The Gospel of Barney and Tammy Faye
“At your price…”
A couple of nights ago, as we ate our leftover beef stew, my wife and I decided we needed yet another break from the news. Because if it’s not yet another police beating death of an unarmed citizen, it’s Ron DeSantis telling us he knows what’s best for higher education.
So, with those grotesqueries in mind, we turned to an old TV show. Before I tell you or at least affirm to your already certain mind what that was, it occurred to me that another old show, “Father Knows Best,” sounds, well, gulp. I’m sure there were times when Father, and even I, knew best, but I’ll stop before the end stop on that one.
But what if that series had been called “White Fathers, or even The White Father, Know(s) Best?”
How we feeling now? Same as it ever was?
Anyway, we decided to watch a favorite episode of “The Andy Griffith Show,” the one where Barney decides to supplement his meagre deputy’s income by selling real estate. He doesn’t mention a license, but he does say he’ll get 5% on any sale, which I hear is pretty much the going rate today, too.
Not to bemoan Barney’s life, but he must have gotten tired renting that room from Mrs. Mendlebright — a room complete with illegal hot plate and 40 watt bulb. So why not a sideline?