Just Sayin'

by Dandi Daley Mackall

  I reread your letter from the King of Insults. I guess it’s good he’s writing us back, even though it does sound like he’s siding with the adults against the kids. I saw an ad about a contest put on by The Hour of Insult. It’s called The Last Insult Standing. Have you heard anything about it? Make the King fill you in.

  Did you notice how the Insult King always sticks his stamps on upside down?

  Julie and I visited our new school yesterday, and it was kind of creepy. There were a bunch of kids there going to school, even though it’s still summer. They didn’t even have to be there. I asked a couple of kids. They said they wanted to take an extra math course or get a head start on French. All the girls looked the same: same smile, same hair, same clothes. I didn’t see a single skinned knee, so you definitely would have stood out.

  I don’t know how good the school is going to be for Julie, either. The principal kept bending down to talk to her. She’d get right in Julie’s face and shout, even though she could see the hearing aids and should have known already about her kidneys and hearing and speech and stuff. Plus, the principal kept saying words like “gifted” and “special” and “exceptional” students, when she meant the ones who have trouble, like Julie. Dad said I need to give the whole thing a chance and that this isn’t easy on any of us.

  He got that right.

  So you’re even getting the pastor in on your letter writing? Pastor Mike’s okay. Remember when we played flag football and I forgot about the flag part and tackled him and gave him a bloody nose? He didn’t even get mad. He’s probably onto something when he tells you to write to God. I vote you give it a shot. Why not write God, as long as you’re writing everybody else? Only I still say you should try e-mailing.

  Wish you were here—or we were there!

  Signed,

  Nick the Nice

  (Julie said you commanded me to be nice.

  And since you’re corresponding with God now, I thought it wouldn’t hurt for you to think of me as Nick the Nice.)

  P.S. Tell God I said hi. And would he He mind getting us out of that private school? If He can get all those Israelite children out of Egypt, getting Julie and me out of that school should be a snap.

  Cassie Callahan

  Hamilton, MO

  July 15

  Dear God,

  Thou probably already knoweth all about me, so I won’t wasteth your time telling you about me since you knowest me inside out. And that means Thou knowest whateth I am about to sayeth even before I sayeth it. And no matter what I sayeth, Thou knowest better and knoweth what I really meaneth.

  Dear Jesus,

  I’ve been sitting on my bed and trying to write your Father (and mine), and it just hasn’t been working for me. Then I got the bright idea of writing to you. You’ve been down here on earth, not exactly in Missouri, but close enough. So I figure you probably get it.

  Things can get pretty crazy down here, as you know. You went without your real Father for a while, and even the stepfather you had down here, Joseph, kind of faded out of the picture early on, and Pastor Mike (you know him—he’s the one who suggested I write to you) told us that Joseph probably died before you got really famous.

  Anyway, I’m not sure how this works, but I know you guys are Father and Son and also only one God, with the Holy Spirit thrown in. So I don’t think God or the Holy Spirit will mind or get jealous or anything because, well, you’re all one anyway.

  I know I should be writing you a thank-you letter for giving me a good home and life and health and a mother and a grandmother. So, thank you. But you probably already know that’s not the real reason I’m writing. I am not very happy with the way this almost-marriage thing turned out. Not at all happy about that. I really wanted Travis as a stepdad. I thought he liked me enough to make me his stepdaughter. At first, I felt guilty for wanting that, like I was betraying my real dad. But to tell you the truth, I can barely remember my real dad. Mostly, I know what he looks like from pictures (he’s always laughing and so am I). And I think I remember his voice, because sometimes I hear a man’s voice, and I have to look quick because it sounds like his. Only it’s not. I know it wasn’t his fault that he died in the accident, and Mom said it happened so fast that he probably didn’t even know what hit him. (It was a truck that couldn’t stop on the ice, but you knew that.) And I don’t like that it happened, but things like that do happen down here, as you know.

  I’ve been praying that Travis and Mom would get back together, but it doesn’t look like that’s going to happen. I know I should have prayed more while they were together, right? But if there’s anything you can do, I’d sure appreciate it.

  Thanks again.

