"Hot" Mail

I found this singed jotting, skewered with a 'pitchfork-esque' swizzle to my front door. I immediately assumed it was in response to yesterday's letter.

'Drear' Prego:

My assistant, Mr. Reagan passed your letter to me. Let me begin by telling you that you are correct: your soul is mine. Theos and I were throwing back the Zimas a while back, (mid 90's) and if I'm not mistaken, I believe that was the height of your foray into debauchery. We discussed your prospects for the afterlife and it was clear to us (particularly after the possum fiasco) that you were destined for perdition. You have about as much chance of getting into heaven as Pete Rose has of getting into the Hall of Fame.

I must admit, though, I like your moxie and irreverence. That's why I'm willing to entertain your offer. As you might have noticed, your Sabres were victors in last night's hockey game. I'm going to mull it over between now and Saturday afternoon. The Senators, after all, did beat my Pittsburgh Penguins.

As for your other proposal, though Attila appreciated it, he has his sights set on the "Zack and Cody" twins. Rosie, however has a vatful of petroleum jelly and some leg shackles with your name on it. As the hillbilly said to Ned Beatty: "Squeal like a pig, boy...!""

Nefariously Yours,
Lucifer

PS I do, in fact, exist. Nice job on the fence-sitting "out" clause, sucker... but around here a deal's a deal.

Soul for Sale

Prego: I'm selling my soul to Satan.
Mrs. P: For what?
Prego: To get the Sabres past this series.
Mrs. P: (Annoyed & Distraught) Ugh.. That's really good. Nice. Nice...

I know she has visions of us walking hand in hand in that giant Jehovah's Witness Petting Zoo in the sky, so it was really difficult for me to break it to her.



Dear Satan, Baal, Beelzebub, Akuma, Prince of Darkness or Whatever:

How are you? Torrid, I hope. Let's not kid ourselves. I know you already lay claim to my everlasting (There was that time in Kentucky with the possum and the voodoo priestess from Havana. Oh... and playing those Judas Priest records backwards...) but I thought I'd ask you for a small request. I don't usually ask for much -- not that you listen much, anyway: American Idol is still on the air, Rosie O'Donnell can still walk and talk... Also, you never sent that murder of crows to pluck out Dr. Phil's moustache hairs one by one -- but you're my last chance.

I realize you're busy, and people ask you for all kinds of stupid crap (fame, fortune... sacrilicious doughnuts; I also realize that his kind request falls into that category - after all, there's no self gain for me and it doesn't quite further your cause, but do you think you can find it in that black void in your chest to let the Sabres squeak through this round of the Stanley Cup playoffs?

The other #$*@ers are ignoring me (and I wish the Dalai Lama would quit calling me) and I don't know where else to turn. I'm willing to spend eternity as Attila's boy-toy or sitting through a Bette Midler triple-feature...

You did it for Ray Bourque, Mario Lemieux and Scotty Bowman, so if it's not too much trouble...

Sincerely
Prego


PS If you do in fact exist, kindly ignore this letter. Let the chips fall where they may. I'd hate to think that the Sabres actually won the Cup on anything less than grit, hard work and sheer determination. And say "hi" to Katie Couric for me.

J'aime/Déteste L'Hockey - En Deux Chapitres

Chapitre Un
I always sucked at sports as a kid. My dad told me so at around age 16... which is why I don't set unreachable standards for Le O-Dog to meet. Every time I throw him on the ice, I tune out all the screaming idiot parents, yelling "Shoot!" or "Skate!" to their youngster every time they near the puck. I'm content in watching my boy learn to skate, have fun and keep his *ss off the couch.

Every once in a while, he does something to make me particularly proud.

O-Dog: That kid hit me on purpose.
Prego: Make sure you've got the right number, and go give him a quick glove on his face.

The O-Dog spent the last two minutes of the game chasing this little thug around the rink. He never got him, but he had a smile on his face the whole time.

This past weekend, the O-Dog gave me another "Proud Pop" moment. Anybody who's watched 5-8 year olds play hockey knows it is at times a big clumsy cluster of bodies chasing the puck. I watched as another little guy careened into my O-Dog, sending him to the ice. He falls often, so I didn't give it a second thought... until I clearly saw tears streaming down his face.

