J C. Jones VII - the Legend Returns

 

“Good morning. Welcome back to my podcast. Has it really been ten months? Seems like only yesterday that I was in the Awful Office having fire spit at me by demons. But, alas, I told the Old Man to put his smiting finger away. Choosing instead to follow my own advice and turn my scruffy cheek. My right cheek, if you’re curious. It’s my best side. I’m told that at a certain angle I resemble John Legend. But that remark came from Mr. Iscariot. Who, if you must know, has been buttering up my backside low these many years. But enough of that. As we only have this moment in time. There is no past or future. There is only the here and now. The winds of change— What’s that? Oh, really? Do you know who your talking to? Excuse me folks, that was my producer telling me that I had my best moment on the mount and not to spoil it with stale observations. That I should take a cue from Paul McCartney, who learned his lesson after recording Mary Had a Little Lamb soon ofter his amazing journey with the Beatles. A bit cheeky of my producer, I’d say. I’m quite fond of Mary Had a Little Lamb. And if he knew anything about my Mary and her little lamb he’d be a bit more understanding! But once again I shall turn this fabulous John Legendish cheek and get on with the podcast!

“Our guest this morning may be known to some of you. Me? I don’t know him from Adam. Ha. That’s a little J. C. joke.

His name is Richard McDonough aka Hudsonmoon, and I came to know Richard due to his constant howling of my name in fits of frustration. He’s been such a pain in my tuchus, and so consistent were his whines that I felt the need to summon him from his home and have him sit before me. I feel if he has something to say to me he can say it to my face like a gentleman, instead of blubbering my name over the little things he may be struggling with. So, tell me, Richard, what in hell is your problem! I got people out there with real concerns! J. C. can only put up with so much!”

“Well, to start, you dragged me away in the middle of The Pitt. Dr. Santos was just about to lay another ‘Outta my face Huckleberry’ on young Whittaker when suddenly, whoosh! Here I am.”

“About that. Aren’t you supposed to be writing? I whooshed you away at six thirty in the AM.  Prime writing time. No? That was your rule. Up at six. Write, write, write. Toil. Toil. Toil. Three hours every weekend morn. No time for anything else. Explain, oh wearisome one.”

“I wasn’t feeling it, J. C..”

“Ah, yes, the lack of inspiration. The lazy man’s Get Out of Jail Free card. God forbid you break a sweat and do some work. By the way, ‘God forbid’ is just a figure of speech. The Old Man isn’t keeping you from doing anything. Now, it says here—”

“It says here? You keeping notes?”

“Me? No. I have people. Just think of me and mine as the Siri of the spiritual world. You speak and we hear. Not me personally. As I said, I have people.”

“So you said.”

“And you don’t need to plug anything in to be heard. Pretty magical I’d say.”

“Pretty 1984ish if you ask me. Spying on people like that. My private life is my own business!”

“Then you need to stop shouting my name to the heavens. After all, it’s not like you’re trying to create some mind bending tome that will live in the hearts and minds of the people for generations to come. You know, like a certain book about a certain someone who sits before you, for instance. I speak of the New Testament, of course. A bit flawed in part, but my bits are pretty good I must say.”

‘Well, that was plain cruel, J. C.. I’m stunned that a spiritual leador of your stature would— Woah! Do I smell bagels. Are those from that shop in the Village?”

“J. C. only serves the best to his guests. Go ahead. Tear that bag open. I’ve got everything, sea salt, and poppy seed. And don’t forget the salmon spread.”

“Ooh, and they’re still warm. Nothing like a warm bagel with a smear.”

“Happy you like them. If you don’t mind I will now send you and the bagel brunch back to the Pitt. Ha. Just another little J. C. joke. You’ve got your mouth full so don’t bother thanking me. Just ease up on the Jesus shout outs and enjoy your show. And do try to get some work done. Bye, bye for now. And poof. He’s gone. Thank God!

“Note to the audience. My apologies for cutting that interview so short. I thought he’d be a lot more fun. Hopeless case of the easily distracted I’m afraid. Oh, well. Better luck next week. Consider this a— What now? You say he’s writing me a letter. Ooh, let’s have a look.

***

Dear J. C.,

I’m almost sorry I brought you back to life. I didn’t know you’d turn on me. You do know that once I stop writing this and get out of my chair, you may be gone for another ten months or more. Or Never! Ha! What I was thinking putting myself in this tale in some vain glory attempt at lifting my spirits. Only to have you step on my dreams! I thought you’d be more. . .

***

“Blah, blah, blah. Some people just don’t know how to appreciate a good savior. I’ll let him stew in his own dilusional stew for a bit. Until we meet again, folks. Good luck and God bless you.”

 

Photo Courtesy of Wiki Commons:

https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:John_Legend_May_2022.jpg