Can You Get Married in Heaven??

On their way to get married, a young Catholic couple
is involved in a fatal car accident. The couple finds
themselves sitting outside the Pearly Gates waiting
for St. Peter to return.
While waiting, they begin to wonder: Could we possibly
get married in Heaven?
When St. Peter showed up, they asked him. St. Peter
says, “I don’t know. This is the first time anyone has
asked. Let me go find out.” and he leaves.
The couple sat and waited and waited. Two months
passed and the couple is still waiting. As they
waited, they discussed that if they were allowed to
get married in Heaven, what was the eternal aspect of
it all.
“What if it doesn’t work?” they wondered, “Are we
stuck together FOREVER?”
After yet another month, St. Peter finally returns,
looking somewhat bedraggled.
“Yes,” he informs the couple, “you CAN get married in
Heaven.”
“Great!” said the couple, “But we were just wondering,
what if things don’t work out? Could we also get a
divorce in Heaven?”
St. Peter, red-faced with anger, slams his clipboard
onto the ground.
“What’s wrong?” asked the frightened couple.
“OH, COME ON!” St. Peter shouts, “It took me three
months to find a priest up here! Do you have ANY idea
how long it will take me to find a LAWYER?”

Moby,

I have enjoyed your show for many years, but I often find the disdain for President Obama too much. Your show has done so much for public servants and the military, yet there is no respect shown for the office of the President. Many do not agree with Obama’s political agenda, but along with our right to freely criticize him comes the obligation to vote. I find that many who criticize the current President didn’t even vote in the last election, and many have never voted at all. For all of the feel good moments your show brings each day, I am always disappointed to hear attacks on those who think differently. I seem to remember a not so old song by Randy Owen that said “daddy was a veteran, a southern democrat, they ought to get a rich man to vote like that”. We all claim to miss the good old days, but few of us choose to remember when the political opinions of others were respected and we could disagree agreeably.

Thanks for your time and yeah baby!

Charles

Hello Sir,

My name is Emil. I listen to you every morning.
But not because I agree with you.
If fact I listen to you BECAUSE you offend me.
But this is not a complaint e-mail. I have just been meaning to send it for a while.

I find it rather depressing to hear people stop listening to your show because it offends them. I listen to it because it offends me and that tends to wake me up. Your show is my morning coffee.

I don’t like coffee either.

But it keeps people awake doesn’t it?

I would like just to say that we should agree to disagree. I have a degree in history and often spend my mornings listening for historical errors.

But back to the point.

I feel that being offended by one soapbox is not justification to stop listening to the show. The music is good and the soapboxes give me something to talk about. I do have one wish, and that is that the songs played after the soapbox be more relevant to the content of the soapbox. There have been cases where they were but most of the time they aren’t. And I’d prefer that they be. You don’t have to. If just bothers my OCD.

Yours,
Emil Styrgson

Has American become the land of the special interest and home of the double standard?

Lets see: If we lie to the Congress, it’s a felony and if congress lies to us, it’s just politics; if we dislike a black person, we’re racist and if a black person dislikes white, it’s their 1st Amendment right; the government spends millions to rehabilitate criminals and they do almost nothing for the victims; in public schools you can teach that homosexuality is okay but you better not use the word God in the process; you can kill an unborn child but it is wrong to execute a mass murderer; we don’t burn books in America, we now rewrite them; we got rid of the communist and socialist threat by renaming them progressives; we are unable to close our boarder with Mexico, but have no problem protecting the 38th parallel in Korea; if you protest against President Obama’s policies, you are a terrorist but if you burned an American flag or George Bush in effigy it was your 1st Amendment right.

You can have pornography on TV or the internet, but you better not put a nativity scene in a public park during Christmas; we have eliminated all criminals in America, they are now called sick people; we can use a human fetus for medical research but it’s wrong to use an animal.

We take money from those who work hard for it and give it to those who do not want to work; we all support the Constitution, but only when it support our political ideology; we still have freedom of speech, but only if we are being politically correct; parenting has been replaced with Ritalin and video games; the land of opportunity is now the land of hand outs; the similarity Hurricane Katrina and the gulf oil spill is neither president did anything to help.

And how do we handle a major crisis today? The government appoints a committee to determine who’s at fault, then threatens them, passes a law, raises our taxes; tells us the problem is solved so they can get back to their reelection campaign.

What has happened to the land of the free and home of the brave?

-Ken Huber
Tawas City

Woman and a Fork

There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal illness and had been
given three months to live. So as she was getting her things ‘in order,’ she contacted her
Pastor and had him come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.
She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what scriptures she would like
read, and what outfit she wanted to be buried in.

Everything was in order and the Pastor was preparing to leave when the young woman
suddenly remembered something very important to her. ‘There’s one more thing,’ she
said excitedly.. ‘What’s that?’ came the Pastor’s reply. ‘This is very important,’ the young
woman continued. ‘I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand.’

The Pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite what to say.
That surprises you, doesn’t it?’ the young woman asked. ‘Well, to be honest, I’m puzzled
by the request,’ said the Pastor.

The young woman explained. ‘My grandmother once told me this story, and from that
time on I have always tried to pass along its message to those I love and those who are
in need of encouragement. In all my years of attending socials and dinners, I always
remember that when the dishes of the main course were being cleared, someone would
inevitably lean over and say, ‘Keep your fork.’ It was my favorite part because I knew
that something better was coming…like velvety chocolate cake or deep-dish apple pie.
Something wonderful, and with substance!’

So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in my hand and I want
them to wonder ‘What’s with the fork?’ Then I want you to tell them: ‘Keep your fork ..the
best is yet to come.’

The Pastor’s eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the young woman good-bye.
He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before her death. But he
also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of heaven than he did. She had a
better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people twice her age, with twice as
much experience and knowledge. She KNEW that something better was coming.

At the funeral people were walking by the young woman’s casket and they saw the cloak
she was wearing and the fork placed in her right hand. Over and over, the Pastor heard
the question, ‘What’s with the fork?’ And over and over he smiled.

During his message, the Pastor told the people of the conversation he had with the
young woman shortly before she died. He also told them about the fork and about what it
symbolized to her. He told the people how he could not stop thinking about the fork and
told them that they probably would not be able to stop thinking about it either.

He was right. So the next time you reach down for your fork let it remind you, ever so
gently, that the best is yet to come.

Dear Moby,

I know you take the time to mention small town heroes and I thought that I would tell you about mine. He is my dad, Cpl. Boyd L. Cutright. He is currently a West Virginia State DNR officer and Thursday, after over 40 years he has decided that it is time to retire.

Currently he is the longest serving state officer in our state in any law enforcement branch.

This may not make him a hero to many but many people don’t know my dad.

He started off at 18 joining the US Navy and serving four years and then came home to help out his family. By age 24 he had started his long running duties as DNR officer. In the last 40 years he has been married to the same wonderful woman, my mom, had four kids, four grandkids (with two more on the way, and made a life for us off of this “job”. He is one of few men that I know that has never had anything handed to him, he has worked hard for everything he has. He retires with all that he has paid for and money in the bank. We have never had to worry that he was out having an affair that would cause a scandal, that he was selling drugs on the side to make ends meet, or that he would turn into a “dirty cop” who would do anything to people he didn’t care for. He has made hundreds of enemies and thousands of friends over the years. People either love him or they hate them, but at the end of the day they all respect him because they know he does his job and he is fair about doing it.

He has done things for people he doesn’t know and never will and done things for us kids that most dads would have just said no.

He has been to hell and back, burying his first born son and namesake 13 years ago, been in an accident that burned 40 percent of his body that we didn’t think that he would survive, and a public lawsuit over his “duties” that drug his good name through the mud and in the end, the lawsuit failed and his good name was restored. Of course it was never an issue with those that knew him. They definitely don’t make men like my dad anymore. He has been my hero through it all.

Today he retires, not so he can stay home and see the kids and grandkids or spend time with my mom. He is going to be running for sheriff of our small county. There are too many problems and not enough ethical people to take care of the details. Win or lose the election, he is still going to be the man whose favorite saying is “If you aren’t part of the solution, you are part of the problem.”

So, will you please wish my dad a very happy retirement from his daughter Wiggins. (We all have nicknames) we will all be listening.
Thanks dad for everything that you have ever done. I love you.

Thanks again Moby! Amanda N. Cutright

This was written by a 21 yr old female from Texas who gets it. It’s her future she’s worried about and this is how she feels about the social welfare big government state that she’s being forced to live in! These solutions are just common sense in her opinion.

PUT ME IN CHARGE . . .

Put me in charge of food stamps. I’d get rid of Lone Star cards; no cash for Ding Dongs or Ho Ho’s, just money for 50-pound bags of rice and beans, blocks of cheese and all the powdered milk you can haul away. If you want steak and frozen pizza, then get a job.
Put me in charge of Medicaid. The first thing I’d do is to get women Norplant birth control implants or tubal legations. Then, we’ll test recipients for drugs, alcohol, and nicotine. If you want to reproduce or
use drugs, alcohol, or smoke, then get a job.

Put me in charge of government housing. Ever live in a military barracks?
You will maintain our property in a clean and good state of repair. Your home” will be subject to inspections anytime and possessions will be inventoried. If you want a plasma TV or Xbox 360, then get a job and your own place.

In addition, you will either present a check stub from a job each week or you will report to a “government” job. It may be cleaning the roadways of trash, painting and repairing public housing, whatever we find for you.
We will sell your 22 inch rims and low profile tires and your blasting stereo and speakers and put that money toward the “common good..”