I tapped on the glass to try to get his attention, feeling helpless that I couldn't get to him. O-Dog kept skating around. He finally got his coach's attention, pointing to his helmet and getting sent to the bench.

I kept thinking to myself, "Please get back out there..." thinking he might have been too scared to continue.

Four minutes later, the O-Dog is back on the ice for the next shift.

I asked him after the game, "O-Dog, I saw you were crying."

"Yeah. I hit my head."

"You kept skating, though. That was good. What were you doing?"

"I was going after the puck. My team only had one goal and the other team had like a thousand."

All of a sudden, I had visions of Ron Francis, stumbling & crawling on his hands and knees across the ice after a Scott Stevens hit, demonstrating cobbles the size of bowling balls. Regardless of what 'pain' he might have been in, his resolve never lapsed.

"I love you, Odie."
(Puzzled look) "I love you, too, daddy."


Chapitre Deux
Les Putains find themselves in the Conference Semi-Finals again... (Afinogenov just made the score 2-1 as I write this. Yes!)

I find that I turn into quite the idiot this time of year. Ordinarily, I'm a pretty grounded individual, however, playoff hockey turns me into a bundle of nerves. The emotional peaks and valleys are dizzying, and I frequently wonder why I do this to myself. Then I see video clips like this -- a vintage Theo Fleury goal and the spontaneous celebration that still makes my glass eye fog over:



What's it got to do with me? Not a goddamned thing, yet I find myself sporting this ungodly and uncomfortable mess on my face. When I was a kid, I'd watch the Sabres of yore grow these "playoff beards" once their teams entered the post-season. Once Les Putains entered the playoffs, I began to grow this follicular talisman on my puss, as if it's really going to do them any good. From what I see around town, I can at least find some comfort in knowing I'm not the only dumb-ass.

Last year, I stuck to the same brand of beer (Blue Moon) & watched all the games with the same person (my neighbor).
Think of the horror, when my brother threw off our mojo when he showed up with his fiancée and a 12 pack of Saranac. My neighbor and I looked at each other with apprehension as our unexpected guests came in. 'What's the worst that can happen, after all?'

The death knell tolled when our doorbell rang again. My neighbor's father came to join us for the third period and the Sabres subsequently shat themselves out of Cup contention. I don't think my neighbor talked to his father for about a week. I was a little more forgiving and talked to my brother after a couple of days.

This year's taken a different tone. My neighbor is away at college I haven't been pounding the brews -- bedtime is testy enough, without being half in the bag.

(Lydman ties the score at 2! Hecks yeah!)

My juju instead has been these cookies from local dessertery Sweet Tooth:





(The two humping buffaloes at the top of the picture are inadvertent, by the way)

I don't expect a good game from Jochen Hecht, since
a) Fletchmonster dropped the cookie after a couple of bites and
b) the dog ate the lions share of it off the kitchen table.

Incidentally, Hecht is nursing a groin injury and just took a sh*tty cross-checking penalty.

Anyway, I've been watching the bulk of the games alone, prepared to kick anybody out of the house if things ain't going our way... especially my friend Skip. When he and I get together for important games... Sh*t. It's like throwing a hat on Bob Hughes's bed.

Tonight I asked Mrs. P to pick up a sixer of Blue Moon for old time's sake. It may or may not work... Actually, I'm thinking of switching to Magic Hat's #9.

Another couple weeks of facial hair and its accompanying discomfort is a small price to pay to be part of what might hopefully be a Stanley Cup season. Sh*t. I've been relishing these moments for thirty years. And as irreligious as I am, I'm playing all my cards.

You don't know how desperate I am. I'm willing to give the Dalai Lama a reach around if it'll get us past the Ottawa series.



Allez Putains.




Addendum:
The Wh*res shat themselves tonight 5-2. Series is 1-0 Ottawa.
Note to self: Ixnay the No. 9 swill. Get Dalai Lama's number.

Pfooooooffff....

Excuse me while I blow the dust off of this blog. This thing's been updated lately about as much as the billboards in Podunk, WV.

This isn't to say life's been uneventful in the Prego household... The O-Dog got into a scrap with one of his kindergarten classmates -- a little snot who's destined for "juvie" -- Mrs. P killed a rabbit, which means there'll soon be another Caeleigh or Kegger running amok on this doomed planet of ours.

