Put Some Gay In Your Day, Dallas!

Me. Meatloaf. Mean.

Grateful to be back in this literary ministry this week!

Me. Brothers and Sisters, please forgive my recent absence from this column.  One week, I was on a high-seas ministry laying hands on the fallen. Apparently, I didn’t bring enough Purell and was stricken with a mild case of the Omnicom Crayolavirus. I am rebounding and prepared to share the Word with you here as I continue my weekly commentary of all current events. Pray for me.

Meatloaf. Death has been whisking through celebrities in 2022 like gas at a Mexican restaurant. Brother Sidney Poitier, Brother Bob Saget, precious Brother Louie Anderson. Now comes news about the death of a meatloaf. This one leaves me puzzled. Sure, meatloaf is a popular dinner dish, and Lord knows I have lost one or two in my culinary efforts, but why the fuss? I mean, a 74 year old meatloaf seems past its expiration anyway. Oh well.

Mean. Bless our President’s errant potty mouth. I certainly understand frustration when being on the receiving end of a stupid question. Like when people ask me, “Helen, do you believe in the Lord?” or “Helen, do you pray for sinners?” or even worse, “Helen, is Elton John a sodomite?” These questions quickly merit an inner dialogue which I am usually able to suppress. I’m going to pray that Brother Biden be stalwart in his future efforts when letting his inner dialogue escape. I, too, have often thought that the posers of unnecessary questions are certainly complete idiots. I just suggest that he refrain from being mean by bringing the subject’s mother into question. Let us bow our heads.