Pray For Mojo*

Here's a brief glimpse into my relationship with my mother, the Cathoholic:

"Hi, Tony, this is your mother. Say, your father has to go in for an MRI tomorrow and I was wondering if you could pray for him or WHATEVER IT IS YOU DO THESE DAYS** that he'll be okay? Okay. I'll talk to you soon."


*My father does, in fact, look like a monkey...actually...more to the point...a monkey that looks like Popeye...only my father was in the Army and not the Navy...but...he is what he is.


**Dear Ruthie (or ROOTIE...as my father has pronounced it all the years they've been together) is still pissed that all of the Catholic edu-muh-cation/indoctrination she attempted to steep me in during my youth (or YOOT...again, dear Jim's way with the lingo) didn't take/stain me. She's certain that I'm going to Hell and, as implied by the above actual quote from her from the message she left on my voice mail, strongly suspects that I'm a practicing pagan/wiccan and more than likely know my way around a sacrificial altar and/or ceremonial bloodletting pit. The fact that she'd even want me to tap into my Dark Sources to insure my father will be well...well...that doesn't bode well as to how he's actually doing or what she suspects might be going on (not that she has any real background to make any kinda sane diagnosis...all her medical knowledge has been derived from CBS's stable of daytime soaps).

'Course, she's always been a touch MeloDramatic.

Either way, I'm talking to Beezlebubba later today.

T