Saturday, June 01, 2019

Priorities










Well, Toads and Toadettes,
‘Tis the first of June and, to the concern of many un-gored oxen and sacred cows, the Toad is back by popular demand.  Or, at least some demand.  Ok.  There was a pusillanimous posting on social media (you know who you are, bunky) that has sufficiently inflated the Toad’s already immense ego and sparked a long-overdue return.  Rawk!

The Toad’s absence for more than a year has been a matter of questioning and establishing priorities.  For the Toad, this has been an agonizing process requiring deep thought and research.  Single-malt or blended, Bombay or Tanqueray, shaken or stirred, infused or pure. And then there are botanicals.  So many botanicals in the gin, in the vodka and even in the rye.  This is doesn’t even get to the horrific sighting of bacon-flavoured vodka. Priorities, boys and girls.  These things are deep matters of priorities, aesthetical, maybe even moral and ethical.  Rawk. 

One recent afternoon, the Toad was pondering the cosmic question of whether corn liquor sold in a proper liquor emporium with tax stamps on the mason jar could even be called “moonshine”. There was a cheerful “oogah” from the front door of Toad Manor, and Scales the retainer was nowhere to be found.  Rousing from profound thought, the Toad did the unthinkable-he answered his own door. 

Only two things were in sight.  First, the back of a odd sort of chap clad all in purple with a pointy hat fleeing away as fast as he could leap from lily pad to lily pad. Second, there was a plain, brown envelope addressed to “His Beatitude, the Most Reverend Doctor Roy Toad” with all of the correct post-nomials carefully scrawled out.  Taking this as a favorable sign and being no stranger to plain, brown envelopes (Rawk! Rawk!), we scooped it up and repaired to the study to peruse whatever might have caused a surreptitious hand-delivery by a fleeing prelate.  Perhaps he was a primate.  Ecclesiastical offices can be so confusing, boys and girls.

No matter how hard the envelope was shaken, there was but a single sheet of paper inside.  Disappointment notwithstanding, the Toad gave the letter a once over.  Once was enough, pally.  The document involved a weighty matter of ecclesiastical and theological priorities.

It seems that there was a diocesan convention scheduled somewhere. No surprise there.  There are more of these in the summer than grains of sand on Pismo Beach.  However, tragedy and foreboding hovered over this particular convention.  The letter sadly advised clergy that, without notice, the venue for the convention had decided close the on-site restaurant.  No loss there, boys and girls.  The Toad regards hotel food as an abomination worthy of at least the fifth circle of hell. 

No, the truly devastating decision, nay cataclysmic event, was the simultaneous closure of the hotel bar.  There would be no on-site bar available to thirsty clergy or delegates alike.  Rawwwwwwwwwk!  Unthinkable!  Preposterous!  No bar at a church event!

The correspondent quickly offered a palliative.  The hotel would provide an “hospitality suite” in which one might procure “self-serve” drinks.  Just what are “self-serve” drinks, we pondered whilst cursing Scales who had not yet tipped up with our afternoon drinks cart.

Apparently, “self-serve” works out to everyone (clergy and lay toads alike) being encouraged to bring their own bottle to the clambake.  Worse yet, they were exhorted to “share” this liquor with fellow convention goers. Share? SHARE liquor!?!  Grade shades of Nicholas Maduro and Venezuelan-style, Bolivarista socialism!  Priorities, toads and toadettes, priorities.

The correspondent goes on to say that, in this new scheme, the hotel, if it might be called that, would provide setups-glassware and ice for the drinks. The venue would also open the closed bar, with the stern proviso that all drinks must be “poured” in the hospitality suite and subsequently transported to the temporarily re-opened bar area.  The possibility of loss through sloshing is on a par with parish closings and could even spark denominational change among certain attendees.  Priorities, damn it, priorities!

After Scales finally arrived and mixed up a pitcher of Bishops, the Toad was able at last to consider the enormity of the situation.  For at least one and a half days, attendees at a church gathering would be forced not only to bring their own liquor, but to have to pass it about to others.  Just imagine the spectacle. An endless line going to and from between a closed bar and the cloister where drinks might be surreptitiously “poured”.  Perhaps there might even be a wait to obtain the clandestine hooch!

