John the Mon
"On Target"

May 8, 2006
Vol. 7 Issue 19

For centuries scientists have tried to decipher the DNA of one of the most remarkable and efficient machines ever conceived. The raw energy, mystical feats of strength, and paranormal abilities, combined with extraordinary mind-reading skills and a clairvoyant view of the world, all meshed with precision into a perfectly adjusted body, have mystified prophets since time began. Mere mortals are only given six senses at birth and they need to develop and hone them throughout their lives in order to reach their full potential. However, this species was created and graced with an extra set of senses to carry on their mission in life, all fully developed and fine tuned, by early adulthood.

This remarkable being has a peripheral vision range of three-hundred-sixty degrees, can see around corners, spot a half-eaten dirty sock being devoured by a carnivorous dust bunny, has the uncanny ability to spot a small piece of lint on a white suit from forty yards, and like a bloodhound on the trail of a cold pork chop, can smell a bargain three miles away. They intuitively know where objects that have been missing for years were mislaid, and, if given half a chance, they would be able to pinpoint the exact moment that Congress lost its ethical and moral compass. This natural talent for finding things makes them uniquely qualified for the one job in America that no one else is capable of doing; they train UPS drivers on the fine art of finding lost and nonexistent addresses based on nothing more than a gut feeling, and, in rare instances, actually stopping and asking for directions. Who ever heard of asking for directions before these people came along?

They are the only creatures to have mastered something that has baffled the CIA for years—the “church whisper.” This phenomenon allows these individuals to whisper something that is not to be repeated or overheard into the ear of one of their trusted circle of regulars, and to have the sound drop off and evaporate like a puff of smoke in a fifty-mile-an-hour wind whenever a trespasser gets within hearing range. At that precise point the message vanishes off the face of the earth, and the residue shuffles by sounding something like a telephone number for the Jell-O hotline while a steely glance tells the intruder to buzz off. This whisper, like a Tomahawk missile, is meant for one person and one person only and, as it pierces through the short space between the lip and ear at Mach I, only a vapor trail is left in its wake.

These amazing creatures also possess an automatic scanning device that alerts them to any new scams or viruses that are floating around, and every Wednesday they hold a weekly swap meet to update their security systems. During these security briefings, they filter out the best whoppers that their offspring have invented in their feeble attempts to pull the wool over their eyes. A mini Oscar is awarded to the individual who had been able to keep the straightest face and pretended to swallow one of these delusions which usually pertain to being late, not cleaning their room, or why their breath smells like a used vacuum cleaner bag. They allow their adolescents to go smugly about wrapped warmly in the illusion that they “pulled a fast one,” and it is not until years later that it dawns on them that they were nothing more than the strings of a master puppeteer who instinctively took great pride and joy in manipulating and molding them into a workable model to assure that they grew into the proper form. Besides, she knows that somewhere in the distant future a box of chocolates or a night out for dinner might be in the works when a smoldering fuse ignites and the perpetrators decide to ease their conscience and attempt to come clean. It really is a futile attempt to try and fool these creatures; after all, they are dealing with an individual who, in the dead of night, can hear the refrigerator door being opened softly and identify the intruder by their breathing pattern and the fingerprints on the unwashed dish gathering gunk in the sink. She can also tell the blood alcohol content of any family member trying to sneak past her with only a sweeping glance, and by observing how far they parked the car in the flower bed.

This individual could shame a drill sergeant and give a good sheep dog an inferiority complex. They have built-in radar intuition on the most efficient ways to round up their troops and keep them in line. They invented multitasking and can throw together a list of ingredients that makes no sense at all and then, like a magician pulling a rabbit out of his hat, a meal appears from nowhere for their entire family as they handily corral them to sit in an orderly fashion and mind their manners. They don’t need a recipe to throw together a meal that smells and tastes like it was prepared for a king. They combine the ingredients with a flourish, and with military precision they can produce, from a pound of hamburger and a few grains of rice, enough food to feed their own army and have enough leftovers to feed a small community for two weeks. They can push a small piece of thread through the eye of a needle at the same time they are carrying on a conversation and keeping a wary eye on their troops to make sure they are safe. They are walking encyclopedias who can spell almost every word in the dictionary while rattling off the correct birthdays and measurements of every member of their family. They have the inner sense to save their offspring from embarrassment by determining that anything that smacks of polyester with a paisley pattern is immediately delegated for use as a pot holder, something to clean spills up with, or to be used as a dipstick rag.

However, they do have an Achilles heel that makes them susceptible to only one fear. They will recoil in panic at the mere sight of their mortal enemy, an enemy so worrisome that beads of sweat appear on their brows and a nervous twitch will appear on the corners of their lips. Their mates and children know the terrible anxiety this causes and either will not allow the enemy into the house, or they hide it safely out of sight where she is least apt to find it. So, if you come across a dust mop while tilling the garden, you know why it is there.

They come from a long line of Shamans and can cure any scrapes that a child may develop with only a few magic words, a Band-Aid with a smiley face, and a large hug. Some people call them Guardian Angels, but most refer to them as either “My Mother” or “My Mom.”

Happy Mother’s Day.

October 3, 2005
Vol. 6 Issue 40

September 26, 2005
Vol. 6 Issue 39