Some people are the sort of people to search out the only unpadded stool at the bar so they can't get comfortable and waste too much time when it's time to get down to business. And then they complain about their legs falling asleep and wriggle around like they're playing host to a modest colony of rectal nematodes. And they stay until the place closes down, drinking the over-the-counter drug of their choice, and they never get what they need to get done done until the very last minute.

But hey, as long as they were miserable for the entire duration, it's all okay, right? At least they weren't enjoying themselves, right? You can procrastinate as much as you like as long as you aren't having a good time while you do it, is that it?

Call it minimalist martyrdom. A kind of self-flagellation in which one wears the polyester shirt instead of the silk one.

Not that I understand self-flagellation anyway. What kind of validity does whipping yourself have when you can decide to stop anytime you want? It's like tickling yourself. Unlike self-tickling, however, it gives you scars that look remarkably similar to those that someone else earned. It makes me want the whip in my own hands to lend things a little more legitimacy. But then I think, to whom would I be doing a favor? And then I think, "At least I would be having a good time."

I'm still undecided whether I should fly down to the Philippines and offer flagellation and crucifixion services during Holy Week. I'm sure there are people closer to home that I could whip and crucify (and I'll keep that in mind as the US 2008 election gets nearer), but I like tropical islands.

If you're going to get self-inflicted scars, you may as well get a tattoo and make an actual statement. If you want to feel bad about it for the rest of your life, make it say "Stryper."

I'm having trouble making this seem at all relevant, sitting here in my polyester shirt on an uncushioned bar stool drinking Assam tea and writing my article the day before deadline. But it's a cotton-poly blend, and my comfier shirts are just dirty. All the other bar stools are taken. And tomorrow is the absolute last minute, not tonight. Just thought I'd point that out. Otherwise this would all seem like projecting, and that's just lame.

Also, Assam isn't my first choice. They didn't have PG Tips or Typhoo. I didn't choose Assam because I wanted to commit some minuscule amount of self-sacrifice; it was just what they had.

I can understand if sacrifice of any kind is beyond you. Seriously. Enough bad stuff is due to happen to you before you die that there's no point in deliberately seeking it out. Why should you give up anything for Lent? Whatever your choice is, your doctor is going to demand it of you by the time you turn fifty anyway.

I'm not dissing Lent. I think it's healthy to figure out how to give something up before it becomes absolutely necessary to do so. It's a good idea to know which way you will jump when it comes up. I'm not totally against character building. But it's not required. I'll concede the point that many people are characters enough as things stand.

But if you are going to give something up for Lent, don't give up something you won't miss, and regardless of what it is that you give up, don't make a big deal out of it. Even if you went forty days blindfolded so you'd know what it was like to be blind, don't expect a medal.

But the people who give up smoking their favorite brand of cigarettes for Basics and spend the difference in price on a nibble of chocolate to reward themselves for their sacrifice? You know who I'm talking about. These are the people who, for one, brag about making themselves watch the news at least once a week so they can say they know the horror of having war take a loved one away. You can probably think of another couple of examples now.

If I had to categorize the sort of people that cause the largest number of homicidal thoughts to echo around inside my cranium, becoming, like photons in a lasing chamber, more and more coherent, this would be the category. It's such a trial to come out into public and have to endure them without beating them into jelly with my prodigious forehead.

Also, I'd like a Purple Heart because I deliberately trimmed a fingernail a little too close to the quick while thinking hard about joining the military.