What next?  Eliot Ness and the treasury boys or at least the state Liquor Board busting the joint?  That would inconvenience the august churchman. It might even force him to chapel or even to prayer.  No!  The Toad’s mind shudders at that prospect.  Yours should too, pally.

After a few Bishops, we came to decisions on priorities.  When selecting a venue for a church event of any sort, one must insure the uninterrupted availability of hooch no matter the duration.  Toad isn’t talking about bar brands, either.  Only bottled and bond, top shelf stuff for a religious gathering.  And mouthpieces.  Better have a good shyster or two handy in case that venue tries to change the rules.  A smile, a song and the threat of a lawsuit will have the hotel buying out the local liquor emporium to keep those religious folks making a joyful noise, or my name isn’t Roy Toad!

Now, whether you are at some gathering of the faithful suddenly gone lowbrow, or just hanging out in your own oratory, here’s a little something to make glad the heart and get your own priorities straight. 

The Bishop Cocktail.

Ingredients:
  • 1 ounce lemon juice
  • 1 ounce orange juice
  • 1/2 ounce simple syrup
  • 3 1/2 ounces chilled red wine-Avoid fruity varieties as you are mixing the flavour
  • Orange wheel, to garnish
Directions:
1.     Shake the lemon juice, orange juice and “Cocktail Artist” or other brand simple syrup in a cocktail shaker with ice.
2.     Strain the contents of the cocktail shaker into an ice-filled wine glass.
3.     Slowly add the chilled red wine, and stir.
4.     Garnish with the orange wheel, and serve.

Eight or nine of these, pally, and you will be making paper miters and starting your own ecclesiastical jurisdiction. Rawk, rawk, rawk!

Yr. Obed. Serv.


Roy Toad, DD, DMon., D.Phil. (Oxen), LSMFT 

Wednesday, March 14, 2018

Realignment



The Bench Presser-A Mix-n-Toss Cocktail

Well, Boys and Girls,

The Toad is back!  And no thanks to Reg Buff-Orpington who disappeared after manking Wing Commander.  We'll settle his hash later.

Meanwhile, the Toads been for a lengthy “realignment” at a spa in Baden Baden at the behest of the Lower Durham Parole Board.  He was not only realigned, but he had his tires rotated, headlights buffed and was both Simonized and Martinized (one hour in and out guaranteed).

Returning to Toad Manor, the Toad has been busy evicting grifters, poachers, squatters and the occasional bench presser and power lifter.  Crime and fitness have been purged from the Mossy Oak paneled halls of Toad Central, and we are ready for action…after the drinks are poured, of course.  Hey, I did say fitness had been put to flight.  Pay attention, bunky, or face the Wrath of the Toad!

Cocktail in hand and fez jauntily worn, the Toad perused the enormous stack of news after incinerating the bills in a nice, roaring hearth.  Hour after hour, item after item passed in review.  Three quarters into a second fifth (or was it a fifth second) of Old Overcoat, the Toad came to a startling realization: nothing had changed!  Not a sausage!

One electronic news service that claims all the knowledge of the universe loudly declaimed that GAFCON (or is it GAFFE-CON) chairman and Nigerian Primate Nicholas Okoh says “the GAFFE-CON movement came into being nearly ten years ago because godly leaders recognized that the Anglican Communion was being divided by leaders who rejected the authority of the Bible, denied the uniqueness of Jesus and promoted patterns of life which defy Scripture and reject the pattern of creation.”

Wow! Ten years ago this startling revelation suddenly struck home.  How long have they had telegraph in Lagos?!?  Has it been ten whole years?  Rawwwwwkkkk!

The good (aren’t they all?) archbishop solemnly declaimed, “Where there is no repentance, there must be realignment. This involves new jurisdictions coming into being where necessary, such as the Anglican Church in North America, and changing patterns of relationship, …” 

This rang a somehow familiar note here in Toad Manor, and the Toad sprang almost immediately to the library after a few more Bench Presser Cocktails, he reeled into the archives.  There, going back years and years were the same breathless pronouncements.  “One more thing and we’ll realign.  Yes, we will.  Just you wait.  There will be new jurisdictions.  We might have to do it.” 

Yep, there it is in all its glory: “Anglican Insanity”.  Different people in the funny hats, but the same old refrain.  “Realignment.  Definitely realignment.”

