Facing Jesus with Slat Marks

The flickering woke me at three AM, and by four the thunder caused me to be wide awake, contemplating an early death by impalement from a 2X4 from South Dakota. Annie, our cat, understood the gravity of the situation, and demanded a last meal. "Why not," I thought, "there is no reason why she should go hungry into that good night."

The weather channel featured a mechanical recitation of the coming of Jesus on a very dark cloud, together with quarter-sized hail, possibly, perhaps, here and there. By five o'clock, it was evident that Jesus was not coming to Dakota County, or at least not to northern Dakota County. The mechanical recitator said that Jesus might land in Red Wing, Minnesota, or Stockholm, Wisconsin, where conditions were worse, and thus better, for true religion.

I am waiting for the cock to crow, so
that I can go to the Coffee Shop and say,
"Wasn't that something!", and such.

Normally, I might be working my way through a couple of newspapers at this hour, but the delivery man is home, under his bed, sure as sin that the sky will fall, in which case he will be crushed flat with slats marks.

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