They say that confession is good for the soul. Who are they? Well, I don't exactly know for sure. The nuns at my catholic school, Sacred Heart Grade School and Home for Secularly Challenged Youth, certainly said so. Back in the day, we always made our first confession shortly before our first communion; in the second grade, if memory serves correctly. Call it communion with a background check. What, am I joining the FBI here? I just want to commemorate the last supper. The biggest obstacle to partaking communion in my present church is deciding whether you want sweet and cookie-ish, actual broken bread, or gluten-free wafers. Not to be sacrilegious, but my first instinct was to use the term body of Christ instead of wafer, but I suddenly remembered Presbyterians don't believe in transubstantiation.

Back to confession. What could a seven year old really have to confess? At that age, I barely knew what the four r's were, much less the seven deadly sins. Bwess me fathew fow I have sinned. "How long since your last confession, my son?" Uhhh....I think this is the fiwst time. Didn't the whowe cwass come ovew? I thought Pete was my daddy. Does he know about you? "Go on, my s...., er, Billy." Wet's see. I bet Tommy my yo-yo against his paddew-ball, which I weawwy wike, by the way, that my wock cowwection is bettew than his. That takes cawe of pwide, envy, and gweed (avawice). Then I got mad at Sistew Mawy Fwedewick because she kept me aftew schoow fow hiding duwing wecess and eating thwee candy baws. That takes cawe of angew (wwath), swoth, and gwuttony. Since aww the teachews awe nuns and I'm onwy seven, wust isn't too much of a distwaction. Say, I have a pwetty good vocabuwary for seven yeaw owd, huh? And don't even get me stawted on the Ten Commandments. We'd be hewe aww day.

Oh, don't forget. If you leave anything out at confession, you sin by omission. Talk about pressure. There's nothing like seeing a room of seven year olds feverishly examining their consciences. I didn't even know what my conscience was at seven. Could it be...? No. Mommy said to stop touching myself there. I found the whole one-on-one thing with the priest a little intimidating, anyway. I soon was looking for ways to get out of confession. Mostly, I would go on my own, go in and say a quick "Howdy" to God and leave without talking shop with the padre. You also had the added pressure of memorizing all the prayers. "Oh great. He gave me ten Our Father's and fifteen Glory Be's, and I don't remember how the Glory Be's go. Fake it? Glory be to the um, the um...Father? Is there a conversion chart? Can I exchange the Glory Be's for twenty Hail Mary's? I can do Hail Mary's standing on my head. Nothing like a thirteen year old in fear for his mortal soul. I must say, I now like the mass confession at my church. "Did we all screw up?" Yes! "Are we all sorry?" Yes! "Will we try not to screw up again?" Yes! Fantastic; moving along.

By the way, did you know that if you look up the seven deadly sins on the internet, sadness replaces sloth on some of the lists? You know we were thinking about putting sloth on the list, but we just didn't get around to it. Right on. Be happy, or you're going to hell. I guess they figured if they kept sloth on the list, that would keep half the Americans out all by itself. I win twice. Not exercising makes me happy. Besides, if I get too carried away with the exercise that's like pride, right? Although, sadness being a sin seems a little redundant, doesn't it? As Yoda might say, "The shadow of envy, sadness is."

Although I don't feel I need a middle man between me and the Almighty, as far as bearing my soul anyway, I do feel that confession can be cathartic and liberating. Take, for instance, my fifth grade experience. I had a buddy who was transferred from public school to Sacred Heart in the fifth grade in an effort to turn his substandard behavior around. This is like being moved from Las Vegas to Amish country and having someone tell you, "Be good". Needless to say, those of us already struggling with the awesome expectations placed on the typical catholic school fifth-grader quickly succumbed to his secular world view.

Darren and I became best buds for a time. It was he that introduced me to the allure of smoking up in the rafters in the covered, open picnic area in front of the scout house at our city park. Now, I'm proud to say (oops there I go with the pride again) that smoking was a passing infatuation, and that I no longer do it. However, at that time I experimented with it, and somehow my sister Carla found out about it. With this knowledge, she effectively black-mailed me for years. With a simple two fingered, Bette Davis flourished pantomime of a drag on a cigarette, I was hers to do with what she would.

After a couple of years, it dawned on me that the punishment handed down by my parents might sting at first, but after that would quickly pass and be forgotten. At the very least, it would be a better deal than indefinite indentured servitude. I claimed my freedom one day by simply saying, "Mom, you should know that I used to smoke with Darren at the scout house, but I didn't like it and I don't do it anymore." "Thanks for telling me, Bill. But you should know that I already knew that. Who do you think washes your clothes? I appreciate your honesty. You're only grounded for one week instead of two." If only my sister could have appreciated the vigor with which I was mentally flipping her off.

That being said there are a few other things I need to get off my chest, other than my man boobs. Yes. When I was a boy, I killed some frogs for no other reason than I could. Happily, I now love all animals. Except cats; but I'd never dream of killing one. Okay I dreamed of killing the old neighbor's cat that used to crap in our yard, but I never actually carried the dreams out. I also confess that when I found said crap, I would throw it over the fence back into the neighbor's yard.

I confess that when a customer is mean to me or my employees at work, I do talk about them after they leave. I confess that although I will get my hands dirty with my employees at work, the one thing I will not do is vacuum. I wouldn't ask you to do anything I wouldn't. Horse hockey. My wife can barely make me vacuum. I confess that sometimes I giggle and think, "I can make people do things. It's good to be the king."

I confess that I cuss like a sailor with Turret's Syndrome when I'm alone in my car, in traffic. I confess that I will, in all likelihood, question your judgment, IQ, and parentage if you cut me off or tailgate me. I confess that I think everyone that talks on their cell phone while driving is an idiot. Except for me.

And mom; one last confession. I confess that it was me that bent up the front bumper of the LTD in college by running into the railroad tracks after mistaking a track signal for a stop sign while wearing my sunglasses at night in a half drunken stupor while listening to the song "I Wear My Sunglasses at Night" by Corey Hart. It was not, in actuality, stolen, damaged, and then returned by Libyan extremists with a note saying "Explain that to your parents, Yankee pig-dog" as previously surmised.

Man, do I feel better.