Well, boys and girls, Dr. Toad is here to let you in on a little secret.  The only realignment possible for those silly enough to remain in GAFFE-CON, ACNE (the Anglican Communion in New England, isn’t it?) or the recent manifestations of modernism trying to palm themselves off as “traditionalists” is at the hands of a Moldovan masseuse at the Boiling Spring Spa of greater Baden Baden.  Otherwise, bunky, that train left the station 40 years ago, and you’re still on the platform.

The Toad decided that there was bright spot in this endless renvoi of things Anglican.  He doesn’t have to read three years of back issues!  This leaves more time for roistering.  After Lent, of course.

The Bench Presser Cocktail

Makes 1 large glass
– 1 ripe banana
-1/3 of a cup of blueberries (60g)
-1/3 of a cup of strawberries (50g)
– 1/2 a cup of kale leaves (remove the hard parts of the stalks) (40g)
– 1/4 of a cup of almond milk or water (60ml)
– 1 tablespoon of ground flax seed
– 1 tablespoon of hemp powder
– 1 tablespoon of chia seeds
– 1 tablespoon of acai
– 1 teaspoon of cinnamon

Pour entire mixture down drain.

Pour 4 ounces of Grey Goose Vodka over ice and vow over the chilled vodka never to consume health food of any type.

Five or six of these and your bench will be pressed.  Folded and spindled as well. Rawwwwwwkkkkk!


Yr. Obed. Serv.


Roy Toad, DD, DMon., D.Phil. (Oxen), LSMFT

Friday, July 31, 2015

Personality Cults and Wandering Bishops

 
Well, Toads and Toadettes,

It is summer half-spent and the your obedient servant as been away at his annual cult meeting-"The Bohemian Toad." Luminaries galore from all over come to the "special pond" in Full Monty Hall, California (not to be confused with some other cheap conspiratorial organization). Lots of towel snapping, sybaritic excess and nekkid dancing to be had, along with that world domination thing. Our motto, "Puking Plebians Come Not Here" adorns many a private steam room, let me tell you. Of course, not to be missed is the celebrated and solemn Lily Pad Ceremony around the fire-lit statue of Heqet the Frog Goddess, but that's just fraternal hi-jinks bunky and not a cult. It is a fraternity, dammit, and don't forget it. The Toad needs no cult, bunky, he is the cult and don't you forget it.

Ahhh, but cult, my brave toads and toadettes, is what waited in the post when yours truly staggered across the lintels of Toad Manor towel askew and ice bag crowning his regal head.  There, in magnificent detail and accompanied by suitably lurid illustrations, was the message that that an archbishop had been letting the little bishop under his purview out a bit too often.  And this was not just any run-of-the-mill archbishop.  This wanton wonder and icon for the iPhone camera franchise was the head of an entire jurisdiction...nay,

It seems that continuing clerical contumaciouseness had moved into outright flagitiousness, and the wandering wunderkind and object of adoration had had been, shall we say, a bishop rampant.  This peripatetic prelate had got up to behaviours that earned a public complaint from a lady he had visited "marital advice" upon.  Such was the nature of the counseling that, well, "things" had happened.  Rawk.  Hmmmm...
Well, after sussing to the full range of the roaming of the archbishop (both large and small), the lady had asked that the roistering fellow be stopped lest other women be preyed upon in whatever state the Persipicacious Prelate found them. (Here's a clue, boys and girls: vulnerable seems to be the modus operandi.)  Whether with wine and soothing verbiage or, heaven help the viewer, "selfies" of the greater and lesser bishop, this fellow got around.  The toad can only note that even with Borax for an eye wash the image might or might not be expunged. The visual is far greater than the Toad Grove Dance could even comprehend.  It must be a California thing. Rawwwwk!

So the response of the faithful?  The Toad has learned that it was to attack the woman who raised the alarum that a bishop might just be a' wandering. Here are some initial tasty bits included questioning of the lady's sanity by a purported "clergyman", calumny against her attorney (ok, Toad doesn't like bottom feeders) and vitriol heaped upon the notoriously anti-catholic kiwi-fellah who broke the whole thing.  In the coming days, tearful tones doted on the wonderous contributions of the august and pious prelate and what a shame it was to end his "career" prematurely.  That "J...s" guy? The "King"? The alleged reason for the whole "jurisdiction"?  Not mentioned anywhere. Nope.  No J-Man, only the P-Man. 