Before you write that I’ve violated someone’s rights, realize that all of the above is voluntary. If you want our money, accept our rules. Before you say that this would be “demeaning” and ruin their “self esteem,” consider that it wasn’t that long ago that taking someone else’s money for doing
absolutely nothing was demeaning and lowered self esteem.

If we are expected to pay for other people’s mistakes we should at least attempt to make them learn from their bad choices. The current system rewards them for continuing to make bad choices.

AND While you are on Gov’t subsistence, you no longer can VOTE! Yes, that is correct. For you to vote would be a conflict of interest. You will voluntarily remove yourself from voting while you are receiving a Gov’t welfare check. If you want to vote, then get a job.

You’re a 19 year old kid. You’re critically wounded and dying in
the jungle somewhere in the Central Highlands of Vietnam
It’s November 11, 1967. LZ (landing zone) X-ray.
Your unit is outnumbered 8-1 and the enemy fire is so intense from 100 yards away, that your CO (commanding officer) has ordered the MedEvac helicopters to stop coming in.
You’re lying there, listening to the enemy machine guns and you know you’re not getting out.
Your family is half way around the world, 12,000 miles away, and you’ll never see them again.
As the world starts to fade in and out, you know this is the day.
Then – over the machine gun noise – you faintly hear that sound of a helicopter.
You look up to see a Huey coming in. But.. It doesn’t seem real because no MedEvac markings are on it.
Captain Ed Freeman is coming in for you.
He’s not MedEvac so it’s not his job, but he heard the radio call and decided he’s flying his Huey down into the machine gun fire anyway.
Even after the MedEvacs were ordered not to come. He’s coming anyway.
And he drops it in and sits there in the machine gun fire, as they load 3 of you at a time on board.
Then he flies you up and out through the gunfire to the doctors and nurses and safety.
And, he kept coming back!! 13 more times!!
Until all the wounded were out. No one knew until the mission was over that the Captain had been hit 4 times in the legs and left arm.
He took 29 of you and your buddies out that day. Some would not have made it without the Captain and his Huey.
Medal of Honor Recipient, Captain Ed Freeman, United States Air Force, died last Wednesday at the age of 70, in Boise , Idaho
May God Bless and Rest His Soul.
I bet you didn’t hear about this hero’s passing, but we’ve sure seen a whole bunch about Lindsay Lohan, Tiger Woods and the bickering of congress over Health Reform.
Medal of Honor Winner Captain Ed Freeman
Shame on the American media !!!

This is a wonderful piece by Michael Gartner, editor of newspapers large and small and president of NBC News. In 1997, he won the Pulitzer Prize for editorial writing. It is well worth reading, and a few good chuckles are guaranteed. Here goes…
(It was edited for broadcast on the Moby Show)

