Dec. 8th is a Holy Day of Obligation Because ...

Father announced at Mass Sunday that Dec. 8 was a Holy Day of Obligation. Unlike Father Jankowski quizzing his congregants in the following scene from Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos, our priest only provided Mass times. Thank goodness. I'm sure our congregation's response might have been the same. Or worse.

Some Holy Days of Obligation leave many of us scratching our heads. To make sure they’re not preaching to empty pews, priests often throw out hints at Sunday Mass preceding the Holy Day.

“Next Thursday is December eighth. What do you suppose we have going on that day?” Father Jankowski asks his congregants before administering the final blessing.

Parishioners fidget in their seats, shooting each other nervous glances.

“Annual blood drive?”

“Sock and underwear collection for the nuns?” 

 “Oil change on the bishop’s Mercedes?”

“It’s the Feast of the Immaculate Conception,” Father says, reminding everyone that it’s a Holy Day of Obligation. 

“Anyone who can tell me what that day commemorates will get a dispensation from attending Mass.” Those Get Out of Mass coupons are as rare as a teenage boy waking before noon and offering to drive his grandmother to seven a.m. Mass. 

Voices cry out, “Honoring Mary for being a virgin when she conceived Jesus!”

Father sighs. “Does anyone know?”

Rosa and Theresa Giannetti, twin Octogenarians seated in the first pew, say in unison, “Our Blessed Mother was conceived without the stain of Original Sin. Unlike the rest of us wretches.”

“I’ll see all of you here Thursday,” Father tells his congregation, including the Giannettis. They attend Mass every day and wouldn’t dream of missing a Holy Day.

Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos

JFK Remembrance ... First Catholic President & Harbinger of Papal Supremacy

Tomorrow marks the anniversary of President John F. Kennedy's assassination.  Did you know when he became the first Catholic president, many feared he'd take orders from the Pope. This tongue-in-cheek scene from Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos illustrates that fear:

A red phone in the Oval Office rings. President Kennedy takes  the call.

“Hey, Jack, do you think you could do me a few favors?” “Sure, Your Holiness. Name them.”

“For starters, how about a law requiring every American eat fish on Friday?”

“Done. What else?”

“Maybe go to Confession more often? And lay off the blonde.

You know, your birthday songbird?

“Hmm, that’s a tough one. Got anything less complicated on your mind?”

“How about dropping one of those fancy-schmancy A-bombs on Russia? This Communism stuff is getting out of hand.”

“Now you’re talking. Let me take care of some commotion down in Cuba first, but then I’ll get right on it.”

Of course, if a pope had this kind of pull, Al Smith would have been elected in a landslide back in 1928. Everyone would have known that within moments of Smith placing his hand on the Bible—the Catholic version—Pope Pius XI would’ve been in his ear, ordering him to quash prohibition.

Great Inexpensive Christmas Gift - Signed Copy of Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos

Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos

Order by Dec. 5 and Receive Autographed Copy Before Christmas

               Houston, Nov. 5, 2017 -- Kingwood humorist and author Danielle Schaaf has launched a new book, Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos; Catholics Believe the Darndest Things. The book is an entertaining and informative look at Catholicism that will have readers, Catholic or not, snorting holy water out of their noses. Order by Dec. 5 and receive a signed copy from Schaaf in time for Christmas. Cost is $10 per book and order by emailing Schaaf at nunstories@yahoo.com.

About The Book

 “Code Dahmer, register seven.”

One minute, the cashier compliments you on your necklace, and the next thing you know, store security drags you out the door. All because you proudly confided to her that your necklace contained a bone chip from a man tortured and murdered centuries ago. Well…Jeffry Dahmer DID tell police the same thing.   

Okay, this didn’t happen, but it’s exactly how Cradle Catholic Danielle Schaaf feels when she describes her religious upbringing. Even though there are a billion Catholics in the world, many of their tenets and traditions remain a mystery—even to themselves. Questions abound, and some, like, “Why is there dirt on your forehead?” are easy enough for Schaaf to explain. “They’re ashes. No, not Uncle Sal’s.”  

When questions get tough and test Schaaf’s theological mettle, like “Do nuns go commando under their habits?” she turns to the pros: nuns themselves. These days, nuns are harder to locate than gluten-free donuts. All anyone can say is, “Witness Protection Program.” Not being able to find any sisters, Schaaf instead created her own, truncated version of Catholic Catechism. Why not? She’s often mistaken for a nun and never misses a rerun of The Flying Nun.

