Friar Francis YouTube Phenomenon Part 2

READER's NOTE: Please read the following in a Mexican accident.

Friar Francis, dressed in brown friar's robe, appears on screen.

FF: Oh, hello, it's you again. My faithful YouTube audience. I am, once again, Friar Francis, a 16th century Franciscan monk magically transported to the 21st century. Don't ask me how this happened. Well, I supposed I cannot stop you from asking, but I cannot provide a very satisfactory answer to you at this time as I have no real good idea of how this thing has happened.

I am so very interested in keeping your attention this time. I have no intention of making you bored or otherwise dissatisfied with my YouTube presentation.
As you may know, the Franciscan monks from Spain are again hosting a team of fundraisers to compete with the French Franciscan monks in raising support for our annual "Save the Extinct Species" fund drive.
A percentage of your generous financial support will go directly to the 16th century Spanish Franciscan Monks fundraising arm, a branch of the international fraternity of Fundraising 16th century Spanish Franciscan Monks, LLC, Inc., LTD, LSD, LOL, ASAP.

We thank you in advance for your generosity this year.

Thank you.

I said, thank you.

OK, why do you still have camera on me? I am finished with PSA.

Until next time, this is Friar Francis, your Franciscan Fundraising Fuhrer.
10 sec pause.
OK, what are you waiting for? Go on to something else now. I am finished.
15 sec pause.
Perhaps you do not understand. I am finished with my announcement, and you are free to be dismissed. Good bye.

10 sec pause

I give up. I am tired. I will go to bed now see you in the morning.

FF exits the picture. Camera stays on empty room shot. 20 seconds pass. Snoring can be heard Off Camera. After 15 more seconds of snoring, image fades to black.

Friar Francis Part 1

NOTE: The following series is based on YouTube phenomenon "Friar Francis," starring the lovable, though misguided, Friar Francis and his admirable sidekick, Monk Manuel. Both are 16th century Franciscan monks from Spain. Don't ask me how they got tangled up in the 21st century. I cannot explain it myself. Oh, one more thing... please read the "Friar Francis" series with an authentic Mexican or Spanish accent.
FRIAR FRANCIS: Hello. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Friar Francis, and this is my loyal amigo, Monk Manuel. Say hello to these nice people, Monk Manuel.
MONK MANUEL: Hello.
FF: Is that all you are going to say to these nice people, Monk Manuel?
MM: You told me to say, "hello" so I say "hello".
FF: Yes, but you can elaborate, no? You can tell these nice people who took all the trouble to tune in to YouTube just to watch you what you are really and truly all about. This is your moment! This is your time! How many 16th century Spanish Franciscan monks have an opportunity to reach millions of potential viewers with the click of a mouse?
MM: I have no idea what you just said.
FF: Me neither.
AWKWARD PAUSE
MM: Is is your turn to do the dishes?
FF: Times like these make me wish we had nuns.
MM: I saw how many clay pots and bowls are dirty now in the kitchen.
FF: Don't you see I am reaching a whole new audience on YouTube? Don't you understand that if we reach this vast audience we can expand the Good News of the Gospel and spread the love of the savior to a lost and hurting world?
MM: It is still your turn to wash the dishes, Friar Francis.
FF: Yes, brother, right you are. You are always right...
MM: Not always, my brother. But most of the time, yes.
FF: You don't have to brag, my brother.
MM: Oh, no, I am not bragging, my dear brother, I am merely agreeing with you.
FF: What do you mean?
MM: You said I am always right, and I am merely agreeing with you... most of the time.
FF: I meant to say you are always right about everything around the monastery. I mean, seriously, don't you have a life?
MM: I am a 16th century Spanish Franciscan monk. Why would you think I have a life?
FF: Good point, my brother. Good point.

Civil War film

I am currently playing a major role in a Civil War short film. We did the last scene today, which was, ironically, the first day of shooting. Never a sequential process, filmmaking.
We shot the scene at Wilson's Creek National Battlefield. I and the female lead are standing over her father's grave. I am a chaplain, dressed in a long black coat, vest, white shirt, and black broad brimmed hat.
Well, funny thing was, I went to the bathroom at the visitor center to get into my costume. When I came out of the stall, a little boy was in there with his father. The little boy was trying to go to the bathroom but kept staring at me because of the way I was dressed.
Now I know how the Amish must feel in public.