... And when I wasn't busy propogating the species, I started a webite to house my editorial cartoons. I also took the liberty of creating this Teenage Jesus character, who'll hopefully make someone chuckle once in a while in one-panel shenanigans. I figure I'm going to hell anyway for any of another number of offenses.

Here's a taste, just in time for Easter:



If anybody cares, sorry for the hiatus. Enjoy your (as Rob of fuquad! likes to quip) Zombie Jesus weekend.

Holiday Four Play!

For some reason, Christmas ups the ante for songwriters. Yeah, hits come and go, but if you write yourself a kick-ass Christmas ditty, you might find yourself immortalized along with Leroy Anderson, Tepper & Brodsky, and that *sshole who wrote the "Two Front Teeth" song.

Even churchy music never sounded so good. As a kid, I always looked forward to the time when they busted out the holiday hymnal.

Godless as I am, I still enjoy holiday music today. I'm not a big fan of the goofy, tongue-in-cheek ilk, such as "I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus". For some reason they always find some windy, extroverted Broadway-type kid to belt it out as if his fledgling career depended on it. I do, however, enjoy sh*t like Vince Guaraldi's Charlie Brown Christmas soundtrack and choral arrangements like the "Carol of the Bells."

Then, there's the off-the-beaten-path classics. For instance, the works of Captain Sensible, Ze Malibu Kids, the Descendents and the Pogues.

"Who?" you ask. Well, I won't go into biographical details. I'll just let the music speak for itself.

From the maudlin to the forlorn... the farcical to the cynical, here's a selection you'll not likely hear on KRAP-FM.

Enjoy.

My Christmas Was in June mp3 Ze Malibu Kids
My Christmas Was in June mp3 "glossy" Beu Sisters version
One Christmas Catalogue mp3 Captain Sensible
Fairytale of New York mp3 The Pogues w/Kirsty MacColl
Christmas Vacation mp3 Descendents

Back to the Drawing Board

In keeping with the 'spirit' of the holidays, I thought I'd dig up this old chestnut.

It actually started as a Christmas card I sent a while back, but it launched a 'career.'

I had a brief stint as an editorial cartoonist with a local rag. I had to shelve it when I got a little too busy with my college courses. Now that I'm done I'm hoping I can get back in the saddle somehow in 2007.

Here's a link to my personal favourite.

Dig.

p

The Last(?) Temptation of Prego

Every once in a while a stranger knocks on my door holding a raffle ticket or something. My stock greeting is:

"This better not be about Jesus."

Today an older gentleman knocked on the door. I was raised to respect my elders, so I gave him a cordial 'hello' instead. I was wondering what was up, though. Perhaps he was coming over to complain about Barky the Mutt, who was yelping his fool head off in my yard.

"I'm the pastor of the church on the corner. We have a chicken barbecue today and..."

(F*ck... here we go. 'Your dog is quite the nuisance. We're wondering if you could throw him in the basement for the day.' Okay... prepare respectful response.)

"...we'd like to invite you to join us. I have some free tickets for you if you'd like to come."

(Wait. Scratch that. Yes or no question.)

"Uh, sure. (What the f*ck did you just say? He's a cleric. DECLINE! DECLINE!) That sounds great." (Aaaaaaarrrghhhhh. It burns. It burns.)

The Fletchmonster and the O-Dog peek their curious heads in and say hello.

"Hi guys. So, three tickets?"
"Well, my wife will probably join us."
"Oh, sure," he says as he hands over four tickets.
"Thank you," I said as he departs.

Now part of the reason I agreed to take it is that we've scavenged a summer picnic or two. Sometimes I'd be taking the Fletch or the O-Dog out of their car seats and some friendly church broad would offer the kids a hot dog.

"Sure, what the hell - uhh... heck."

(The last time this happened, the Fletchmonster pissed in his chair so we had to take our church dogs to-go.)

The other part of the reason is that every once in a while, the missus and I try to make it through the weekend without having to cook. Friday? Fish fry at the in-laws. Today? Jesus Chicken.

When Mrs. P comes home from work I fill her in slowly.

"What do you want to do for dinner?" I offer a loaded lead-in.
"I don't care. What do you want to do?"
"Well," I reply, "we've got an invite."
"Oh, cool. Who?" She inquires.
"We'll that's the good news."

