What’s up?”
John: “Good”

3. Person: “How’s it going?”
John: “Either watermellon or cantelope will be fine, thanks.”

I don’t think the person ever notices, but I realize my social ineptitude as soon as it occurs.

One time someone kindly asked, “How are you?” and I replied, “How are you? Good.” Now my mention of “Good” was directed toward his initial question, but I preceded that response with my own salutation for him. So he might think that I said “Good” in reponse to my own question posed to him, and hence I would be assuming that he was in good spirits, when in fact he could have been down on his luck or even a candidate for a kidney transplant. All I know is that ever since this incident I’ve been watching my back and now when someone greets me I pretend I’m either foreign, deaf, or foreign and deaf because we all know that the only person ruder than a Frenchman is a deaf Frenchman.

Every morning I buy a small, individual carton of Tropicana orange juice and every morning I forget to shake it before popping my straw in the perforated straw-hole on the side of the carton. Although I’ve always regarded the juice carton straw hole as one of the preeminent breakthroughs of the 20th century, I’ve found it’s one defect. Once the hole has been penetrated and the perforation is completely broken, the carton is rendered “unshakable.” At the moment one pushes the straw clean through the hole there is no turning back, no do-over, no second chance.

I’ve contemplated placing my finger over the hole and attempting a shake, but it would be just that – an attempt and a poor one at that, not nearly satisfying the “Shake Well” requirement any veteran orange juice drinker has spent years perfecting and taken for granted. The second drawback of this contingency plan is the imminent threat of spillage that would result from a one-fingered shake. Without the convenience of a shower or large barrel while I’m at work, I would never dream of attempting such a task.

Much like I fear rejection from a girl, I find myself neurotic in anticipating when I will next encounter my morning orange juice and drink an uneven mixture of bottom-dwelling orange pulp and watered down concentrate. Despite my attempts at remembering to shake first, every episode concludes with my consumption of an unmixed and sour morning juice.

I can’t continue like this, it’s time that my little carton and I go our separate ways. I know, there are plenty of juices in the sea, but I just wish there could have been a resolution.

It’s at times like these that I wish I had a time machine.

If Frank Sinatra is the musical father of New Jersey, and Bruce Springsteen is the son, then Bon Jovi is the illegitimate child of New Jersey and South Carolina.