Soon we'll be making another run

I'm gung-ho for any and all opportunities to speak in front of a crowd, any size. Location and subject are irrelevant but I'm quite skilled at managing to say the wrong thing whenever the opportunity presents itself. It's just a talent that I've honed, sharpened and workshopped for many years. Not really sure if it stems from nervousness (probably) or my total lack of basic social skills (possibly), but in my continual efforts to reassure my audience, that I know how ridiculous the very thought of me speaking, perhaps imparting wisdom or perhaps just droning on about nothing in particular, to them is usually results in multiple violations of Robert's Rules of Order

There was the time way back when in church when I was doing the children's sermon. The previous sermonizer (my bestest pal, Christopher) split for seminary and left a gap that for some reason the powers that be felt I could fill. Apparently, they felt all the happy, feel goodness and wonder that a child should find in church needed a healthy dose of cynicism and real world bile. Who was I to argue? Believe it or not, I actually enjoyed doing these things and think the kids dug me because I treated them like adults. We often went out for coffee and discussions on Kierkegaarde afterwards. Don't worry I provided the smokes since they were underage.

Anyway, there was this one kid who came down just about every Sunday and just drove me bonkers. I know it makes me sound awful but I couldn't stand him. Every Sunday I would secretly hope his family had moved to Estonia the past week. He couldn't be still, constantly talked and enjoyed making smart-ass comments as I was trying in vain to relate to the kids by using baseball cards or records. If I'd kept it up I'm sure at some point I'd tried to explain nuclear fusion to them.

But as for this kid, he was like Martin Short's man child, Clifford, a little boy who everyone thinks is darling but only one man, Charles Grodin, sees the light and Clifford for the spawn of Hell he actually is. As always, Charles Grodin is awesome. Fitting then that I should get to imitate one of my heroes in real life. Like Grodin, I always did my best to humor this demon seed and mask my contempt with a slow burn or some sardonic thought. Any verbal comments were lighthearted enough for the congregation proper and usually met with a light chuckle. If only they'd known of my loathing.

But one time right before Christmas I was talking about Jesus or the manger or some such and this kid would not shush. No great surprise. I guess I thought I really nailed the children's sermon that week and did not want to be deterred. As is probably obvious, in the best of times, I ramble. If I get to rambling and become annoyed, then the venom really comes out. So this kid was yapping, probably all excited about Christmas as kids generally should be and are. I decided to ask the kids what they wanted for Christmas. Susie wanted a doll, Jimmy a bike and Johnny a baseball bat (For the purposes of this anecdote, assume it's 1950). So I came to Hellboy and asked what he wanted. Maybe he only wanted a dollar to give to world hunger or pair of shoes for his terminally ill mother. More realistically, I suspect he'd have preferred a kitten to drown or a gun to shoot me. Regardless, before he could answer I cut him off. "I'm pretty sure Santa's not coming to see you this year since you've been so bad. So it doesn't matter anyway." Oh...snap.

And I carried on telling the kids about God's love and the wonders of Christmas.

Now if I were truly an awful person I would end the story there, content that my reputation as terrorizer of tiny town par excellence would be secure. But I am human and generally not a bastard, especially to kids. Therefore I must add that as I was actually saying the above the other part of my brain was frantically trying to induce a stroke or aneurysm, something/anything to shut me up before my train got to its destination. It's odd how quickly one can process several different items at light speed when the situation requires yet can take 2 hours to decide whether it's a Big Mac or Whopper kind of night. Perhaps, this is a curse which only I bear.

In addition, I should point out that there was no visible reaction from the child, a hunch this was not the first nor the last time he had been told this. The other children and the congregation gave their usual chuckle, so I'm fairly confident they took this as a playful little dig and not as the there's-a-pitchfork-being-sharpened-for-you-down-below-right-now comment I intended it. I suppose they could have been laughing through their horror. I try not to think about that option too much. And I'm pretty sure the kid ended up in juvvie or jail. Heck, he may be on the lam right now. Probably coming after me. Gee, I certainly hope not.

Selah.