"Okay. What's the bad news?" She asks.
I bow my head solemnly, keeping a straight face: "And now we pray."

"My Aunt Jo and Uncle Rob?"
"No," I laugh heartily. "The church across the street!" I knew she'd be agreeable. She's not a church-goer either, but she doesn't look out for lightning whenever she steps near one. Besides, that's one of the four things she's in charge of: laundry, the bills, small talk and jesus. I'm in charge of good times and taking out the garbage (which she's in charge of picking up the slack).

The afternoon progressed, we digested lunch and once the bellies started grumbling again we rustled up the kids for the churchy dinner. O-Dog was a little tough to rein in, since he was having the beginnings of a meltdown. We approached the entrance and my wife starts falling behind - a maneuver that indicated she didn't want to go in first. 'F*ck that,' I thought, on to her little game. I stepped aside and said, "Go ahead. By the way, that guy there's the one that gave us the freebies. Thank him again."

Common courtesy falls under small talk.

Anyhow-lellujah, we went in, smiled politely at everyone, bought raffle tickets for the 'theme-tray' acution (stuffed the smoked salmon bucket with tickets) and sat down to feast.

Now we go out to dinner a LOT, but seldom attend these types of functions. I couldn't help but notice how friendly and welcoming everyone was. Even the crack-heady looking lady and her bag ladyish friend with the beard were real sweethearts. I looked around and saw a lot of families with their kids, elderly parents et cetera... all enjoying the churchy meal.

For a fleeting moment, just a f*cking milisecond I thought, 'This is actually nice,' and was toying with the idea of telling the missus, 'You know, maybe we ought to pop in here on Sundays.'

(Aaaarrrghh.... nooo.... beelzebub.... mmmmust.... fight... pious Flandersy... gasp feeling.)

I held my tongue, as I mulled it over. Then it happened. I wiped the grease from the Fletchmonster's cheeks, put the napkin down and started fiddling around with the table top literature.

After-school art program. This looks cool for the O-Dog. Underneath? A churchy brochure... pastor this, pastor that... 'Christ-Centered. Inclusive. Committed.'

Oh yeah. I forgot about the christ part. All of a sudden the thought of nursing the muscles after Sunday morning hockey in a pew listening to the preachings and teachings of a two-thousand year old corpse made me take a couple steps back. I thought about all those creepy-ass crucifixes on southern roadways and those weepy freaks on TV...
(Grrrrnnahhhhh... That's it. You're one of us, sinner. You're nobody's bible-bitch. Nyyyyyyaaaaawww...)

At that point, the O-Dog's meltdown finally materialized and we had to kowtow our asses backwards out of the place. Of course I was gracious and thanked the pastor heartily for the meal and neighborliness, but the Religification of Prego?

Thank you for the tasty meal from thy bounty, dude, but not this weekend...

(Flames flicker. Head spins.)

And I didn't win the salmon basket, either. Damn.

When the Lightning Strikes...

On the way to work Wednesday, I was treated to the spectacle of lightning in the dark October sky. I've heard the loud pops nailing trees nearby and thought that if the 'almighty' wanted to rub my ass out with this preferred method of disposal that sh*t would really hurt. I also began pondering my mortality (ugh...) and subsequent afterlife (or possibility thereof).




It was similar moments that actually brought religion into existence.

Caveman #1: Ngug dergag umpfor! (Dude, I'm scared of dying.)
Caveman #2: Sdgarg rergge. (Amen, nigga.)
Caveman #1: Gdsgerrer dergad gyujk areth? (What do you think happens after we die?)
Caveman #2: Oisdg fdoeg rgrhoofd morge reoyege ogoeoo ooyyopoo gosogs arog asdoyyos. (Your guess is as good as mine, but I hope it includes an endless supply of prehistoric cave 'tang.)
Caveman #1: Sdgarg rergge!

We've gotten pretty damn creative... The Vikings had Valhalla, the Hindus have saṃsāra and those Jehovah's witnesses have those happily deceased Land's End shoppers gaily cavorting lions and tigers in a lush post-mortem petting zoo. The atheists have (.) and we agnostics are left to our on devices and a coffin-load of "what ifs." We are the free-agents of theological theory. It's not like we're going to be able to pick and choose our afterlife but we're more likely to be surprised than anybody (except the atheists).