 Snarky humor, warped nostalgia, and reverently irreverent musings grace the pages of Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos. Blending lessons from nuns of yesteryear with pop culture, sports, and reality TV imagery, topics include

Crips or Crusaders: Can you spot a Catholic?

“Vatican’s Got Saints” reality TV competition

Exorcisms, apparitions, Jesus in Cheetos, and other leaps of faith

Kneeling, Genuflection Lunges, and Sweating to the Oldies

Little Debbie Saint-Naming Rebellion

Catholic Home Décor: bathtub shrines and saintly garden gnomes  

Schaaf is coauthor of Don’t Chew Jesus! and creator of Haute Flash Contessa humor columns and comedy shows. Her books are available at amazon.com Contact Danielle Schaaf, nunstories@yahoo.com; P.O. Box 6555, Kingwood, TX 77339, for more information.

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Invoking prayers from the Patron Saint of Astro(naut)s and others!

Since today is All Saint's Day, I'm calling on a few to throw in a few World Series prayers for Astros: St. Rita, unofficial patron saint of baseball; St. Sebastian, patron saint of athletes; and St. Joseph of Cupertino, patron saint of Astro(naut)s!

St. Rita, became the unofficial saint of baseball in the movie The Rookies and St. Sebastian, who survived an onslaught of arrows to seemingly come back from the dead. He's also patron saint of archers. Go figure. 

St. Joseph of Cupertino is patron saint of astronauts because of his neat levitating trick. The Flying Nun had nothing on St. Joseph. He'd be a perfect contestant on a reality show, The Vatican's Got Saints.

Excerpted from Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos 

Admit it, reality TV has us sucked in, so why not use a show to demonstrate what it takes to become a saint? Each week, we could tune into VNN and watch the latest installment of The Vatican’s Got Saints. The Vatican could enlist celebrity judges and televise the process in front of a live audience. Sorta like the Inquisitions but without executions. Here’s a glimpse of the pilot:

Nick Cannon, announcing offstage:

“Welcome to The Vatican’s Got Saints! We’re here in the Middle Ages at Wells Cathedral trying to uncover a hidden saint or two. Join us in applause for our renowned judges.”

“Mel B!”

“Awe, peace be with you,” the former Spice Girl says over and over again, glad-handing with audience members as she heads to her chair at the judge’s table.

“Simon Cowell!”

Simon ambles to the front, shaking hands and answering, “Uh, oh, yeah, and, also with you…um, I mean, and with your spirit,” to the show’s guests offering him the sign of peace.

“Howie Mandel!”

Howie fist-bumps his way to his seat, leaving in his wake a string of mutterings like, “Strange sign of peace,” “Maybe it’s a Jewish thing,” and “Father O’Leary would’ve kicked his ass after Mass.”

The first contestant stands on a spot, center stage. Mel says, “Tell us your name and where you’re from.”

“Joseph. I flew in from Cupertino ten minutes ago.”

“Airplanes haven’t been invented yet,” Mel says, wrinkling her brow in bewilderment.

“I know.”

“Joseph, what miracle will you perform today?” Howie asks.

“Levitation. I’ll slip into a trance and then drift to the rafters,” the saint-hopeful says. “No pulley, no cables, no hidden tricks. Before I start to rise, I’d like to warm up singing a Gregorian Chant Brother Gregg sang for us in the Allman Monastery.

“‘Ramblin’ Man’ so moved my Allman Brothers.”

“We hope it does the same for you, Joseph,” Mel says. “Go Ahead.”

Joseph closes his eyes. After several minutes rocking back and forth, he hums. Just when patrons begin leaving the auditorium, Joseph belts out a Woodstock-styled rock song. A buzz fills the room. Hands wave in the air, and heads bob back and forth. Bodies sway when Joseph serenades how hard it is to earn a living. The judges rock in their seats, nodding in rhythm.

Joseph’s chant hits a crescendo and he belts out a warning that it’s time for him to leave. His body lifts off the stage and floats toward the ceiling. Audience members cannot believe the spectacle they’re witnessing:

“He’s doing it!”

“Where are the wires?”

“Will he crash?”

Engulfed in a flash of light, Joseph zips over the judges’ heads. He hovers low enough to part Howie’s hair, like Moses and the Red Sea. That is, if Howie had hair.

“Make it so, Number One,” Joseph cries out. “Within seconds, he’s cruising the vast room, corner-to-corner in warp speed. Before Howie has a chance to say, “Deal or no deal?” Joseph lands on the stage. He faces the judges, a halo circling his head.

“Not bad for a first miracle,” Simon says. “What else you got?”

