I wasn't going to tell you this story but Fr. P talked me into it. To demonstrate why I thought of not telling you this story I offer the following vinette that happened at the movie theater once or twice. It happened while waiting in line for a ticket:
Of course, if you don't think your priest should be seeing a movie then YOU shouldn't being seeing the movie either. But seeing a movie or doing some other things that are not sinful in and of themselves can be a little controversial in some circles. With that in mind, I tell you this story before I tell you the story that I want to tell you:
I used to ski a lot. A LOT. My Dad was a ski instructor so from about the time I could stand I had skis on my feet. I was a good skier even as a very young person but sometimes I would pretend that I could not ski so that I could crash into line "accidentally" and then say, "Well, I'm here now. Mind if I stay?" And most people didn't mind.
Things have changed a lot since then. Back then there was such things as rope lifts that tore your ski gloves apart. Then there were "T" lifts and "J" lifts that tore your pride apart. It also got a lot more expensive and crowded.
But the worst things was that the skis changed.
This of course means that the style of skiing has changed:
Those bulbous skis force you to ski with your legs apart. I spent YEARS being yelled at by my father about that. "Only amatuers ski with thier legs apart!" Real skiers had their ankes and knees together and glided down the hill in great sweeping arcs like birds flying in the sky. Today people go down the hill like they have a load in their pants and they have the affrontery to zip past me and call out, "Oh! You ski old school!"
So, (we're getting close to the story) as I said I used to like to ski a lot when it was cheaper, less crowded, and more elegant. Then it became a big thing to bring school bus after school bus out to the slopes. The school at which I was assigned at the time used to come on my day off (of course) and when word would get out that I was there they would all flock to my hell, oops, I mean hill, and ski with me.
In truth I enjoyed it. But it was my day off and I thought that I would go in for a little while and let the little darlings disperse a bit and then come back out. But when I said I was going in they all said, "We're going too!"
Ah! But Father was wise and decided he would go to the bar where children are not, in theory, allowed.
So I grab my book and a beer and sit down and am immediately surounded with short skiers asking questions. "We're allowed in here as long as we are with you," they said.
So even though there is absolutely nothing wrong with having a beer, I felt uncomfortable telling the kids what it was. So I didn't and that is why I didn't want to tell you this story. But since you now know that I will, on occassion, have a beer, I will tell you this story.
(About time right?)
I went to see a friend on my day off. My friend was out and so I was invited to stick around and wait. I was offered a can of beer as a refreshment on a very hot June day. I studied the can before opening it and there was an interesting second tab on it that the can said one should open with a key.
"I'm afraid I haven't," I replied since we rarely watch T.V. at the rectory.
"It's the lastest thing." (Always beware the latest thing.) "They just came out with it. It is a second 'tab' that you open that is supposed to make the beer flow more smoothly. It's like when you were a kid and your mother opened a can with a can opener and she would punch two holes; one for the liquid to run our and the other for the air to go in so that the flow would be smooth. All you have to do is," and here I want it understood that I am directly quoting her, "is take your car keys and punch it open."
If someone says the word "punch" to you, what would you do? I can tell you what I did. I got out the biggest, sharpest, nastiest key on my key chain, held it up over my head and brought it down with the force of jackhammer. And . . .
. . . nothing. I missed the spot. I missed it a couple of more times. Then I hit home once, twice, just putting dents in the can though in the right spot. "This is rediculous," I thought. "Why make this so difficult?" SO this time I held my hand higher and came down on the can with all my might.
I fine spray of beer started shooting everywhere - especially all over me. And it wouldn't stop, it just kept spraying and spraying until a chucked it off the deck into the back yard where the dogs played with it.
And that is why watching too little T.V. commercials is dangerous.