090105 Ohcrap

Earlier today, like, minutes ago, I was enveloped in an effusive huge by a large, middle-aged black woman.

I hate hugs by a large, middle-aged black women.

Including my mother.

The woman in question, to be sure, is on my list of "good people", a list which also includes Bill Cosby and Mace Windu. She's a devout Baptist, a good cook, and sends my family food sometimes, especially when my brother is home from college.

But she hugs too much.

My theory is that she views my brother as a son.* When he's away, I become the surrogate Ali, even though I'm taller by an inch, and he has 25 pounds on me. Whatever the cause, she hugs me in a way that I don't let my own mother. The only bosoms I ever want to lay my weary head upon belong to Jesus, my future wife, and Cameron Diaz.* I trust issues I think I have can only be exacerbated by assault glomping by a woman twice my size and weight.* Eventually, I'll turn into Tony Shaloub's Monk. Hopefully I'll dress better.

In lcal news, a local 18 year old is finding himself seriously challanged to find motivation for his art. More at

One of our deacons just got carried out of church.[hr]

The entry above, including the foootnotes, was written yesterday in church. The deacon in question underwent a quintuple bypass several years ago. I remmber the sory, because my mother used it to convince me not to eat another egg. Seriously. I believe I was ten. The guy was 50 then. In retrospect, a quint bypass might not have been immediately precipitated by one more egg.

1.Yes, she has a son. But he's ten or so. My brother's, what, 23?
2.Preferably in reverse order.

//everytime you walk into the room·I'm afraid to move


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