I’m certain ratings would be off the charts for The Vatican’s Got Saints! but I don’t think the Church is ready to walk down that reality TV road. They’re not willing to be sandwiched in a timeslot between RuPaul’s Drag Race and Hoarders.

All Saints Day - Who is Your Saint Fave?

When researching saints for my book Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos, (shameless plug!) I discovered a bad-ass set of saint twins: Zenobios and Zenobia. Because I'm a twin, and the mother of twins, I thought I knew thing or two about pain and suffering. That is, until I discovered these Holy Martyr siblings and learned of their persecution:

      A third-century bishop, St. Zenobios, was arrested in a persecution roundup. He was hung from a trestle as his body was dismembered—while he was alive and kicking. Well, maybe alive and squirming. But, there he was, minding his own pain-laced business when along comes his twin sister, Zenobia. That gal was gunning to out-suffer her. Not letting her brother get a jump on her fifteen minutes of fame, Zenobia charged his captors and demanded they toss her a torture nugget. Not to refuse an angry Greek woman, persecutors complied. No torture nugget for Zenobia. They threw her a boulder.

 First, captors forced Zenobia to lie on an iron bed covered in burning coals. You won’t find one of those at Sears. Then, for good measure, they lowered her into a vat of boiling tar. Boy, was Zenobios pissed at Zenobia for stealing his agony points. Granted, he already earned more than his fair share, just by wandering around his village.

 “Little Zenobia, fetch me water from the cistern.”

 “I’m Zenobios. Zenobia is my sister.”

 “Zenobia, Zenobios. Whatever. Just bring the water. And stop with the matching tunics.”

Zenobios and Zenobia weren't the only ones tortured into wearing matching tunics.

Litany to the Astros

We Catholics believe and practice the darndest things. With Astros down to the wire in game 7, we're pulling out all stops. For example, parishioners at Annunciation Catholic Church right next to Minute Maid Park are selling handmade rosaries with orange and navy blue beads.

A beautiful type of prayer we often invoke is a Litany. Litanies are poetic, responsive prayers offered up for special intentions, such as Litany of Divine Praises. Litanies can be recited anywhere and are particularly popular last-ditch invocations. Stuck in traffic? Try the Litany of Divine Mercy. Your recipe for pizza-dough-wrapped pickles has been named a finalist in the Pillsbury Bake-Off? Time to settle in with the Litany of Humility. And for teens coming home two hours after curfew and seeing Dad in the driveway? Rattle off the Litany for a Happy Death, naturally. 

How a Litany to Astros? I created two, which are not sanctioned by the Church and will probably add a few hundred years to my stay in Purgatory. Note: if you don't know about Purgatory, check it out in my book, Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos.

Divine Litany to Astros Batting Lineup

Jose Altuve,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Carlos Beltran,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Alex Bregman,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Carlos Correa,

 For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

 Evan Gattis,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Yuli Gurriel,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Marwin Gonzalez,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Cameron  Maybin,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Brian McCann,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Josh Reddick,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

George Springer,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Derek Fisher,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Juan Centeno,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and a slugging bat,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Divine Litany to Astros Pitchers

Charlie Morton,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Lance McCullers, Jr.,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Collin McHugh,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Dallas Keuchel,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Brad Peacock,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Justin Verlander,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Ken Giles,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Francisco Liriano,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Joe Musgrove,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Chris Devenski,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Luke Gregerson,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

Will Harris,

For a winning spirit, divine grace, and immaculate innings,

I pray you bring us an Astros win.

MLB playoff musings

There's a theory MLB tried copying the Catholic church's hierarchy when it formed. Excerpted from Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos

Boys in the ’Hood

Someone’s gotta run God’s show on earth, so, while standing by a huge rock about 2,000 years ago, Jesus put the apostle Peter in charge. A lowly fisherman, he considered taking “Captain Pete” as his new title, but settled upon Pope Peter. That name had rock-star appeal. Plus, it would keep his face off packages of frozen fish sticks down the road. From that moment, the Church put into place a paternal chain of command. Interesting to note, there’s a theory that Major League Baseball tried replicating the structure. The MLB came close, with one major exception: the commissioner’s position isn’t a life-long commitment. Thank goodness.

Pope

The title “pope” comes from the Greek word pappas, which means father. Thus, the pope’s authority is supreme and to be carried out in a paternal, fatherly manner. He’s like Bud Selig, except he doesn’t get booed when he enters stadiums. He’s also called other names, including His Holiness and Pontiff, which means “bridge builder.” Only in Selig’s dreams does anyone call him either of these names.