My father never drove a car. Well, that’s not quite right. I should say I never saw him drive a car.
He quit driving in 1927, when he was 25 years old, and the last car he drove was a 1926 Whippet.
“In those days,” he told me when he was in his 90s, “to drive a car you had to do things with your hands, and do things with your feet, and look every which way, and I decided you could walk through life and enjoy it or drive through life and miss it.”
At which point my mother, a sometimes salty Irishwoman, chimed in: “Oh, bull shit!” she said. “He hit a horse.”
“Well,” my father said, “there was that, too.”
So my brother and I grew up in a household without a car. The neighbors all had cars — the Kollingses next door had a green 1941Dodge, the VanLaninghams across the street a gray 1936 Plymouth, the Hopsons two doors down a black 1941 Ford — but we had none.
My father, a newspaperman in Des Moines , would take the streetcar to work and, often as not, walk the 3 miles home. If he took the streetcar home, my mother and brother and I would walk the three blocks to the streetcar stop, meet him and walk home together.
My brother, David, was born in 1935, and I was born in 1938, and sometimes, at dinner, we’d ask how come all the neighbors had cars but we had none. “No one in the family drives,” my mother would explain, and that was that.
But, sometimes, my father would say, “But as soon as one of you boys turns 16, we’ll get one.” It was as if he wasn’t sure which one of us would turn 16 first.
But, sure enough, my brother turned 16 before I did, so in 1951 my parents bought a used 1950 Chevrolet from a friend who ran the parts department at a Chevy dealership downtown.
It was a four-door, white model, stick shift, fender skirts, loaded with everything, and, since my parents didn’t drive, it more or less became my brother’s car.
Having a car but not being able to drive didn’t bother my father, but it didn’t make sense to my mother.
So in 1952, when she was 43 years old, she asked a friend to teach her to drive. She learned in a nearby cemetery, the place where I learned to drive the following year and where, a generation later, I took my two sons to practice driving. The cemetery probably was my father’s idea. “Who can your mother hurt in the cemetery?” I remember him saying more than once.
For the next 45 years or so, until she was 90, my mother was the driver in the family. Neither she nor my father had any sense of direction, but he loaded up on maps — though they seldom left the city limits — and appointed himself navigator. It seemed to work.
Still, they both continued to walk a lot. My mother was a devout Catholic, and my father an equally devout agnostic, an arrangement that didn’t seem to bother either of them through their 75 years of marriage.
(Yes, 75 years, and they were deeply in love the entire time.)
He retired when he was 70, and nearly every morning for the next 20 years or so, he would walk with her the mile to St. Augustin’s Church. She would walk down and sit in the front pew, and he would wait in the back until he saw which of the parish’s two priests was on duty that morning. If it was the pastor, my father then would go out and take a 2-mile walk, meeting my mother at the end of the service and walking her home.
If it was the assistant pastor, he’d take just a 1-mile walk and then head back to the church. He called the priests “Father Fast” and “Father Slow.”
After he retired, my father almost always accompanied my mother whenever she drove anywhere, even if he had no reason to go along. If she were going to the beauty parlor, he’d sit in the car and read, or go take a stroll or, if it was summer, have her keep the engine running so he could listen to the Cubs game on the radio. In the evening, then, when I’d stop by, he’d explain: “The Cubs lost again. The millionaire on second base made a bad throw to the millionaire on first base, so the multimillionaire on third base scored.”
If she were going to the grocery store, he would go along to carry the bags out — and to make sure she loaded up on ice cream. As I said, he was always the navigator, and once, when he was 95 and she was 88 and still driving, he said to me, “Do you want to know the secret of a long life?”
“I guess so,” I said, knowing it probably would be something bizarre.
“No left turns,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“No left turns,” he repeated. “Several years ago, your mother and I read an article that said most accidents that old people are in happen when they turn left in front of oncoming traffic.
As you get older, your eyesight worsens, and you can lose your depth perception, it said. So your mother and I decided never again to make a left turn.”
“What?” I said again.
“No left turns,” he said. “Think about it. Three rights are the same as a left, and that’s a lot safer. So we always make three rights.”
“You’re kidding!” I said, and I turned to my mother for support. “No,” she said, “your father is right. We make three rights. It works.” But then she added: “Except when your father loses count.”
I was driving at the time, and I almost drove off the road as I started laughing.

“Loses count?” I asked.
“Yes,” my father admitted, “that sometimes happens. But it’s not a problem. You just make seven rights, and you’re okay again.”
I couldn’t resist. “Do you ever go for 11?” I asked.
“No,” he said ” If we miss it at seven, we just come home and call it a bad day. Besides, nothing in life is so important it can’t be put off another day or another week.”
My mother was never in an accident, but one evening she handed me her car keys and said she had decided to quit driving. That was in 1999, when she was 90.
She lived four more years, until 2003. My father died the next year, at 102.
They both died in the bungalow they had moved into in 1937 and bought a few years later for $3,000. (Sixty years later, my brother and I paid $8,000 to have a shower put in the tiny bathroom — the house had never had one. My father would have died then and there if he knew the shower cost nearly three times what he paid for the house.)
He continued to walk daily — he had me get him a treadmill when he was 101 because he was afraid he’d fall on the icy sidewalks but wanted to keep exercising — and he was of sound mind and sound body until the moment he died
One September afternoon in 2004, he and my son went with me when I had to give a talk in a neighboring town, and it was clear to all three of us that he was wearing out, though we had the usual wide-ranging conversation about politics and newspapers and things in the news.
A few weeks earlier, he had told my son, “You know, Mike, the first hundred years are a lot easier than the second hundred.” At one point in our drive that Saturday, he said, “You know, I’m probably not going to live much longer.”
“You’re probably right,” I said.
“Why would you say that?” He countered, somewhat irritated.
“Because you’re 102 years old,” I said..
“Yes,” he said, “you’re right.” He stayed in bed all the next day.
That night, I suggested to my son and daughter that we sit up with him through the night.
He appreciated it, he said, though at one point, apparently seeing us look gloomy, he said: “I would like to make an announcement. No one in this room is dead yet”
An hour or so later, he spoke his last words:
“I want you to know,” he said, clearly and lucidly, “that I am in no pain. I am very comfortable. And I have had as happy a life as anyone on this earth could ever have.”
A short time later, he died.
I miss him a lot, and I think about him a lot. I’ve wondered now and then how it was that my family and I were so lucky that he lived so long.
I can’t figure out if it was because he walked through life, Or because he quit taking left turns.
Life is too short to wake up with regrets.

So love the people who treat you right.
Forget about the one’s who don’t.
Believe everything happens for a reason.
If you get a chance, take it & if it changes your life, let it.
Nobody said life would be easy, they just promised it would most likely be worth it.”