For I say unto you, this day shall be a Holy Day.
On this, the nineteenth day of the ninth month in the Year of Our Lord two thousand and sixteen, my kids did the fucking dishes.
Unbidden they crept to the sink, the prodigal son and his fair sister, for whom the bonds of consanguinity are no barrier to kicking each other really hard off a loudly-bouncing blue yoga ball for no fucking reason whatsoever.
They who so quickly and rudely leave their rations at the table after having supped, without so much as a word of thanks, owing to their foolish parents who too often yield to their audacity and then spend the next five minutes telling them (in so many words) that they need to develop some fucking manners or they'll die alone.
Tonight, let a choir of angels standing behind the light of a thousand suns sing out with joy never before known to She Who Gave Them Life:
"MY KIDS DID THE FUCKING DISHES!"