The Toad, home from that Bohemian outing, waited. Several Bishop's Cocktails and a few games of of whist with his old pal Squadron Leader Reg "Buff" Opington helped pass the time.  Left the drinks cart rather depleted though.

Then, abra, kababra and alakazam! The wandering bishops, great and small, resigned.  It was billed as a "sickness" thing, you know. Rawwwwk!  You bet sickness, toads and toadettes.  And just as suddenly, the iron curtain descended! No further encomiums, vigorous defenses, tearful recriminations or assaults on the victims.  No, nothing. Not a sausage.  Well, boys and girls, there apparently is a gag order from the prelate's grew, but the matter had already made the Toad gag enough. 

So. toads and toadettes, another one has feet of clay, and it ain't amongst the too familiar quarters of the "mainstream churches" or Joel "Make It Too Easy" Osteen and his empire. (Really, how much French procincial can you buy.) No, this is an upholder of the faith of "T. S. Eliot, C. S. Lewis, and Dorothy Sayers."  Somehow, and it's just a guess, these folks probably wouldn't be amused by these Anglican antics.

The Toad, now in a second pitcher of Blueberry Bishops, might say, "well, at least it was with women."  However, the Toad is far too cynical and not a member of any modern organised religion.  No, the Toad just looks and simply says to the defenders of the greater and lesser bishop involved, "Do a cult check, bunky." When you do religious stuff-you know, that "profess and call yourself Christian" thing, maybe that Jesus guy might be a wee bit better object of adoration.

Instead, here's a thing: The resigned clergyman's "dedication and devotion to the Church and to [St. Ignatz-on-the-Bay] and to each of us has driven him to extraordinary efforts and work levels. He has achieved impossible heights in the discharge of his four church offices. Four men could never have attained his success. But it has come at a terrible price upon his health, happiness and vitality." Ok, a charitable interpretation might allow that he certainly seems to have been as busy as four men.  Rawk, rawk, rawk.

How about this gusher sent by an alert reader from earlier in the year? "I have never seen a man stand up under such scathing and undeserved attack, but he did, by the grace of God alone.Thankworthy, St. Peter would have termed this suffering. I have a great bishop and friend at the head of this church, and I am comforted to say I would follow him the rest of my days."  Not Jesus, not G-d of the Hebrews, not even C. Estes Kefauver.  Nope, just follow that bishop, greater and lesser.  St. Pete would be really proud, yes indeedy.

Well, four men might have tried to tag all those bases, it's true, but vitality apparently wasn't lacking in the wandering bishop.  The only thing that this Toad can agree on, is that sickness was, indeed, correctly stated in his archnesses' resignation. Funny, though.  There has been that deafening silence in comments following an article in "Dr." Kiwi's (He is a D.D. you know!)  electronic muckraker announcing the resignation of the greater and lesser bishop.  No denials, no apologies, no repentance.  Nope, bunky.  Just the old cone of silence.

So, you have to ask yourselves, boys and girls, what do you do when you just might be in a cult? Do you go along come what may.  Perhaps a question or two might be in order.  Are the finances a bit unusual, and you say that sort of thing "just happens"?  Is there irregularity of life like multiple marriages or a "non-traditional relationship", and you say "he's a great man and deserves to be happy"? Are they hiding child molestation?  Is your prepate poly-amorous? (You look it up , bunky.  You have a computer our you wouldn't be reading this.) Are your greater and/or lesser bishops molesting the flock? Do your folks wink at whatever wanton behaviours might be on because "His grace is such a great man and really photogenic"?  Get a clue, bunky. You just might be in a cult-a Church of Personality.  Rawwwwwwk!
 
