Before you read this story, let me be clear on a couple of things which should be obvious for anyone who knows my family. Sarcasm is a love language. Sympathy is not in abundant supply around here. A few nights ago, I was sharing some wishes with my children for my funeral. I told them I wanted a closed casket, but at the end I wanted the organist to start playing 'Pop Goes the Weasel'. Then I wanted them to look at the faces of everybody as they sat and watched the casket. ( Yes, I saw this joke on Facebook. ) My kids responded that it was as good as done. They even had an idea for a lever that could make the casket open at the appropriate time. Fast forward to the weekend, where I was dutifully mowing the lawn. Some bees, which must be straight out of the pits of hell, came out of the ground and stung me in both my ankles and my pinky finger. I left the mower behind, and with much anguish, called out to my wife, who quickly made a paste to take th...
You don't know me. I'm okay with that. This is my search for insignificance.