The Gospel According to Hank: Why the Basement isn't a Cathedral
If you woke up this morning with a head feeling like a kicked hornet’s nest and realized you spent the night sleeping in the flowerbed again, don’t you worry—you’re among friends. Navigating life is about as simple as counting the toes on your feet to see if you lost any in the ruckus. If you’ve still got all five, you’re a genius; if you’re a couple short, just pull off your other boot and you’ll find the rest of the sections soon enough.
Speaking of being a genius, I went and did something real religious this week. A new Holy Rolling Church Trailer rolled into the lot—it’s a perty setup, mostly a Winnebago with a plastic steeple taped to the roof—and I decided it was time to clear my conscience. I went in to see the priest feller (who I don't think was Catholic, on account of him wearing a "World's Best Dad" hat instead of a collar), and I laid it all out there.
I confessed my biggest secret: I’ve had Cousin Chucky locked in the crawlspace under the house for the last six months. Now, don't go lookin' at me like a frozen pickerel! I told the Father—or Gary, as he asked to be called—that I did it for Chucky's own "tection." Between the Trailer Park Po-Po and people trying to break his head (what Suzette calls a casse-tête), the basement was the only place he was safe from the world. I even gave him a flashlight and most of a bag of chips every Tuesday! Gary just stared at me like I was one oar in the water, but I felt a real religious feeling for about two minutes.
The Lesson: If you love someone, you’re supposed to set ‘em free. But if they’re a few bricks short of a full load and keep trying to run out of the house, it’s mighty neighborly to keep 'em under the floorboards until the neighbors stop asking questions. Family takes care of each other, even if it means a deadbolt and a bucket.