Who's Millard Fillmore?

I'm big on history. I suppose that rubs off on my kids. Routine mealtime conversations at our house center on a game called "Name the presidents." One of my three oldest boys will start (They are 12, 10, and 7) and we will continue around the table, the four of us, naming the U.S. presidents, by first, last, and often middle name, in order. My 7 year old is learning. The rest of us know them well (I'll admit, my 12-year-old knows them better than I do!)
This passion for the past paid off in spades a few days ago. My son was sitting in his rural public school classroom, which is new territory for him since he's been home schooled his entire life. Having a traditional classroom is taking some adjusting, and his grades aren't the best because his study habits don't follow the formula.
However, his knowledge of the 44 guys at the helm of the government is impeccable. So here comes the golden moment of truth. My son has an out of town engagement and will be gone the last two school days of the week. He asks what assignments he will need to keep up with.
The Civics teacher says, "We'll be having a quiz on the U.S. Presidents. You have to be able to name all of them in order. It's due on Friday."
Without missing a beat, my son asks, "Can I take the quiz right now?"
The teacher hesitates, wondering if there is a catch somewhere. "Go for it," he challenges. Then, under his breath, the teacher says, "But you'll never get it."
So, my boy begins with George Washington, then goes on to John Adams, Thomas Jefferson... he continues, and by now, the entire class is following along in their textbooks to catch him in an error. But my son marches on with his recitation, confidently reciting first, last, and sometimes middle names of the presidents in order.
When he gets to "Barack Obama" the class erupts in amazed exclaimations. The teacher shakes his head again and again in astonishment.
He gets an A on the quiz and scores another point for home school dad and the Union.

145 years too late

My son was "bushwhacked" by a band of Confederates last Monday morning. It was "wear a cap" day at school, so my son wore one of my old Yankee blue Civil War caps issued from my days as a server at "Dixie Stampede" dinner show in Branson, where the audience participates in a good-natured North/South rivalry.
But my son's North/South clash was more reminiscent of the "real deal" Civil War. At least, that's what his seventh grade mind imagined as his rural Southern classmates pummeled him for wearing the blue instead of the gray.
That's one of the intrigues of living in the "Show Me" state. We were one of the neutral states during the Civil War, but because we didn't declare loyalties, division and controversy still smolder 145 years after the conclusion of that bloody war.
Unfortunately for my 12-year-old, 145 years apparently wasn't long enough. But, as in the end to any conflict, there is resolution.
On Tuesday, the day after the skirmish, the Rebels had to holler "Uncle!" The principal had gotten wind of the ambush and sent the lead man to ISS (In School Suspension).
The other Confederate loyals swore to cease and desist.
But what makes the icing on the cake for this ol'd dad is what my son did, with a touch of humor. He drew an American flag next to a Confederate flag and drew a stick figure with his name above it. He drew stick figures under the Confederate flag with the other boys's names.
Above the picture was a call for a truce between North and South.
Each boy signed, some reluctantly, some willingly, under the truce below their respective flag. My son was the only name on the side of the North. But he'd won, at least, until the next battle life hands junior highers...

