Here come the saints.
You know who I mean.
The saints. The martyrs.
The people who lived better lives than you and I.
Or worse lives than you and I.
That's it.  They made their own lives worse -- by choice.
That's what makes them saint-worthy.
As opposed to those whose lives are worse -- by chance.
The unlucky multitude who do not become saints
live in obscurity in obscure parts of the world.
Until the saints visit them.
And help them.
And the saints become famous.
And the obscure...
They have the privilege of being grateful.

And then someone in Rome decides, it is time.
Let us name new saints.
Time to expand the Sainthood Hall of Fame.
There are never enough saints
or great guitarists.

This very day
the Last of October
the Eve of All Saints Day
the Birthday of John Candy
is an Official Feast Day for

  St. Antoninus
  St. Arnulf
  St. Bega
  St. Wolfgang
  St. Erth
  St. Notburga
  St. Abaidas
  St. Quentin

I may be wrong but
was it St. Quentin who was in prison so long
they named a jail after him.
I could be mistaken.
After all, I am no saint.
St. Collins.  That would be ridiculous.
Almost as silly as the story of St. Notburga
who threw a sickle into the air
as a dare
and it remained suspended there.
Look it up.

All Saints Day fast approaches.
Are you ready to celebrate?
Celebrate sad times, come on.
You remember All Saints Day.
The day after Halloween.
The day that the saints sweep greed
and melting chocolate
out of your hands
and into their visionary fires.

When mortals become saints
they line up to get their candy coating
and get stamped with the letter m
(which stands for miracle)
and then a handful of them
are sealed in a paper wrapper
printed with nutritional and devotional instructions
for our comfortable consumption.