Priest

Priests are the down-in-the-trenches guys, the intermediaries between parish peons and Church hierarchy. They’re our Cal Ripkin Jrs., reporting to work every day and tackling parish duties. Day-in and day-out, priests say Mass, hear confessions, and play Bingo with senior citizens with the gusto of a rookie on his first day in the Majors. Priests are the Church’s ironmen.

Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos

Statue for Peyton Manning, Next Up, Sainthood

So Indianapolis Colts have erected a statue of Peyton Manning, as a tribute to the popular former NFL quarterback. How about an everlasting tribute, like Sainthood?

Manning could easily fly through the steps required by the Catholic Church. From Venerated as Son of Staubach to canonized Saint Peyton, patron saint of second chances, Manning has what it takes to become America's next saint. He's so popular that mini versions of his statue would pop up in lawns all over the country, somewhere in between St. Francis and garden gnomes.  Next up, his own feast day. Watch out St. Patrick, St. Peyton's got you in his sights!

Excerpt from Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos:

Step One—Servant of God Declaration

The candidate must first be deemed worthy of sainthood. The Church relies on fact-gathering and input from local clergy who have investigated the candidate’s background. They require validation the candidate lived piously, served others, and was considered an all-around swell guy. So far, so good for Manning.

Manning’s got a load of evidence in his favor. First, he’s the son of a saint. His father, Archie, played for the New Orleans Saints. Second, Manning is a paragon of piety. It doesn’t get much more pious than having a children’s hospital named after you. As a bonus, Peyton Manning Children’s Hospital belongs to a Catholic medical center named after a saint! In the celebrity piety pecking order, he’s not quite Oprah, but Brad and Angelina can’t touch him. For starters, not only is he still married, Manning isn’t marked with the taint of ten years living in sin before taking his marriage vows. It’s hard to top that, but it gets better. Word’s out he’s looking at opening a string of Papa John’s in third-world countries and will deliver free pizza to orphanages. Boom, take that Brangelina.

Manning scores high in likability and service. Fan adoration ranks him among the most well-liked in football and so do advertisers. His product endorsements rake in big bucks. No other sports figure this century can touch Manning’s saint appeal. Although, one did come close. Experts say he was on track for beatification but was beaten out of his chance by his wife. Literally. With a golf club. His own. Vatican lips aren’t sinking ships but sources have confirmed “St. Tiger” would not be added to the saint roster in the foreseeable future.

In a breeze, Manning passes muster. He is beatified and moves closer to sainthood. At this stage, the candidate is designated “Servant of God.” However, there’s talk Manning will be called “Servant of Staubach.”

Available in print and e-book, amazon.com or email nunstories@yahoo.com

Holy Bones, Limbo, and Jesus in My Cheetos book is coming!

I'm thrilled that my book is very close to publishing! I just received my cover, designed by the talented Carrie Kabak, and it is gorgeous! See for yourself.

Total Eclipse: Sun Gazing or Toe Gazing?

Today, when millions of people strap on cardboard space goggles or manipulate home-made contraptions to capture a view of the eclipse, I will gaze at my toes. It's a tradition. Sort of. I experienced my first eclipse when I was six years old and took to heart admonitions to not look directly at the sun. "You'll go blind,"  Sister Maria Goretti warned. Yikes, that ranks right up there with "You'll shoot your eye out."

Blindness would be no life for me. I looked horrible in sunglasses, was too clumsy to handle a cane, and I couldn't learn Braille because I bit my fingernails. Dogs of all kinds terrified me, especially German Shepherds. That "Do Not Pet/Seeing Eye-Dog" cape didn't calm my fears. Underneath was no mild-mannered mutt but a Rin Tin Tin ready to rip off my hand.

No way was I going to look at the sun. To avoid even an accidental viewing, I kept my head down and stared at my feet. All I saw were my toes and the ground beneath them.

For the entire eclipse. And the rest of the day. And night. And the next day and night. For three full days, I saw nothing but my feet, blades of grass, pebbles, lime-green shag carpeting, and scratched linoleum. Somewhere in Sister's anti-blindness crusade, I missed the part about the eclipse lasting only a few minutes.

Maybe I should join the masses and view this almost-once-in-a-lifetime spectacle. I could grab a pair of specially made sunglasses from the guy selling them on the street corner.

Or maybe I could swing by Spec's Liquor and pick up a Crown Royal box. A pinhole here and there, and voila, I've got my own viewer.

On second thought, maybe I'll just look at the ground. Traditions are hard to break.