  Yours truly,

  Cassie (the one in Hamilton, Missouri)

  P.S. I just remembered that I should capitalize “You.” And I didn’t do that. And if I go back and change the Ys, this letter will be messier than it already is. So please don’t read anything into the small Y. I don’t mean anything by it. Thanks.

  P.P.S. Nick says to tell you hi and could you please get him and Julie out of that private school. And Nick forgot to capitalize “You” also, but he doesn’t mean anything by it either.

  Cassie Callahan

  Hamilton, MO

  July 15

  Hey, Lumphead,

  Don’t you think I would e-mail if I could? I do like writing letters more than you do, I admit. I can write when I’m plopped on my bed, or when I’m watching a boring show of Gram’s on TV, or while I’m eating, or even while I’m in church. But Gram won’t let me near her computer. She still hasn’t forgotten about all the freebie sites I subscribed to on her old computer and how she had to shut down her e-mail and the whole account because of all the junk mail she got after that. For an old person, she sure has a long memory.

  I wrote to God. Then I crossed out the letter because it sounded fake, and I wrote to Jesus. It was not a thank-you letter. I didn’t mail it or anything, with “Heaven” as an address. He’s not Santa Claus. I used to write Santa c/o the North Pole. Once, he wrote back and said I’d been a good girl, so I figured he didn’t really see me when I was awake.

  I will let you know if I hear back from God. Or Jesus.

  Landri and Hannah invited me to their birthday parties, but I’m not going, because I don’t think I’m going to get to have a birthday party of my own this year, and it wouldn’t be fair to go to theirs. Hannah is doing the bounce house party at the Y again—been there, done that. But Landri is having a roller skating and pizza party, so I wish I could go.

  Oh well.

  Bye,

  Cassie

  and by Cassie (Get it?)

  P.S. I didn’t use my word for the day today. It’s JUBILANT, and it means “really happy,” and I couldn’t think of a single sentence for it.

  P.P.S. I feel so miserable not having you here, Nick. It’s almost like having you here.

  Cassie Callahan

  Hamilton, MO

  July 15

  Dear Pastor Mike,

  I did it. I wrote to God like you said. I didn’t know where to mail it, so I biked to church and slid it under the front door. If God hasn’t picked it up, you might find it there yourself. And that’s fine because if God can see inside me, I don’t think He’ll have any trouble seeing inside the envelope.

  Actually, I had trouble writing to God, so I just wrote to Jesus. I know you said they’re the same Person, with the Holy Spirit, too, and you should probably go over that one again because it’s pretty confusing. But writing Jesus came easy, although I complained a lot and asked for something he already said no to.

  I wish Jesus would write me back. Yes, I know that’s not how it works. But wouldn’t it be cool if it did? If I checked the mailbox and found a letter from Jesus Christ, Heaven?

  On the other hand, I might not like everything Jesus would write in that letter. Mom used to give Nick and me a “Silver Rule.” Instead of “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,” sh
e’d make it: “SAY to others what you’d want them to say to you.” Nick and I have insulted each other so much, the insults are kind of automatic.

  I know Jesus is busy with wars and famine and plagues and everything, including the yahoos (as Gram calls them) running for president of the United States. But it sure would be great if he could take some time out to write me. Maybe you could ask him next time you pray.

  See you Sunday!

  Cassie

  Pastor Mike

  Hamilton, MO

  July 16

  Dear Cassie,

  Thanks for letting me know that you wrote to Jesus. Don’t worry about complaining too much. And you shouldn’t feel bad about asking for something you want, even if you asked before and didn’t get it.

  You’re wrong about Jesus not writing you back, though. Why do you think we call the Bible “the Word of God”? That’s God/Jesus writing you, Cassie. And many of the “books” of the New Testament are actually letters passed around among churches—like the letter to the Galatians, to the Ephesians, to the Colossians, and to the Romans. Pull out that Bible you got when you joined youth group and check out these verses (hint: look in the front, the table of contents, to get the page numbers for the books):

  Matthew 7:7

  Lamentations 2:19

  See you Sunday,

  Pastor Mike

  P.S. If you come to youth group tonight, I’ll give this to you then.

