The church basement

A debt of gratitude to all the friends and family who assisted me during the recovery from my life-threatening surgery. The bypass, both internal and around the Poot, are working fine; I haven’t seen a librul near our town since it was installed. Next week I hope to get a traffic counter in place to know how many libruls we’ve redirected.

Our church is only five years old. We built it ourselves. We poured a slab of concrete, erected the metal walls and roof, then decorated it elaborately on the inside; prettiest church in the county. One semi-observant reader asked how, since we’re on a slab, can we have a basement and therefore church basement ladies. A really good question. As the men were digging the field line for the septic system, they discovered a really large hole in the ground. All work stopped as they explored this hole.

Deep down was a large room whose walls were covered with strange paintings of deer and buffalo and a few other creatures they could not identify. Swearing all to secrecy, they conspired to convert the room into their own community (men only) man cave. The plan worked well for a few weeks when a curious wife went to the church late one night and heard laughter and the sound of a ball game on TV coming out of the ground. The next night all the wives showed up, and mayhem ensued. Those who did not flee in fear walked out in abject shame. That’s when the church basement ladies came to be. They took over the room, painted over the primitive cave art, had the men install all the necessary appliances, and began their cooking, canning, and judgment-passing activities.

Since the church basement ladies were ensconced in their rightful place, Possum Poot has climbed the ladder of judgment with great skill. We became, in a short while, the most judgmental place for many counties around, thus assuring us of a high place in heaven! Y’all come visit us, ya hear?

STEVE GIBSON

Little Rock