Posts by Tom Scotus

One night, Bobby’s wife sent him to buy a gallon of milk. He went to the local variety store, took the milk from the cooler and waited in line.

When I was a boy, I thought I knew what being successful meant. It meant that you got good grades, looked good, had lots of friends and was a good athlete.

Harry was 55 years old. He’d experienced the death of his father, the suicide of a close friend, multiple job losses, and his mother’s failing health and confinement to a nursing home.

Two of Bob’s female coworkers were told to decorate the office and grounds for Christmas. It was a big task and would take several days. On the third day, one of them said, “I can’t believe I’m doing this! I didn’t sign up for this f*cking job!”

The alarm clock buzzes. Marvin turns it off. Another working day. He’s not sure which day and he doesn’t care. It’s Wednesday, he realizes. “What difference does it make?” he thinks.

I sat in a four-wheel drive truck and studied the large picture of a Whopper hamburger on the side of a Burger King restaurant. It looked more than delicious, tantalizing and beautiful. It had a strange erotic effect on me.

I remember, as a boy, looking up into the sky, fresh after a summer rain, and seeing a magnificent rainbow. It looked like a mystical ladder to heaven, a wonderful thing to behold. 

When I was a teenager, I thought nobody was cooler than Hugh Hefner. He was rich. He was famous. He hosted hip celebrity parties. He was a sharp dresser, was articulate, had a great sense of humour, and was tall, dark and handsome. 

Sometimes, when I am tempted to despair, I imagine taking off my cross permanently and renouncing the faith.

When I was 10 years old, I watched an episode of Schoolhouse Rock on TV that featured the number three. “Three is a magic number,” sang the show’s narrator.