Christians might be surprised - "Faaaahk. The atheists were right! What a drag." (.)

The Muslims? "Hey! These 70 virgins are fat and hirsute!" A Hindu might come back as a Southern Baptist in his next life and have to spend a lifetime wearing a fake moustache at Hooters... And the Jehovah's witness might try to pet a leopard that decides "Man, this afterlife's for p*ssies. (CHOMP)."

Though I have no idea what to expect, here's one way it might go down for me:

(Lightning bolt)BOOOOOOOOOM! Srrrrrrrrzzzzzzzzzzztttttttttt!

(sizzle)

Prego: Ow. What the heck (eck eck eck eck....)? (timidly) Hello-lo-lo- lo?
God: Krmmmff - hee hee hee...
Prego: Wha- wha... ? Who's that? What's goin' on?
God: (chuckling) I'm sorry. I'm sorry. (chuckle...)

Prego emerges out of a 'dark tunnel' into a large pantheon.

Prego: What's so funny? Who are you?
God: I'll give you a wild guess.
Allah: Hey, can we get on with this? I've got 743 martyrs waiting.
Prego: What the f*ck's going on? If this is a jesus thing, don't waste your breath.
Jesus: Actually it is kind of a jesus thing, now that you mention it.
Vishnu: Um... according to the rule book, this guy's unaffiliated, so it is most certainly not a jesus thing.

Jesus: Yeah, but it was my dad that snuffed him out!
Prego: Snuffed who out? Me? I've been snuffed? For what?
God: Nyeh. No real reason. I was bored.
Prego: Bored? So you snuff me?
God: Every once in a while I like to go old school on someone.
Fulgora: Who are you calling old?
God: Sorry. Anyway Prego, you and I are due for a reckoning.
Prego: Oh yeah. I've been wondering about this. I guess you do exist, and so do all the other deities, apparently...
God: Yes, (ahem) well...
Ometeotl: What do you mean 'ahem'... You're not top dog around here.
Zeus: That's right!
Anubis: Shut up, Zeus...
God: Guys! GUYS! I'm in the middle of something here. Listen, Prego. You've been talking a lot of sh*t that borders on the blaspheme...

Prego: Oh, that "Why doesn't Jesus play hockey" joke? I haven't told that since 1992.
Jesus: 1998, actually. During the Olympics. During the Russia/Czech Republic game.
Prego: Oh yeah. Remember that hit that Zhitnik laid on Jagr?
Jesus: Yeah. That sh*t was sweet. We felt that up here.
Prego: Nice playoff beard, by the way. A little early, though.
Jesus: Thanks. Long time Devils fan...
Prego: No sh*t? I'd have figured you more for a Kings fan.
Jesus: What, are you f*cking kidding me?
God: PREGO! Damn it!
Prego: What? What?
God: Back to blasphemy... about that tendency to use my name in vain and all that...
Prego: You're not seriously offended by that, are you?
God: That's the third commandment.
Zeus: Come on, you know we don't all agree on that one.
Allah: Or the first one for that matter.

Elvis: I thought we only agreed to keep VI and VIII?
God: Sorry sir.
Prego: Is that who I think it is?
Jesus: Who do you think calls the shots around here?
Prego: Presley? Sh*t. This should bode well for me...
Elvis: You think so, wise guy? What about all those jokes about my weight and dying on the shitter?

Prego: You heard those, huh?
Anubis: We hear everything.
Prego: So, you guys just keep track of all we say and do...
Allah: And eat...
God: And think...
Prego: And then hold some kind of tribunal to determine my fate?
Atropos: Not quite. This is kind of out of our jurisdiction.
Allah: We determine what to do with you, yes...
Prego: Do I have a say so?
God: No.
Prego: Well, that's pretty lame. How long does that take?
Vishnu: It depends. Sometimes it takes about an hour, sometimes it can take forever. You're a tough case, since you're basically a decent person, but lack a little... shall we say... reverence...
Prego: Aw man. You know what? You guys seem like a decent lot, but I don't have time to sit around, listening to you nitpick. I'm out of here.

Elvis: Where are you going?
Prego: To get something to eat and go find me some prehistoric cave 'tang.
Elvis: Sh*t. Sounds good. I'll go with you.
Jesus: Sdgarg rergge.

God and Allah look at each other for a moment... the five of them fade off into the distance.