The Realities of Resurrection

This completely random and non-sensical conversation began when Robb said,

Robb: When I die, you should just throw me in the ocean.

Me:  What?  You don’t want to be buried?  Just thrown in the ocean and eaten by fish?

Robb:  Exactly.

Me:  That’s ridiculous.  You have to be buried next to me, so that when we are resurrected, the first thing you see is my smiling face.

Robb:  I don’t think that’s how it works.  You think you are resurrected in the exact spot you are laid to rest?

Me:  Obviously.

Robb:  God wouldn’t do that.  He would resurrect you wherever you wanted to be resurrected.

Me:  No he wouldn’t.  This is the exact reason people get buried next to loved ones.

Robb:  Whatever.  Just throw me in the ocean.

Me:  You know what I’m going to do?  I’m going to get buried next to the guy that eats the fish that eats you.  That way, on resurrection morning, he’ll wake up, and the fish inside him will wake up, and you inside the fish will wake up!

At this point, I literally broke into hysterical laughter.  I had a vision of standing in the cemetary, with a random stranger, a flopping yellow fish, and a very surprised Robb.  I fell asleep laughing at my own hilarity.  I think Robb fell asleep rolling his eyes at me.

Robb:  There is something wrong with you.


Update:  After writing this post, we actually had a follow up conversation that was its own kind of bizarre.

Robb:  I’ve been thinking about this a lot.  What do the Japanese do with their dead?  There’s not enough land there to bury them.  They should just throw them in the ocean.  They are always complaining about over-fishing.  If the fish eat the dead people, there will be an explosion in the fish population.  We could solve two problems, here.

Me:  Do you think people will have a moral issue with eating fish that have eaten people?  Or maybe it gets more complicated; like you might not mind eating a fish that ate a mob boss, but you don’t want to eat a fish that ate a nice little girl.

Robb:  People are bio-degradable.  This is not pollution.  It’s win-win.

Me:  So, throwing fish bones in the ocean is not polluting?

Robb:  Right.

Me:  What about fish sticks?

Robb:  That’s not polluting either.

Me:  But is it wrong to feed fish sticks to fish?  Maybe.  (I then spend a minute breaking into hysterical laughter at the thought of a fisherman throwing frozen fish sticks off the side of the boat.  Robb asks me what is wrong with me, and then answers the question by telling me my sense of humor is off.  Which is obviously not true.)

Me:  Maybe people will like the idea.  Is it poetic justice to eat the fish that ate the people?

Robb:  Maybe it’s poetic justice for the fish to eat the fisherman.

(More laughter.  Robb told me I was gross, and accused me of sharting.  Which I thought was completely unnecessary.  Then I told him he was too hot to sleep that close to me, because he was making me sweat, and I spent the next 20 minutes pushing him to his own side of the bed.  He threatened to bite my nipples off.  I threatened to shart on him.)

All in all, it was a good night of bizarre and useless conversation that went on far too long.  We never did decide what happens to all these people and fish during the resurrection, though.




My children recently tried to compliment me by telling me that my cooking skills made my terrible ingredient choices palatable.  Almost.  They then suggested I open my own restaurant, an idea I quickly put to rest.  But they persisted… the 10 year old told me I should just walk around and sell samples for 25 cents.  “Walk around?” I said quizzically.  “Yeah!  You know, like in the parking lot or something!  Like at Walmart!”  I was kind of dumbfounded.  I clarified, “You want me to walk around the Walmart parking lot, selling food, like a Mexican selling tamales?”  The 13 year old quickly chimed in to accuse me of being racist.  I jabbed back by asking him whether he had ever seen a white person selling tamales in the Walmart parking lot.  And, it was the 14 year old who put the issue to bed, by replying, “No, white people sell hot dogs.”  Yes, I laughed hysterically.

I personally would love to see the world lighten up a little about the whole thing.  It seems to me that non-whites are as racist as whites most of the time anyway, just in a different way.  Robb grew up in this very conservative little town, and there was a sign in the window of the laundromat that read, “No Greasers,” and meant, please don’t wash your greasy work clothes here.  Once, though, a Mexican migrant worker asked the owner why he wasn’t allowed to use the laundromat.

Did I ever tell you about my new love, Pinterest?  I’m addicted.  It’s not healthy.  One acquaintance said she thought it was even better than google, because everything that comes up is pretty!  So I’ve been searching for all kinds of fun things.  To convince the 13 year old of the awesomeness of Pinterest, I typed in “Star Wars Lego,” and he oohed and aahed for 20 minutes or so over the Star Wars Lego chess board, and the Star Wars Lego pens and the Star Wars Lego alarm clocks.  There’s something for everyone, there, really.  So today, I typed “racist” into the search box, and found some interesting things.

  • A poster of Michael Scott claiming that Abraham Lincoln said, “If you are a racist, I will attack you with the north.”  (That episode was pretty hilarious, by the way.)
  • A cartoon of a white dog barking at a black dog.
  • A joke about turbans, and “Turban Outfitters.”
  • A “smart” camera, which, after taking a picture of a dozen Asians, asked “Did someone blink?”
Of course, as it went on, there were pictures of actual racists with lots and lots of commentary.  (Yawn)  However, my favorite racist joke of the day comes courtesy of “”
 You can’t make this stuff up.