  Cassie Callahan

  Hamilton, MO

  July 17

  Dear Private Nick,

  This will be short because it’s really your turn to write me. And it’s my turn to write Kirby, King of Insults. But I promised to let you know if I heard back from God. I have. Kind of. Pastor Mike says the Bible is a bunch of letters to us. At youth group last night, he tried to explain that even though people like Matthew and Moses and Paul wrote the words, God was behind the writing. The Holy Spirit got in on it too. So anyway, that’s how I heard back from God, especially about complaining to him and asking something he already said no to, and I’m pretty sure you know what I asked and didn’t get an answer to, because you guys are in Chicago and I am still in Hamilton.

  Matthew 7:7: “Keep on asking, and you will receive what you ask for. Keep on seeking, and you will find. Keep on knocking, and the door will be opened to you.”

  Lamentations 2:19: “Rise during the night and cry out. Pour out your hearts like water to the Lord.”

  I think those are pretty good answers. I’ve done a lot of crying out in the night and pouring out my heart lately, although as you know, I’m no crybaby.

  I’m going to write Jesus again, and I’m going to keep complaining and asking for stuff. Only I’ll throw in more thank-yous and way-to-gos.

  Yours,

  Cassie the Complainer

  P.S. And I didn’t forget to bring up the private school problem.

  P.P.S. Jesus is not a prestidigitator, so you should keep asking him yourself.

  P.P.P.S. PRESTIDIGITATOR, my word for the day, means “magician.”

  Cassie Callahan

  Hamilton, MO

  July 17

  Dear King of Insults,

  Stop siding with my grandmother, will you? I’m telling you, you are only sticking up for Gram because you don’t know her. She is very bossy. She doesn’t do insults, but sometimes she laughs when Nick insults me (or when he used to). I’m almost the shortest kid in my class, if you don’t count Adam, who’s a year younger than the rest of us because he’s really smart. Nick was always saying stuff like:

  “Go play with your buddies, the Keebler elves.”

  “You’re bored? Why don’t you sit on the sidewalk and swing your legs?”

  “Go surf on a Popsicle stick.”

  Gram did try (not very well) to hide her laughter at my expense. She’d cover her mouth, but her shoulders shook. She and Mom claim to hate insults, which is why Nick and I are forced to watch your show when they’re not looking.

  Plus, Gram must really want to get rid of me. She’s been trying hard to get me to go to Ellie’s sleepover. I told her I didn’t have a sleeping bag. She said, “So what? You can use my quilt.” (Like it wouldn’t be total humiliation to show up for a sleepover armed with your grandmother’s quilt?) But the truth is I’m never going to sleep over at anybody’s house or go to Landri’s birthday party, even though I got invited and would really like to go.

  Julie, my almost-stepsister, Nick’s sister, is seriously little for her age because she has nephritis, which means kidney disease in case you didn’t know that word. Gram would trade me in for Julie in a heartbeat, and I can’t blame her for that, because I’d trade Gram for Julie too.

  There isn’t much to write you about since Julie and Nick are gone and I’m stuck here with my pushy grandmother. But I wrote a letter to God, well, to Jesus really. And he sort of wrote back. And I’m pretty sure I’m going to write him back. You should write him sometime yourself.

  Enchantingly yours,

  Cassie

  P.S. Hey! Are you changing TV shows or something? What’s The Last Insult Standing?

  Johnathan Kirby, the Insult King of the World

  Currently in Bethlehem, PA (and hating this road trip and the producer who scheduled it)

  July 20

  Kid Callahan,

  Why in heaven’s name would I write to Jesus? I’m the King of Insults. So you want I should insult God or something? And how do you know I’m not Jewish?

  And anyhow, I don’t need him. I’m a self-made man.

  Why aren’t you going to parties if you’re invited and want to go?

  Why are you still writing me? Does it make you feel important to be writing somebody famous?

  Go away!

  The King

  P.S. The more I hear about Gram, the luckier I think you are to have her. Her, not so much.

  Cassie Callahan

  Hamilton, MO (but I’d love to be on a road trip to Athens or Bethlehem)

  July 22

  Dear So-called King,

  You can’t really believe that I’m writing you because YOU’RE famous and important. I write to God! And Jesus!