Mr. Gorilla

It's embarrassing. I mean, he follows me everywhere. I hope noboby notices him, but I suspect they do. It's in the little side glances I get. Or the whispered conversations that cease when I come within earshot.
I can't seem to shake him. He's with me 24/7, and I'm starting to panic. And I'm not a panicky type.
It wouldn't be so bad, but he's been... well, getting bigger lately. I mean, for the first few weeks, he wasn't such bad company. I actually enjoyed his antics. He could climb so high and so fast, I never knew he was around. Or he'd perch on my shoulder like Long John Silver's parrot. His fur would always tickle my ear, and make me laugh.
And his fur. It smelled so sweet. What happened?
I tried to bathe him. I did. I dragged him to the bathroom, but he spread his long arms and legs like a cat going into a barrel. He wouldn't get in the shower. Once, I sneeked up behind him and hoisted his furry, smelly body into the whirlpool tub. But the instant the water was on, he was out. I ran after him, tackling him near the living room. Oh, what a wrestling match ensued then! Books, papers, toys, DVDs flying about. I cursed him. I screamed at him to stop. But he kept laughing like a hyena. An ape gone ape, he was. I wanted to grab a stick and smack him on his self righteous head.
I began to cry. And I'm not a cryer. I sat on the floor and bawled like a baby. He stopped, two of my favorite DVDs in his grimy paws, looking at me. His face looked for a moment as if he had a twinge of regret. His eyes mirrored mine for a fleeting second. In that second, we were one. We were brothers, partners in this thing.
Then his eyes lost their reflection, and the madness ensued. He tore up the place, prancing about and not letting me touch him. He's strong, that gorilla. He's mean, too. So, he stunk up my house and I had to clean it up. Every bit of it before my wife came home. It took hours to undo what he did. I hoped she wouldn't notice the remnants of our scuffle.
When she got home, he was sleeping in her chair. Of all the places he could put his huge mass, he had to engulf her one and only favorite glider. The chair she rocked our sweet children to sleep in.
I saw the look she gave me. I wanted to talk to her about it, to explain how difficult is to live with a full grown gorilla with an attitude.
But she'd just tell me I shouldn't have gotten him in the first place. And, she'd be right.
She's always right. Just once, I'd like to be the one that's right. I'd like things to be right in my life. But now that I've got this... furry friend... well, things aren't ever gonna be the same.

Feline Stranger

My parents have had a lot of cats over the three plus decades they've lived in their country home. Currently, one of the herd of felines frolicking their property unfettered is a mysterious sidewinder, a gray and white thing with the mannerisms of "Bill the Cat" of cartoon popularity.
He looks and acts demented, but this crazy cat's name is less than ferocious. He goes by the name, "Baby." But don't underestimate Baby's bullying power. Our cat, Max, wanders over from next door and routinely gets a thrashing from Baby. Now, I could see the point if Max were a brute. But Max is the nicest, kindest, most lovey-dovey cat in the world. Cozies up to everybody. Purrs and brushes up against the sliding glass doors behind our house as if he's getting a buzz from the glass. Loves you when you aren't even paying attention. He won't leave his post on the doorstep. I kick him out of the way, but he comes back for more. Doesn't mind mistreatment. Never a complaint.
Anyway, this Baby character, he waylays poor Max every time Max wanders down the road to my parents' house. Max comes home with a quarter sized, then a silver dollar sized hole in the back of his neck; a gross, gaping, red, furless patch of pain. It scabs, gets ripped open again, scabs, a disgusting cycle.
Because of this, I sometimes imagine that if these cats were in a cat western, produced, directed by, and starring cats instead of humans, the script would go something like this:

EXTERIOR SALOON WITH PAW PRINTS ON SWINGING DOORS
Tumbleweed blows by. A dog dressed in fringe vest and cowboy hat barks, chasing a pretty kitty dressed to the hilt. They run off camera.

CUT TO INTERIOR OF SALOON

Fat cat bartender talking to row of cats sipping tall, cold milks along row of bar stools. Medium shot of bartender looking up from his conversation, his smile fading as he stares at the stranger coming in.

STRANGER

I'm looking for the one they call... Baby.

All eyes from the bar rest on the stranger as no one dares say a word.

The stranger, a lean Tiger cat, narrows his eyes and lights a cigarette, blowing smoke in the direction of the nearest cat at the bar.

STRANGER

Talk to me, big boy. Where is this 'Baby'?

Cat #1

N-never heard of him. (Nervously slurps foaming mug of milk.)

STRANGER

(Sneering at Cat #1). I'll bet.

BARTENDER

(Trying to lighten situation) So, ah, stranger, what name do you go by?

STRANGER glares at him, steely eyed.

Ah, look here, I don't want no trouble in my bar, understand? What can I get you to drink?

STRANGER

Gimme a pint of your homogenized.

* * * * *

And so on. You get the point. An ominous, mysterious stranger seeking the deadliest, most ferocious feline felon. That's what we need 'round these parts. Someone to put Baby in his place.

I thought about taking matters in my own hands. But it seems poetic to have another cat do the doing.

We need a strong, silent sleek male cat to come and wallop this Baby character. A good kitty tangle where Baby is the one walking away, licking his wounds with the telltale fur missing from the back of his twisted neck.

But in this misguided land of cats, no such hero is to be found. Consider this blog a casting call for the hero, an open appeal for a cat so tough no cat will ever enter into his domain. Not even Baby.