With apologies, or maybe not, to Loving Colour, it's time for a song to lighten the mood:

(And during the few moments that we have left
We want to talk right down to earth in a language
That everybody here can easily understand)


Look in my eyes, what do you see?
The Church of Personality
I know your anger
I know your dreams
I've been everything you want to be
I'm the Curch of Personality
Like Jimmy P or Kennedy
I'm the Cult of Personality
The Church of Personality
The Cult of Personality


With candle lights, let smoke arise
When a prelate speaks, on the lips are lies
You will have to follow me
Only I won't set you free


I tell you things you need to be
I'm the smiling face, you're on your knees
I'm the Church of Personality
I exploit you
Still you love me
I tell you one and one makes three
Forget to mention the Trinity
I'm the Church of Personality


Like Jimmy Pike or Jackie Spong
Never mind, the right or wrong
I'm the Church lt of Personality
The Cult of Personality
The Church of Personality
No more hat, that prelate's fried
But ah those priests, they weep and cry
You won't have to follow me
My cellphone pics, have set you free


You gave me fortune
You gave me fame
You gave me power in your God's name
I'm every bishop, you need me to be
I'm the cult of personality!

I'm the Cult of
I'm the Cult of
I'm the Cult of
I'm the Cult of
I'm the Cult of
I'm the Cult of
I'm the Cult of
I'm the Cult of Personality!

That about sums it up. At least it has brought us to our favourite time of day.  Cocktail Hour,boys and girls, and time time for a good stiff, drink.Our general theme today is:

 
Of course, there are many variants and always in appropriate liturgical colours. Beware, though.  Several of these and little bishops tend to go astray!  Sufficiantly large quantities cause cultist behaviours!  Spectacular amounts induce feelings of invincibility and the need to form one's own "jurisdiction"! Rawk, rawk, rawk!

The Bishop's Cocktail-For Those "Ordinary Times"
Serves 1.
Ingredients
  • 2 ounces gin
  • 2 ounces Stone's ginger wine
  • 2 or 3 ice cubes
The Blueberry Bishop-When You are Blue Over Being Caught Out          
Makes 6 cups

Ingredients
  • 4 cups blueberries, picked over and chilled
  • 1 cup ice water
  • 1 cup crushed ice
  • 3 cups chilled Gew├╝rztraminer or Rhine wine
  • 3 tablespoons fresh lemon juice, or to taste
  • 1/3 cup superfine granulated sugar, or to taste
 
The Red Bishop-When You're Feeling Laike a Martyr
Ingredients
Yield: 1 Drink
  1. Pour the ingredients into a cocktail shaker filled with ice.
  2. Shake well.
  3. Strain into a chilled red wine glass.
Classic Punch Version Especially for Affirming Catholics-Rawwwwk!
  • 1 bottle red wine
  • 3 oz rum
  • Juice of 1/2 lemon
  • 4 barspoons superfine sugar
  • various seasonal fruits for garnish
  1. Mix all ingredients in a pitcher by stirring thoroughly.
  2. Add ice (pour into a punch bowl if desired).
  3. Add a variety of fruits as garnishes.
Of course, toads and toadettes, you can avoid all of that mixing and time consuming messing about with a variety of fruits (ecclesiastical or no) by going the traditional path.
 
Eight or nine pints of the old Bishop's Finger your clergyman will go international and get Russian arms and Roman hands! 

Until next time, remember, bunky, the Toad is the Cult of Personality in this jurisdiction. Raaawwwwk!

