Bemused Amusements

Well, it'll be Easter soon, and I'd like to add some Biblical commentary.

One of the things that I never understood is why no one ever talked about Jesus's ministry in terms of the bad catering. If you think of it, that was one of the most memorable characteristics of the whole affair.

First there was the marriage at Cana where Jesus started his ministry. If you recall, the event was highlighted by the conversion of the water into wine. But what kind of lousy caterer runs out of liquor at a wedding, anyway? The bartender must have gone nuts -- thinking he was going to lose all those tips. Totally inexcusable.

Then there was the miracle of loaves and fishes. Think about it. Huge crowd of people -- and no food to feed them. A few paltry loaves and fishes. The caterer could have made a killing on that one -- taco stands, Italian ice, fried dough. . . the real miracle was that the kid with the food didn't resort to price gouging. And what did all those people drink while they ate the loaves and fishes? Nothing -- again with the nothing to drink! There you have it -- another example of lousy catering.

Then there was the Last Supper. The Romans didn't think much of the Jews -- and it's easy to see why. The Romans were Italians -- they'd have lasagna, penne, calzones, some antipasto -- wash it all down with a little Chianti. On the other hand, the Passover feast was the big meal of the year for the Jews -- and what did they serve? Unleavened bread and horseradish. I mean, have you ever actually tasted horseradish? No wonder the Romans thought that they were crazy. And all because of the catering!

It's sad how thy never talk about the important stuff in theological classes.

So, it seems as though we've stumbled into the era of performance enhancing drugs. No, I'm not talking about Viagra -- I'm talking about the use of steroids in baseball.

You could subtitle this, "The Secret that Everybody Knew." I mean, how else could those guys become that big? Eating Wheaties? Seventy years ago, Jimmie Fox's nickname was "The Beast" -- put a picture of Jimmie Foxx next to a picture of any of today's sluggers. . . OK, these modern players do lift weights, but there are some African countries that aren't as big as Jose Canseco.

Frankly, I think it's an improvement. When I was a kid, it seemed like the popular thing was for the ballplayers to drink. Mickey Mantle, Dennis Eckersley, you could run down the list. And thirty-some years ago, Bill Lee made headlines when he was asked whether he preferred Astroturf or grass. He responded that he didn't know, since he had never smoked Astroturf. Alcohol and marijuana are performance-degrading drugs -- by graduating to performance enhancing drugs, it can be argued that we have made real progress.

And maybe we'll create cottage industries that will spur the economy. I can see it now -- Jason Giambi action figures that can simulate self-injections. Or new computer-based software that can re-image videotapes of old baseball games so that we can deduct 20 feet from every Mark McGwire home run.

OK -- here's the deal. For every guy who makes the major leagues, there are tens of thousands who would give anything to take his place. And only a few of those major leaguers become superstars -- with the incredible wealth, adulation, women and their pictures on Wheaties boxes. Now these superstars know that they're only a smidgen better than the other guys -- they need to keep that edge. Besides, those other guys may be juicing up themselves, there's little chance of detection and no significant penalty if anybody is caught. So exactly what do you think these superstars are going to do, say no to drugs?

Long before Brad Pitt was born, Achilles was given the choice between a short, glorious life and a long, obscure one. He chose the former. Nothing new.

So one of the guys was talking about "March Madness" -- the NCAA Basketball Tournament. Now, personally, I think that the real "madness" in basketball is how they can wear those long, baggy shorts on the court -- Carson!! Time for the Queer Eye makeover!

The real madness is in the American war zone -- where our brave men and women face death every day. No, I'm not talking about Iraq -- I'm talking about any Dunkin Donuts parking lot at about 8 in the morning. You take your life in your hands -- all those people in their pick-ups, vans, and SUV's -- pulling out and parking with a cup of java in one hand and a cellphone in the other. Hell, all the cops are inside eating doughnuts -- you'd think they could come out and direct traffic, or something.

Then there's the impending madness of April -- taxes! Now, in my blogger profile, I mentioned that I entered a contest for a date with Annette Funicello when I was a little kid. Now that was cute -- kind of a fantasy, of course -- but cute. I don't have fantasies anymore, though, I'm a rational adult now. (That's not quite true -- I do still have fantasies, but this is a family blog. Oh, all right. They generally involve Catherine Zeta-Jones, a 30-gallon vat of molten Silly Putty, and a Slinkie toy. Use your imagination.)

