PNL's DIVINE DUMPS

I was switching radio stations in the car recently when I caught the front end of a story on the plunging house prices. Some guy who had been trying unsuccessfully to sell his house had been given a small plastic St. Joseph statue for good luck. The man was instructed to bury St. Joe head-down in his front yard, feet pointing to heaven -- at exactly 15 inches depth -- to expedite the sale of his home.

Thinking this silly, the frustrated house seller threw the statue in the garbage.

A few days later, the man was sitting on his front porch reading the local newspaper when he spotted an article in the real estate section that the town dump had suddenly been sold. The land the dump sat on had been on the market since 1873.

Frantically, the man headed for the dump, only to find "Sold" and "No-Trespassing" signs where "For Sale" signs had stood for over a century. Undeterred, he drove to the nearest Bible supply store and purchased another St. Joseph statue -- and a shovel. Thinking it odd the Bible supplies store sold shovels, he inquired about it to the bald, heavy-set shop owner and was sorry he had.

Anyway, at this point I lost reception on the car's radio, and can only speculate on how the story ended. But before I do, first a little background history.

St. Joseph, for all you Bible geeks, was the son of Jacob. He was born in Bethlehem, but soon moved to Nazareth where real estate was cheaper. Why Joseph forsook his home town for the land of Galilee is not known as of this writing, but suffice it to say his moderate circumstances, combined with the necessity to earn a living, may have preordained the move.

Joseph, you may recall, was a mechanic by profession, but with cars not yet invented, Mr. Good-Wrench took up carpentry. At the age of 40, Joseph married a woman called Melcha (for her unpleasant odor), and they lived forty-nine years together having six children -- the last of whom killed Joseph's wife in childbirth.

The local priests then sweet-talked the widower, now pushing ninety years old, into marrying Mary, then twelve years of age, explaining that God had chosen Joseph, and "to fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife, for that which is conceived in her, is of the Holy Ghost;" their words, not mine.

Joseph, now suffering from emaculate degeneration, asked if he could at least engage in a little "slap-and-tickle" with his young wife, and was told that foreplay would not be necessary. When Jesus was born, nine months later, Joseph stared into the lights and insisted, "I did not have sex with that woman." The rest, as they say, is history.

Jesus's foster-father died before the beginning of the Savior's public service, at the ripe old age of a hundred and fourteen. As for the Savior, he's due any time now, and with Bush still in office, "now" wouldn't be too soon.

Okay. Where were we? Real Estate. By the way, there are hundreds of real estate web sites selling St. Joe statues, complete with instructions for burial. For as little as $2.95 -- plus $49.95 for Next Day Air, anyone can expedite the sale of his/her home. Indeed, one site even bragged that one of its customers buried her St. Joe statue in a neighbor's yard whom she hated, and the bank ended up repossessing his house. But back to the story.

As it turned out, I believe our frustrated home seller buried his St. Joseph figure and before the week was out, he had an offer. The offer was well below asking (50% below) but the money would at least pay-off the mortgage. So the desperate seller, looking to slough off debt and thinking it divine intervention, accepted the deal.

At the closing something was bothering the seller, and he couldn't quite put his finger on it. With the ink still wet on his signature, he noticed the buyer, though wearing a rug, looked strangely familiar. When it came to him, it was already too late.

Now homeless and penniless and wearing the smile of resignation, our sorry seller asked the new owner if he would kindly accept the slightly-used shovel back for a store credit.