SSS?

SSS?

I was scrolling through this Nextdoor.com app and was amazed at all the menu options available after you enter your zip code and sign up.

You can stay in touch with immediate neighbors, keep track of local government, learn about critter threats, and choose to address your own public concerns.

Besides that you can find (or recommend) a plumber, fencer, or insurance agent, locate a lost dog or get rid of an ugly credenza.

The San Simeon community is so underrepresented by nearby news agencies, we could even consider it our local newspaper: The San Simeon Sentinel, SSS for short!

     ("Sentinel"  NOUN, definition: a soldier or guard whose job is to stand and keep watch)

We need to watch out for each other.

And you know what else we need?  A comics section.
Anybody out there have some ability to draw cartoons?

At the Gates

Grey waves lap against a dark sky.

I could die at any moment.
Heart attack, infected toenail, bladder explosion.

What if that whole St. Peter thing is real?

"So St. Pete, how's it hanging?"
He regards me with heavenly murder.
"Hey--my lips didn't move--no fair reading my mind!"

I suspect this interview has taken a bad turn.

"So we're cool, right?"

I saunter to the pearly gates a little nervous but confidently reach for the latch.

"THUNK" and all the planets in every known universe bang against each other.

And I'm back in front of his ledger.

"Shit, I think my ears are bleeding!"

"JOHN ROBERT RICHARDSON" (You know you're fucked when your hear a middle name through bloody ears)

"Yes, your honorable Pete?"
(Down on my knees now and everything hurts)

"There are some problems here," he says.
An eternal silence follows.

Think fast, Johnny.
"Yeah, well if it's about that internet thing, I'm way over that and very much "ME TOO".  Power to the blessed double X!

He shakes ancient dandruff filled locks.

"No.
 That's not it."

(Any time now Rod Serling will tell me that I've "entered a dimension not of time and space...." and realize I've dozed during "Twilight Zone."

But no, oh no.

 My injured ears are assaulted by a resounding question:
"Do you know how many times you said "Goddammit"?

"Uhmm... I don't know, maybe a couple of thousand?
He shakes his head, unleashing celestial dandruff.

"And how many times did you say 'Jesus Christ'?"

"Hey, give a little credit here. I did a little door-to-door with Pastor Phil. Not every time was in vain, you know?"

"That accounts for 23 our of 11, 051."

(Jesus, this guy's a bean counter!)

"And how often did you proclaim 'God is Dead'?"

"Holy Fuck, shit, uh, I mean darn, only a few times..."
I pause for a Yoga breath and explain.
"Look, I took a class on existentialism. I needed the units to graduate and just wanted to fit in."

Eons pass. No response.
Looking up at nasal hairs unhindered by the passage of eternity, I realize something.
This was bullshit, pure and simple.

"Hey you know what St. Peter breath?
Fuck you and the cross you rode in on!
I'm out of here."

"YES, YOU ARE."