And Gutenberg Lived Here: And Finally It Was Sunday.

Did you ever have one of those weeks…?

And this is the point where normal people

put down a list of the totally bizarre

and freaky

things that happened to them in the last seven days,

knowing full well that,

even though such things happen,

and are freaky,

and weird,

and scientifically fully on the edge to psychic buddies

or whatever that odd show is called,

still, everyone in my choir wants to waste choir time talking about it-

“why can’t we all sing that song that the guy from super-duper-singers-trooper

who accompanied himself

on a hollowed out cucumber sang?”

Answer:

“Because you would each have to pay for fifty-two cucumbers

before we sang the concert,

and in winter you would have to play it on a potato.”

In this world we are living in at the moment, though,

this is the norm.

And happens every week,

And happiness,

no matter what,

is still a “finding a skate key, three kinds of ice cream, and a warm puppy.”

Don’t you love Charles M Schultz?

But hey,

I’m just a conductor-

with an a capella bend,

and a true love

of groups like Crossroads,

or the old Gas House Gang

(barbershop super-stars from St Louis-

listen to their version of the thieving magpie if you can.)

So anyway,

this week,

due to my dislike of singers who sing at the loudness level of Brunhilda

in the Valkyerie,

while fighting electric instruments,

I found myself in a position where:

I had to bite my tongue

and not mention

that the arrangement of This Little Light Of Mine,

cheapened to three voices

and a loud piano,

is actually the arrangement they use in Sunday School Kindergartens in the States.

I just told them it wasn’t fancy enough for their talent level,

and they could do better.

Next week, if they try again to convince me-

they are famous for not giving up-

I will teach them the candle in the hand gesture,

waving arms for sun rays,

and tent made of hands

to signify a bushel

the song requires to be effective.

Perhaps with a cute little turn

that shows off their hair ribbons

and black patent shoes.

Did I mention it was a bad week?

Then, of course, there was the fact that

the city is trying to force us to use trams

by doing massive roadwork here,

dropping the tempo limit to twenty mph,

even though there are no schools,

and it isn’t fuel-efficient,

and closing at least one of each two lanes

on each of the roads into the city.

Hurrah.

And then,

there is my personal psychotic troll,

who wrote me she is the one who caught Creflo Dollar,

and is now after me.

And if you don’t know who Creflo dollar is,

neither does she.

Our tax man,

an incredibly kind and decent type we have known for many years,

laughed till the tears came at this idiot,

and then mentioned that this is now apparently the norm in this world.

And since we owed nothing,

we laughed all the way home.

Where we found that,

by precise use

of honest prayer,

and the exact application

of a mystical wonder-spell,

our world is being held in order

by our team of Sam,

the guardian angel,

and Mabel,

our fairy godmother,

both of whom,

with our dear friends

in the internet watch league,

have thankfully accepted missions

to watch over us,

and protect us from all bizarre happenings,

and psychotic troll folk

from blog

to blog,

including the ones about cucumber flutes,

and fairies,

Brunhilda,

Snoopy,

and Creflo Dollar’s psychotic tax troll.

Thanks guys.

And Happy Sunday.

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