Monday Morning I t was a typical morning on a typical day that just happened to be Monday. And like a typical Monday morning, I re- fused to open my eyes and join the world of the conscious. I’m not sure what it is about Mondays, but it really is a horrific way to start the work cycle. And while I don’t question God’s design of the seven-day week, I do truly wish He had skipped Monday and gone straight to Tuesday. But then again, perhaps we would all just end up hating Tuesday. So, with a grunt that captured the essence of my unwilling spirit, I awoke. BANG! The sound of the explosion ripped through our little hole in the ground like a fat man trying on his wife’s pants. Well, that’s assuming that the wife of the fat man were smaller than the fat man and that the pants were not actually spandex. But if the wife were in fact a great deal smaller than the fat man, and her pants were in fact a taut material and not stretchy, then the rip that would transpire from the fat man’s attempt to don them would be the same as the explosion that rocked through our home that Monday morning. Jumping out of bed, I ran through our charming cave dwelling and, in the process, stubbed my foot on a small stalagmite that I could have sworn was not there the day before. (It truly is amaz- ing how fast those things can grow when you don’t pay attention. However, as I always say, it is always better to stub one’s toe on a stalagmite than to step on one.) Now with a bit of a limp and a possible broken toe, I continued my search into the cause of the explosion. I turned the corner