Yr. Obed. Serv.,


Roy A. Toad, DD, DMon., D.Phil. (Oxen), LSMFT
 

Friday, May 29, 2015

Conversion

Well, Toads and Toadettes,

     It's that season again.  A time to celebrate...something.  In the Toad's case, it is the arrival of 250 cases of inexpensive rose to while away the summer hours.  "Think pink for the drink" is our motto here at the pond.  Ok, bunky, it's not much of a motto but it's not much of a wine either.  Rawk!
     In the case of our friends "across the pond", it's time to celebrate conversion. Not what you think you pious little weeds.  Real conversion.  You know: "Gender Reassignment Surgery" a/k/a "Gender Confirmation Surgery" a/k/a "addadictomy" and such like.  We're talking either the old lopping off or sewing on. Or maybe both. Ouch, rawk!
     Seems as though the jolly old...or is it gay old...Church of England is considering a scheme to introduce a ceremony sort of like a baptism to mark the new identities of Christians who undergo a little self-mutilation so that they can release their inner whatever. The motion out of the Diocese of Blackburn (which includes the fleshpots of Poulton and Whalley) calls on the House of Bishops to sort of...like...consider whether it should introduce a new service to mark the milestone in the life of a tranny-either the chopping and lopping or the sewing and stitching.  A spokesperson (unclear of which "gender identity") for the Archbishop of Canterbury's Council confirmed that the motion had
been received, but debate was not to be on, at least immediately.said it would not be debated imminently.
    In response one Andrew Symes (Mrs.), the executive secretary and master of understatement for something called Anglican Mainstream, had this resounding reposte, "The Christian faith has always taught that people are created male and female. We speak for the conservative traditional point
of view. We are aware there are a number of people who want to change from one gender to another and that's a new thing for the church to deal with. It would be something that would go against the teachings of the church up till now. It would be something that would cause controversy."  Controversy?  Contrroversy!?! Rawk, rawk, rawk. 
    But Andrew (perhaps "Mabel" to his confidantes) gets out the backhoe and goes for real depth, 
"To recognize all people is something the church should be doing but to have a service of blessing for someone to change their gender is a new idea. It's not been discussed before in the Church of England. It would need a lot of discussion and debate by theologians and I would need to
know whether there are other agendas by the people bringing it. I would be very surprised if the diocese has passed the motion without a lot of discussion and debate."  New idea?  Wouldn't be passed without "a lot of discussion and debate"?
    The Toad may be into his third bottle of rose, but 'tis easy to see what this paragon of orthodoxy is saying.  It's a new idea, and we are simply going to ttalk it to death.  Just like we did with womyn's ordination.*  Just like we did with womyn bishops.*  Just like we did with homosexual "marriage".  Then, quick as a wink, Dr. Katchukakoff's "Chop House" will be able to send the converts around for a little ceremony to increase their self esteem and sense of belonging.
     The Toad has to ask.  Will there be a separate ceremony to...um...inter the...um...you know...missing...parts?  Or, in the spirit of the environmentally conscious CofE will the church urge recycling of the...um..parts... to those parishioners converting in the other direction? 
     Perhaps local parishes could set up "Parts Exchange Bulletin Boards" in the parish hall.  Cash strapped parishes could really get behind package deals with local "gender reassignment" surgeries and local wedding planners who could introduce a whole line of services to go with the new "Conversion Ceremony".  Don't want to guess at what might top the cake, though.  Rawwwwwwk!   
     Well, boys and girls, or girls and boys, or whatever you think you are.  The Toad knows that his inner toad is a toad.  A male Toad.  If you are thinking you are going to pop round stately Toad Hall or scenic Toad Pond to have yourself a "conversion party" you can expect to be greeted with an hail of empty rose bottles.  Don't drop any of your...um...parts...on the way off the property. And that includes you, Mr. or Ms. Jenner.   Rawk!
    Now, it's time to put away the rose for afternoon cocktail hour and, you guessed it, bunky, the

GENDER BENDER SHOOTER 



  • Bols Blue Curacao
  • Jack Daniel's whiskey
  • Dark Rum
  • Bailey's Irish Cream Liqueur

  • 1. In a shot glass pour the blue cura├žao.
    2. Carefully layer Jack Daniel’s on top.
    3. Layer dark rum over the Jack Daniel’s.
    4. Finally layer Irish cream over Jack Daniel’s.

     
    The good folks over at Cocktail Hunter bill the Gender Bender shooter as "a strong and wicked little drink. This shooter looks a little different each time that you make one."  Just like post-conversion parishioners.  Great jumpin' Jenner!  Rawwwwwk!
     
    Yr. Obed. Serv.,
     
    Roy Toad (Dr.), DD, JD, LSMFT
     
    *You alert toadies and toadettes will notice the cool use of femynist spellings in today's column.  Neat, huh?  It is the first and the last time.  We;re just see whether you are paying attention and reading footnotes.  
     

     

    Friday, July 25, 2014

    Life's A Beach


    Good Morning, Boys and Girls,

    The Toad has been on the road quite a bit over the last two years.  Not one of you mean-spirited little toads and toadettes even sent a card.  Even the putative "assistants" who absolutely promised to keep the vital work of sneering going here have disappointed. Well, expect punishment, bunky. Rawk!

