Smack dab in the middle of this past week, the calendar told us it was Ash Wednesday. It seems the calendar has to tell us every year when to begin Lent.

It’s a precursor to Easter every year, the timing supposedly based on the whims of the Man in the Moon. No matter who’s doing the explaining, it’s pure “lunarcy” to try and comprehend.

Always the question: So, what are you giving up?

I pondered that query and thought, wait a minute, haven’t we given up enough? Try Hank Aaron and Rush Limbaugh recently. Not wanting to begin a 40-day pity party, let’s get something back instead of doing without.

I’m more than willing to give up mourning the passing of heroes. It looks like we’ll soon be back to business as unusual.

Major League baseball is sheepishly promising a new beginning, press releases talking of a full schedule. The Braves are asking season-ticket holders to pony up around $1,500 for a pair of All-Star week tickets. 

Except…

There might be no mid-season classic because, in an era of ifs and maybes, not only is sleepy Joe calling for a dark winter, but we might also be dealing with a sucky summer too.

Fans will fork out season-ticket wampum, Braves fans are allowed to chop til they drop and after a successful stab at a the World Series, we can all dance the Truist Park Tango as we all skip merrily into football season.

Oh, behave! It could happen. Anything can. 

Did you ever think Don Quixote might be right up there with the Alamo heroes? Those Texans could use some help with windmills these days.

And what might those down-home, beer-swilling NASCAR fans be thinking after it took more than 10 hours, to complete the Daytona 500 on Sunday and Monday? 

Oh wait. That was a good warm-up for AOC, Joe and all those crazies saying, adios to gasoline and hello to electric cars. 

I can just hear it: “Leroy, my dad-gummed car won’t budge. Can anybody help me find my shorts?”

Two days of “snailing’ will mean it was chock-full of excitement. If you were a snail. Couch potatoes watching at home will need oxygen.

I was getting bored after not having any football, so I decided to participate in a sleep study. It was a grueling exercise.

Apparently, based on feedback — rather complaints — I snore as if there are three bears using my bed as a cave. We’re talking decibels.

The prep was tons better than getting ready for a colonoscopy. No sprints to the loo. All I had to do was show up sleepy, turn on Monday night rasslin’ and go to sleep. 

Well, it wasn’t that easy. I was wired with what seemed like 570 leads attached from head to toe. The TV was a 13-inch Philco that I couldn’t have seen with a high-powered scope.

Apparently, I have sleep apnea, meaning I stop breathing in mid-slumber. I think I heard the tech, my own personal Sandman telling Vicki I had stopped breathing mid-snorefest.

I sure hope I was dreaming when Vicki said: “Don’t worry, don’t rush it. I usually let him go 9-10 minutes before I throw water on him.”

Sometime during my nap, a contraption called a CPAP machine was attached to my nose and mouth. Now I know what sleepy time for Darth Vader is like. 

With oxygen whooshing into my lungs, I slept until 5 a.m., and made tracks. I desperately needed a nap or three. I muddled through the workday like a zombie.

Besides those close to me hatching a plot to accelerate my demise, I dreamed as if I were being bankrolled by a pharmaceutical company seeking an approval for a hallucinogenic. 

-I spoke with God. He had tears of laughter in his eyes, shaking his head about us banning going to church, the confusion about the vaccine, keeping kids out of school. I asked him when he flushed the whole mess down the toilet, would he please jiggle the handle?

-I requested He smack the fools who want only electric vehicles and let them know that the batteries are powered by fossil fuels.

-Why do DQ and Bruster’s open when it’s 22 degrees outside?

-After spritzing me with holy water, He promised to tell those morons in Washington: “Enough with the impeachment. Get back to work and fix My indivisible nation, the one that’s still under Me.”

Mike Tasos’ column appears, for now, every other weekend. There’s a chance he might be canceled and getting his mail at an undisclosed re-education camp. He’s hoping for nightly Merle Haggard sing-alongs. He can be reached at miketasos@earthlink.net. He is also on Facebook.