Lisa has a liquor license

Robb grew up in this little po-dink town in Wyoming.  It had it’s hayday several decades ago, and has been slowly declining ever since.  When we visited recently, the owner of the local Chinese restaurant was thrilled to have us visit his slightly overpriced establishment, because we were, quite literally, the only people in the joint.  But, just down the street, Lisa’s overpriced restaurant was hoppin’.  Robb says it’s because Lisa has a liquor license.

It must be true because the only other place in town that had more than 3 people in it was the bar.

Here I was thinking that we “city folk” (and by “city folk,” I mean boring suburbanites) were much more metropolitan than that.  But, going to a Saturday night movie with Robb, we noticed that the only place with more than 3 people (and frankly, the only place that wanted to stay open past 9:00 pm) was the place with the liquor license.

I guess alcohol is the great equalizer.  Maybe I should take up drinking, just so I can have some company on a Saturday night.


The Downside to traveling in Wyoming


Great ideas for licorice

At this years family reunion, Robb shared his experience with smoking as a child. Not having any brothers of his own, his older cousins realized that he would be gullible and took full advantage. One cousin talked him into smoking, by saying something very convincing, like, “Hey, we should smoke.” Then he rolled some tree bark into a piece of paper, lit it, pretended to smoke and handed it to Robb. Robb took a big drag on it and fell straight to the ground. Let’s just say, it was a rough smoke.

The offspring must have had smoking on the brain, because they “invented” this super cool game, in which you pretend your red vines are cigarettes. Robb and I joined in. What?! We like looking cool!

Smoking licorice gave me the brilliant idea to actually smoke licorice!  Why not make actual cigarettes taste like licorice? In fact, who cares about taste, just make them smell exactly like red vines. Do we have the technology for this? One can only hope.

Imagine… restaurants and airports could bring back smoking sections. Kids and teens would start smoking again. And, this is just a guess, I bet sales of red vines would rise. Think about it… all those non-smokers, smelling the licorice cigarettes, would have sudden cravings. It’s genius. I’m drafting a letter to Marlboro right now.

(I was recently informed that cigarettes that taste like licorice already exist.  But cigarettes that smell like licorice do not, so I still say the idea is mine.)

I must also take the opportunity to acknowledge another genius idea, this one from my daughter. In the midst of creating the licorice sucker, itself an amazing idea, she inadvertently created the liquor sucker. I mean, brilliant, right? Tell me that product wouldn’t sell by the dozens!

It’s a gift

I learned something new about my son today. The boy can handle a gun like nobody’s business. There were 6 of us out on the prairie today, and the 13 year old blew us all away. Figuratively, of course.

Now that we know about this gift, we fully intend to help him develop it. Neighborhood cats better be on alert. Especially those that crap in my yard.


Say Your Prayers, Kitty.

What does it all mean?

While driving to meet friends for dinner, Robb made us listen to talk radio.  Daytime talk radio is one thing, and nighttime talk radio is another, but there’s this weird spot between 4 pm and 7 pm that is almost like filler.  It’s weird.  And more importantly, boring.   Today’s program was about sad movies, and people were encouraged to call in and tell what movie made them cry, and what was the most sad of all horribly sad movies they had seen.

The replies were… well, ridiculous mostly.  I don’t think people know what sad means.  Apparently, The Champ was the saddest movie of all time.  I never saw it, so I can’t comment, but I did think of a couple other sad shows.  Steel Magnolias comes to mind, as well as Old Yeller and Titanic.

One caller suggested that Hotel Rwanda was the saddest show he had seen.  No it wasn’t, I thought.  It’s not sad, it’s horrifying.

Also suggested were Rudy and Hoosiers, which I believe both fall squarely under the category of inspirational.  Not sad.

One man jokingly mentioned Lord of the Rings, which did make me cry, but not in a sad way.  It was those tears you get when you yawn really big and have to prop your eyes open with your fingers.  Dear God, will this movie ever end?!

The point is that words should mean something.  Sad means sad.  Tears of joy are NOT sad.  Get it straight.

A recent acquaintance told me she thinks Pinterest is a better search engine than Google, because everything it pulls up is pretty.  So, I went to Pinterest and typed in “weird.”  I did find quite a few rather weird things, as well as sayings that include the word weird, but there were also some that could be much more accurately described as “disturbing.”  Take, for instance, these baby-head candles.

Little Joseph Candle Holder

Creepy.  Disturbing.  Wrong.  Weird does not begin to cover it.

I guess you can make anything into a candle these days.


A Candle That Doubles As an Ashtray Makes Smoking Less Stinky

But I digress…

When I typed in the word “sad,” I found even more pictures that would be more accurately described as creepy or disturbing, like this uber-creepy Chewbacca-cat-freak-of-nature:

And this cat…

… which has horns!  Once again… NOT sad, just wrong.

I also found this bizarre-oh picture:

and when I went to the website to check it out I found even more similar pictures of even creepier female faces.  They were titled, “Shockingly Beautiful Photography.”

Well, at least they got the “shocking” part right.

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