    Nevertheless, the Toad is benificent, particularly when he has been spending much of the last few years sunning himself down at Foley Beach.  The Toad just had to go. All of the beautiful people are there.  No one is at all shabby, and there is no deviant behavior except for a bunch of women who seem to dress up like clergy quite a bit and, of course, the Toad.

    Well, boys and girls, the Toad was out one glorious evening tossing a little of Nobel's Finest off the pier to raise up a few fish for dinner, when a neighbor lady in a fetching gents summer suit and dog collar showed up in her Ebbtide Bowrider with the powerful Zwingli-Geneva engines.

    "Yo, Toadie," "Deacon" Sue called out as she throttled that bad boy down to a low, "Prot-prot-prot..."
    "Yes, oh seersuckered maiden of the waves?  Whaddya want?  Can't you see I am fishing here?"

    "I see that, Toad.  So does Foley.  He sees averything around here."
    "Who the hell is Foley?" asked an irritated Toad tossing her a lit stick.  She turned whiter than possible even for an evangelical in the protestant tradition and pitched it over the side.
    "Nice cast, clerical quail.  Now about Foley..."

    She brushed some scrod parts off her jacket, checked the lipstick, and said, "He's the guy whose name graces this beach, Toad, and he's not very happy with you. He heard that you were a backslider and in need of pastoral care."  Suddenly, she was brandishing a Taser in one hand and a Bible in the other.
    The evening was going bad in a hurry.

    "I don't believe that there is a Foley Beach on this Foley Beach.  He ain't really present, and if he ain't really present, then he doesn't exist. Rawwwwk!"

    She was fumbling with the Taser trigger. "Awwww, don't be like that, Toadie," she crooned, "Why don't you and I motor on down to Loganville and you can see for yourself."  She seemed to be becoming a bit fuzzy, or maybe it was the shaker of Love on the Beach cocktails in the old Coleman cooler.

    The Toad makes a point never to motor anywhere with the delusional, particularly on the open sea. "Are you going to talk, or are you going to fish?" "Besides, if he ain't really present, he just ain't, and you seem to be a bit of a novelty yourself sister."

    She was now, well, See-Through-Sue. The Taser now forgotten, sher implored, "Toady, I am as valid as anyone and you need to stop all of that "really present" stuff.  It's so..."
    "Judgemental, bunky?" An airborne flounder nearly winged her rapidly fading form.

    "No, oh Toad, sacramental. And we don't like that. Now, get in the boat and we'll power on over to Foley's.  Johnny Knox and the Hugos are plaing at the cabana club, and they are having bread and wine. They'll let anyone have some. Even you, Toad."

    "Naw, Susie-Q, I may be a Toad, but I like my reality really present."
    With that, she just sort of winked out, seercucker and all.  Only the soft, "Prot-prot-prot" of the idling twin Zwinglis could be heard over the surf.

    The Toad knows that there is only one thing to do in such a situation: grab the boat, crank up the Django Django and drink responsibly!  "Prot-prot-prot...Bwaaaaaaaaaa!"

    "Life's a Beach" (with apologies to Django, Django)

    That how you want to play it
    Break my heart and go Rome
    Why'd you want to go do that, we're not even really present

    That how you want to sing it
    I've been having loads of fun
    I think I've heard that song before, it ends up as a prayer book

    That how you want to see it
    If you just have a 'tongue?'
    Tunnel vision, never listen, no we're never going to Rome

    You're a good time killer
    Another study you'll condone
    Overlooked by Anglo-catholics, playing miter, cope and throne

    Sea has ... something stirring
    On the currents down below
    There's a beach out of reach, pack that missal so we can go

    The same old stuff starts all over
    Switch it up and overhaul
    Step in line, get in time, speed it up until we fall

    Now, toadies, let’s put on our clam diggers, take up our shovels and pails, and see what we can find scouring Foley Beach. And let's not forget to share a little
     
    Love on the Beach

    Ingredients:

    •2/3 oz. Schnapps, peach
    •1 1/3 oz. Vodka
    •1 1/3 oz. Cranberry Juice
    •1 1/3 oz. Orange Juice

    Mixing Instructions

    Combine ingredients in a cocktail shaker with ice. Shake and strain into a highball glass filled with ice. Eight of these and you'll be beached.  Rawwwwwwk!