ArcaMax

When I was a kid, we had a spelling bee every week in my class. Me or a kid named William always won.

This did not bother the nuns. They were not in the self-esteem business. The meek might inherit the earth, but only the good spellers were going to win the spelling bee. God hates people who fix fights.

As a prize, they used to give you a holy card.

If you're not old-school, anatomically repressed, no-talking-in-line, spelling-bee Catholic, let me explain "holy card."

A holy card is a piece of cardboard with a colorful picture of a saint on the front side along with the saint's name. On the back, there's usually a short prayer.

I got one for completing altar boy training, one for perfect attendance and one every couple of weeks at least for the spelling bee wins. There were 57 kids in my grade school homeroom. The nuns must have ordered holy cards by the bale, the way convenience stores order lottery tickets.

They still make 'em, too. I get them mostly at funerals these days. The cards you get at funerals are laminated because it's a high-tech world now, but they follow the format, except the dead guy's name is somewhere on the card. My mother used to take funeral cards home and stick them in the corner of her vanity mirror. It reminded her of the last makeup job she'd get, when it would be put on her face by strangers. Kept her from getting proud.

Donald Trump, the dementia-ridden ex-president now trying to get back in and save everyone from overtime pay, just debuted a line of holy cards.

I call 'em "holy cards" because they sell for $99, and if you buy enough of 'em, you can even have dinner with Trump. The old holy cards worked the same way. Sure, they were free, but if you said the prayers on the back often enough, you got to have dinner with Christ and your dead grandparents. Every night. Forever.

If I ever see someone with a Trump holy card, I'm gonna break the guy's chops.

"What did you pay for that," I'll ask the guy. You paid $99, right?

"I got mine for free," I'll say. "You act right, you say the prayer on the back, you go to heaven.

"I think you got the cheap card," I'll tell the guy. "Sure, your card is digital, but it doesn't DO anything. Mine gets you in to meet Christ and all the Apostles. I can have a spelling bee with 'em if I want.

"Besides, you just bought yours. I had to DO something for mine. I had to go to my aunt's funeral. I had to complete altar boy training. In Latin. When I was 9."

Some things you can buy. Some things you gotta earn. Honor. Love. You can't buy that stuff. That's why the nuns didn't take money for the cards. Some things you can't buy, and some things you don't sell. It's good to learn that young.

The website for the cards calls 'em "trading cards," but I'm not making the trade. I'll keep my holy cards. They were too hard to get.

To find out more about Marc Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, a collection of his best columns, is called "Mean Old Liberal." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com and for Nook, Kindle, and iBooks.