At home in the Manor of Manhood on Show Low's fashionable 8th Avenue.
St. Holiday: Hey, Babe, read this birthday card I just got in the mail.
The Lovely One: Not now; I'm busy.
St. H: Come on; it will only take a minute, and then you can ignore me again.
St. H: Sure; I only want you to share in my outrage for a brief moment.
TLO: OK; let me read it. "Dear Father. We, your loving children, want to do something special for you on your birthday. So, we're having you put to sleep." How thoughtful! Maybe I can help.
St. H: Wait. Aren't you incensed?
TLO: Why? It's a gift the whole family can enjoy.
St. H: See; this is why I weep at night.
TLO: You're not going anywhere.
St. H: I know; I know. My disciples need me more than ever.
TLO: And you haven't given me access to your off-shore accounts yet.
St. H: Ah, my Cayman stash. My true insurance policy. If I die, it all goes to charity.
TLO: What about me?
St. H: You get my literary estate.
TLO: Your literary estate! What? Your books?
St. H: No; they're for Jenna. You get my divine poems and my George & Georgie cartoons. All yours. And you can have my journals, too.
TLO: Look, buddy boy, when you croak, I'll build a big bonfire in the backyard and burn it all - your divine poems, the cartoons, the journals, and everything else I can't spend.
St. H: What?! You wouldn't treasure the sacred art of my pen?
TLO: You know what they say: "Pack it up, and throw it out. Burn it up, and do without."
St. H: But it may all be worth millions someday!
TLO: Yeah, right, like your Conan the Barbarian comic books.
St. H: Here I am, caught in the middle of a custody battle between life and death, and my affairs are unsettled.
TLO: Then I would suggest a balanced approach. Get me a ton of money, and I'll promise to take care of your precious literary estate.
St. H: You know, babycakes, the vain things of this world are no longer my top priority. Now you're my singular focus. And Holiday said, "Let there be love." And there was love, and He saw that it was good.
TLO: And Raelene said, "Let there be cash." And there was cash, and she saw that it was good.
St. H: I feel like I'm stuck in a magic lamp. Just rub me, baby, and I'll give you three wishes.
TLO: Can I have one wish, if I kick you instead?
St. H: Ugh! Me love you long time. Maybe eat more popcorn. Make you happy.
TLO: Ugh! Me heap unhappy with lazy husband.
St. H: Hey, I've been working day and night! Keep this to yourself, but I've been creating a new movie genre, called the Eastern.
TLO: Another plan so crazy it just might fail.
St. H: You know, you're making me lose faith in humankind. I may have to return to my home planet soon.
TLO: Like I said, you're not going anywhere. Besides, you look good for your age - almost lifelike.
St. H: It's that Mary Kay soap. Listen to this line from my obituary I've been working on: "leaving his children bereaved." Nice, huh?
TLO: Very poetic.
St. H: It's the striking internal rhyme, the resonance of eave and eave. I think it will be well-received by my public.
TLO: Well, like I keep saying, you're not going anywhere. Besides, we need some relics to revere once you're really gone.
St. H: Relics? Like what?
TLO: I don't know ... A piece of the true finger. The Shroud of St. Holiday. The tooth of truth.
St. H: That reminds me. I want you to invite my dentist to my funeral. I want him to see the tooth that got away and moan his loss.
TLO: He'll never come, not after the way you screamed at him the last time you had an appointment.
St. H: What are you talking about?
TLO: You were yelling, "Drop your weapon!"
St. H: Didn't you see that needle he had? It looked like something a Visigoth would carry into battle.
TLO: You scared the patients in the waiting room. They all fled at the sound of you.
St. H: I saved them. And no one returned to thank me. I lead a thankless life of sacrifice.
TLO: Would you sacrifice for me?
St. H: Why? What else do you want me to do?
TLO: I asked you to fix the toilet, but you pooh-poohed that idea.
St. H: I've been paralyzed by thought. You don't know what it's like, being yoked to the great oxcart of mystery. Everyday, I'm irresistibly drawn into a trancelike state to peer into the dreamy domain of the blessed. It's the burden I must bear. Yet, it seems like I'm always pursuing truth with a stone in my shoe and a cramp in my calf.
TLO: O, holy husband; you are without beginning of thought or end of words. You used to work around the house, keep things maintained.
St. H: Hey, I've already solved all the world's problems, and I'm still in my jammies. And you know what they say: past performance is no guarantee of future results. I heard that on TV. Speaking of TV, I could use a little quality time with the remote.
TLO: What about the proffered birthday gift from your loving children?
St. H: Tell them, thanks, but you've already made arrangements.