  Plus, you only think you’re self-made. Where did you get your bones and flesh and blood and guts (such as they are)? Who cares if you’re Jewish or not? So was Jesus. Duh.

  You would probably enjoy exchanging letters with Jesus. In fact, Jesus is much better at insults than you will ever be. Here’s how he took down the Pharisees, the big shots who thought they were self-made, famous, and important:

  Blind guides! You strain your water so you won’t accidentally swallow a gnat, but you swallow a camel! . . . Hypocrites! For you are so careful to clean the outside of the cup and the dish, but inside you are filthy—full of greed and self-indulgence! . . . Hypocrites! For you are like whitewashed tombs—beautiful on the outside but filled on the inside with dead people’s bones and all sorts of impurity. . . . Snakes! Sons of vipers!

  (That’s all in Matthew 23, in case you think I’m making this stuff up.)

  So there!

  Cassie

  P.S. You forgot to tell me about The Last Insult Standing. You old folks are always forgetting important stuff. Sigh . . .

  Johnathan Kirby, King of Insults (no so-called about it)

  Prague, NE (but they pronounce it PRAYG)

  July 25

  Dear Cassie,

  Okay. I admit it. Not bad. I especially loved the “whitewashed tombs” and “sons of vipers.” Think Jesus would mind if I used those in my act?

  Speaking of my act, I’ll tell you about my big show, but I’m only doing it to get you off my back. If you ain’t been living underground, you know that my regular show, The Hour of Insult, has taken to the road this year. We’ve filmed our shows all over, from Moscow, Idaho; to London, Kentucky; to Berlin (called BERlin), New Hampshire; to Dublin, Texas; and beyond. Even Wales and Fishhook, Alaska, where it was so easy to insult people it was hardly worth the effort.


  For our season finale, we’ll be doing the show live from middle America, in Hannibal, Missouri, birthplace and hometown of Mark Twain, who was the Insult King of his day and also not a bad storyteller. Instead of my usual Hour of Insult, we’re running a two-hour live contest with regular joes and calling it The Last Insult Standing.

  If you want to know more than that, tough. You can tune in to my show this week and listen up so as you can learn how the whole thing works. I got people who do that kind of detail boring stuff for me so I don’t got to.

  Now leave me alone.

  The King

  P.S. Say hello to your grandmother for me.

  Emma Mae Hendren (Gram)

  Hamilton, MO

  July 20

  Dear Mr. Kirby:

  I am writing to ask you straight-out if you are some kind of crook, con man, or predator. I am nobody’s fool, and I know you have been corresponding with my almost 11-year-old granddaughter, Cassie Callahan. I see those letters lying around. What am I supposed to do? Let them be? No creep is going to reach my granddaughter through the US mail (or any other method, like on the Internet, where I will not allow her to go)—not on my watch, mister. And this is my watch, since my daughter left me in charge while she licks her wounds in California.

  So I read your letters. And you’ll get no apology from me. It’s my duty.

  And now I have a few things to say.

  You were pretty insulting to Cassie, but I guess that’s to be expected, given your chosen profession. And although I didn’t get a chance to read Cassie’s letters to you, my guess is that the kid gave as good as she got, in spite of the best efforts of her mother and me to get her to stop with the insults already. Cassie might even have sent you to the dictionary, with her vocabulary as big as it is and growing every day. Yesterday she said she’d write her mother, but it would be a laconic reply because of her mom’s dilatory tactics. I didn’t have time to hunt in a dictionary, so I just said, “Do it!”

  If you are not a predator, then I feel it incumbent (one of Cassie’s words from last week) upon me to thank you for your support. It’s not easy trying to help my daughter and my granddaughter. I’m not complaining, but this whole breakup sent my daughter Jen into a tailspin. She never did tell me why Travis left. The wedding was all arranged, and she was even going to wear my wedding dress. My husband died in the Vietnam War, and Jen’s husband, Cassie’s father, was killed in a car accident when Cassie was just two years old. We do not have good luck with husbands in our family, so maybe it’s for the best that Travis got out while he could.