“Thought for the Day” by Bob Church.

March 13, 2009 at 6:37 pm | Posted in writing | 8 Comments
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Your Thought For The Day: Karma is more than a little peeved that you didn’t renew your subscription to “Sky’s The Limit!” magazine, so you can soon expect a fat, painful cyst on your ass.

Once, I might have spent the same time writing, but now I read instead; Brautigan, Twain, Gerard Manley Hopkins, even a little Steven King thrown in to stir the pot. It’s five o’clock in the morning and early March brings darkness to linger where once, not long ago, the rising sun would set my biological clock ahead two hours and force me into action. Now, I tend to follow suit with the darkness, content to tarry and satisfied to ease my way into the day along with the sun.

I’ve never thought of myself as certifiably lazy—recalcitrant, perhaps, but not lazy in the sense of true indolence. I suppose there are different sub-sets of the genus Lazy. My particular taxonomic designation might fall somewhere amidst the alleles of Lethargica and Lacklusterica if examined on a purely genetic basis; weaker evolutionary dead-ends exhibited by out-of-work actors, rich kids with inexhaustible trust funds and dope-smokers of any generation. The fact that I don’t fall into any of these categories personally doesn’t disqualify me from identifying with any and/or all of them. Even there, I qualify, because I would love to see the world through their eyes but can’t find the energy to attempt it. My genetics won’t allow it.

I’m a hybrid, a hatchery trout, a mule. My bloodlines have been tainted with a work ethic, the product of indiscriminate breeding between farmer’s daughter and Appalachian war veteran/rail-rider. If only my father had had the good sense to hook up with a bar floozy, perhaps even now I could still be taking a toke off a doobie and watching the mailbox, waiting for my welfare check to arrive.

But no, he had to marry a Nebraska girl on her first trip to the big city, thereby ruining any chance I might ever have of being genetically worthless. Oh, what possibilities I might have had if only he’d stayed a little drunker and she a little less. Then, he’d have been forced to find someone who actually slept at the bar (or immediately outside) and my DNA would have been pure. Well, as my mother used to tell me, “Boy, there ain’t no sense in cryin’ over spilt milk… you are what you are”.

You also ain’t what you ain’t.

So, here I sit, reading instead of writing. Pardon me, but I must go. Brautigan is telling me about dead bears and houses the color of years, and I must decide whether I’ll go to work or simply let my recessive genetics prevail. Decisions, decisions…

Life is short… get over yourself.
Bob Church
(September 2, 1947 – April 29, 2009)
About as exotic as a resident from Moberly, Mo. is permitted to be.


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  1. Bob is amazingly silly and amazingly brave.

    3 cheers to Bob!

  2. Thank heaven for hardworking genes that haven’t died out of us yet.

    Please note you can always thank the mother.



  3. Bob Church, Ladies and Gentleman. The big feller is a legend.

  4. “Frustrated, frustrated, you have no complaint…you are what you are and you aint what you aint…so listen up Buster and listen up good! Stop wishing for bad luck and knocking on wood.” John Prine from “Dear Abby”

  5. Ha! Great stuff. My genes are only selfish at lunchtime. I once thought I had an edge, an advantage, with my streak of Cherokee blood. But I cut myself shaving and it all leaked out. I aint what I aint.

  6. Good one, loved it as always

  7. I just found out that Bob is gone, Paul. April 29th.

  8. Bob was a magnificent human being, wise, funny and possessed of the biggest possible heart and soul. He was a wonderful writer and I and many hundreds of his fans will miss him. He will live forever in his words and in the hearts and minds of his family and friends.
    Each moment eternal.

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