I have very few complaints. Nothing that a million dollars couldn’t resolve. The only real annoyance I can think of—and it’s such a piddling, nitpicky issue that I’m embarrassed to admit it—but I haven’t yet received my million dollars. And the system is so poorly run that there doesn’t seem to be any place to register my complaint.

I mean, you can’t just walk out your front door like some people (not me) and grab the lapels of the first person who comes along and say “Excuse me, but I’ve been waiting for delivery of a million dollars. It hasn’t come and I’ve been waiting patiently for years. Years! Do you understand?”

Alas, they very seldom understand and usually call the people with the nets. It’s probably because they already have their million and just assume that you have momentarily forgotten where to get yours. Or they just don’t care. If you press them (a flat iron will do the trick, but in a pinch, a rolling pin comes in very handy) they get shirty. Even pantsy.

They will say something like “Look, nobody told me where to get mine. It took a lot of my sweat and natural hypocrisy to get my mil. Why should I help you? What’s in it for me? By the way, in case you haven’t noticed, my large, odious butt could stand a thorough smooching.”

For some reason I am reminded here of what that shepherd boy in Bethlehem, the one with the drum, said to one of the three kings from Orient-R (Fourth planet in the Almond Joy galaxy).

You’ll recall that everyone was packed into an abandoned Sno-Cone stand in the middle of a rare Bethlehem blizzard. The place overflowed with kings, cows, donkeys, camels, oxen, shepherds, angels, lambs, a reporter named Jonesy from The Daily Bethlehamster, blinding halos, massive (really massive) stinkbad and a nice young couple hovering over a baby in a manger.

The shepherd boy pulled out a snare drum and was only halfway through his first set when one of the kings hollered “Hey kid! Enough with the rum pum pum pum. Play something I can whistle to.”

The shepherd boy asked the king for a small donation to help him buy a floor tom and a hi-hat. The king looked down from his camel in stupefication.

“Look, kid, I don’t carry cash,” he said stupeficatiously. “What king does? All I have with me is this tub of myrrh. Ask the big shot two camels over, the one with the gold.”

It was then that the bearded man kneeling next to his wife beside the manger threw the shepherd kid a sympathetic look. “Life Lesson Number 179, grasshopper,” he whispered. “There’s nothing like a million dollars to turn you into a cheapskate.”

The boy, nodding toward the baby, said ‘You think he likes my playing?’”

“What’s not to like?” said the man. “But consider Life Lesson, Number 16: more cowbell.”

By the way, this true story from the Gospel According to Jonesy, was penciled in as one of the four principal gospels way back then to be included in something called the New Testament.

Trouble is, a copy editor at The Bethlehamster, where the story originally appeared, had never heard of myrrh. So he changed myrrh to mermaid.

Sadly, a guy named Bud of Assyria—a major distributor of tree goo who was known on the street as The Myrrh Man—slapped Jonesy with a libel suit. He claimed the mermaid reference ruined his reputation and that people on the street now called him Louise.

By then, the deadline for cool gospels had passed, and with it the chance for a Fab Four of gospels according to Matthew, Mark, Luke and Jonesy.

Ultimately, the copy editor was given over to the Royal Ticklers for “The Treatment.” Disheartened, Jonesy fell in with some Pharisees and ended up selling previously owned aqueducts.

But, I digress…

©Patrick A. McGuire and A Hint of Light 2013-2015, all rights reserved.