Where was I? Oh yes, taxes! Part of the problem is that the tax code is complex, while the people are simple. You've got a nation full of people who could never program their VCR's, who told Jay Leno on Jaywalking that Oklahoma City was the capital of the Grand Canyon, and think that fractions are higher math and word problems the invention of Satan. And they're supposed to be able to figure out the Tax Code. Right. Now there's a fantasy. Zeta-Jones, move over!

I've got news for you. There is no Tax Code -- it was abolished in 1987. Your tax preparer has never even seen the real Tax Code -- they study a Monarch Notes version in tax schools. (The IRS agents use the Cliff Notes version -- hence the misunderstandings and audits.)

Once there was a Tax Code -- it was very important. Realizing that no one ever read it, least of all the Japanese, the OSS used it during World War II to transmit secret messages in Navajo. The IRS subsequently proved that Americans didn't read the Tax Code either -- a Professor Hima Schumck from Columbia translated the entire 1976 Tax Code into Elizabethan English and sent the resulting version to the public libraries and post offices for distribution to the public. Nobody noticed.

In the basement of the IRS building in Washington, there is currently a roomful of monkeys with the nation's only remaining stash of typewriters. They finished typing Shakespeare several decades ago, but replicating the Tax Code is totally beyond even them.

So you see how it is -- Mulder was right -- The Truth is indeed out there. The only problem is that it was buried somewhere in the Tax Code.

86 years from now -- which will be 86 years from the Red Sox last world championship -- reporters will be looking for the source of the new curse. Let's see, we got rid of Pedro, and Derek Lowe, Orlando Cabrera (is that how you spell his name?) . . . whose departure can we blame this time?

Unfortunately, none of those possibilities sounds right. "The Curse of the Orlando" sounds like a ride at Disney World. Or "The Curse of the Mankiewicz" (is that how you spell his name?) That sounds like an ethnic slasher flick. So it seems that there's an underlying problem -- no interesting nicknames.

Think about it. Without nicknames there would have been no Curse of the Bambino -- only a Curse of the George Herman. None of these modern guys has a nickname -- or the nicknames are lousy. OK -- Randy Johnson is The Big Unit. Now, what exactly is a Big Unit, anyway. For the last 3 years, I thought they were saying "Big Eunuch." "Curse of the Big Eunuch" -- well, it does appeal to the Alfred E. Neuman part of my personality. But he doesn't pitch for the Red Sox, so we can't get rid of him and he can't be the source of the next curse.

Let me make a suggestion -- hire Vince McMahon of the WWE as baseball commissioner. McMahon's professional wrestlers have great nicknames -- The Undertaker, The Ultimate Warrior, The Rock. Then, when the Red Sox lose to the Yankees (or whoever), at least we can make signs that look good. "The Curse of the Rock." I can get down with that. And reporters won't have to ask the Red Sox manager, "What do you think? Is this the year that we'll finally break the Curse of the Orlando?"

Do you ever wonder why you never read about the effect of papal activity on American politics? Not John Paul II -- I mean Pope John XXIII.

Think about it. Kerry didn't lose by that many votes -- and the post-election polls showed that Bush won the majority of the Catholic vote -- despite the fact that he was running against a Catholic. Unthinkable in 1960 -- in that close race, the Catholic vote won the election for Kennedy. What was the difference? Well, 44 years of change -- featuring the ecumenical movement. The ecumenical movement made Catholics more comfortable voting for the "other guy". The modern ecumenical movement comes from the 2nd Vatican Council, called by. . . you guessed it. . . Pope John Paul XXIII.

So, if there's no Pope John XXIII, Kerry is elected president. Or, if that pope had lived earlier, Nixon beats Kennedy. So Bush wins his first term because all of the Cuban exiles in Florida are mad about that Cuban kid that the Clinton administration sent back to Cuba -- so they support Bush over Gore -- and his second term because of a pope who died 40 years ago.

Is this all true? Well, it's interesting to think about on a Sunday afternoon, but it all comes down to the butterfly. You know, the one who flaps his wings at the equator and causes a snowstorm in Albany 8 weeks later.

Tell you what. I'm "gittin" me a posse together. After the hurricanes in Florida, the rain in southern California, the cold and snow here in Boston this Winter -- well, I'm getting together a few disgruntled citizens. We're going to fly down to the equator, find that miserable little butterfly, and hang him high.

And you're all invited.