Three… it’s a magic number.

And who am I to question the wisdom of Schoolhouse Rock: “The past and the present and the future; faith and hope and charity; the heart and the mind and the body give us three.” Think about it, even jokes follow the Divine Trinity. For example, a plane goes down over the Amazon, and there are three survivors – a Tibetan, an Englishman, and an Irishman. The good news is they’re rescued by natives. The bad news is that, unbeknownst to them, the people who save them... are cannibals.

Anyway, a month goes by, and one day, the drums start beating, and the natives start chanting, and the chief rushes into the tent and grabs the Tibetan, who says, “What are you going to do with me?” To which the chief replies, “Well, we’re going to skin you, use your skin for a canoe, chop you up into little pieces and serve you as dinner.” Peacefully, the Buddhist says, “I’m from a long line of pacifists and cannot participate in this violence. Can you give me ten minutes?” The chief lets him meditate, the monk stops his own heart from beating, and sure enough he dies and is dinner. 

The next week, once again, the drums start beating, the natives start chanting, and the chief rushes in and he grabs the Englishman, who says, “What are you going to do with me?” To which the chief replies, “Well, we’re going to skin you, use your skin for a canoe, chop you up into little pieces and you'll be dinner.” Aghast he says, “Good God, man. This is completely unacceptable. There's no dignity in that. I’m a nobleman from a long line of Dukes and Duchesses. Do you have a revolver?” The chief hands the gun to him, he kills himself, and sure enough – he’s dinner. 

The next week, yet again - the drums start beating, the natives start chanting, and the chief rushes in and he grabs the Irishman, who says, “What are you going to do with me?” To which the chief replies, “Well, actually - we’re going to skin you, use your skin for a canoe, chop you up into little pieces and you'll be dinner.” Resided, the Irishman says, “Look, I’m from a long line of alcoholics. Do you have a bottle of whiskey and a fork?” Confused, the chief hands both things to him. Within minutes, the Irishman downs the Jameson’s and proceeds to stab himself repeatedly with the fork. Dumbfounded, the chief says, “What the hell are you doing?” To which the Irishman simply replies, “Fuck your damn canoe” and passes out. 

Being almost one-hundred percent Irish, not only do I get to tell that joke – I get to dedicate it to the city of Boston, which has almost as many Micks as Ireland itself. Nicely done Bostonians. Nicely done. Also, because this post is about the rule of three, last month the following three things happened:

1. My karma ran over my dogma passed the “10,000 readers” mark
2. My blog on Salon hit the “5,000 readers” mark
3. My manuscript is actually being reviewed by a real editor

I know, I know – it sounds more impressive than it is, but one day I hope to post something along the lines of, “A blogger, an agent and a publisher walk into a bar…” Talk to you later.