It’s Tuesday, Day Six of Winter Carnival. I’m diddy-boppin’ my bad self down the east side of Main Street, when ahead of me I see James “The Good Lord” Ford. He’s headed my way, with a big grin plastered across his mug.

I’m past the Newberry/Sears/Who-Knows-What-Now parking lot, so I can’t just wave, turn and split. If I’d thought fast enough, I could’ve crossed the street. But I didn’t and now I’m stuck.

Stuck with what, you ask?

Stuck with The Good Lord and his pronouncements, that’s what.

I bestowed TGL moniker on him, and another — King James — but not because he’s a man of God. Instead, it’s because he thinks he is God. He has never suffered a moment of doubt and has that snotty smugness only someone in love with himself can have. And so he opines nonstop on everything, whether he knows what he’s talking about or not.

His specialty is pointing out (at least in his opinion) what people have done wrong or poorly. He’s not just a Monday Morning Quarterback, but the line coach, head coach, trainer, analyst and announcer as well. He’s also a huge pain in the prat.

The thing is, because he’s so self-assured he always manages to find folks who think he knows what he’s talking about. In reality, he’s mostly as full of crap as a Christmas goose. But correcting him, even with incontrovertible proof, does no good. He’ll just lay on more and more BS till your only option is to shrug, cut your losses and leave.

But even though I know all this, and know I should just smile, say hi, and keep moving before he says a word, I don’t. First, I’m hardwired with manners, from early childhood, if not pre-natally. And second, The Lord will not be denied: He’ll jump in my personal space, eyeball me like a low-rent Svengali, and lay some kind of rap on me, essentially pinning me in place.

So, taking the path of least resistance, I’ll let him babble on a bit, say nothing in return, and then say I’d love to hear more, but I can’t since I’ve gotta take my goldfish to his PT appointment or some such. Then I’ll book before he has a chance to utter another word. It works best for both of us: He’ll find another victim soon enough, and I get free of his clutches.

As you might expect, his Tuesday sermon was on Winter Carnival.

“So you guys gonna be in the parade?” he asked.

“Yup,” I said.

“What eighties thing you doing?”

“No eighties thing,” I said.

“But you gotta,” he said. “It’s the Carnival theme.”

“Sure is,” I said. “But it’s not our theme.”

He eyed me with suspicion, as if by not going in theme, The Brothers of the Bush were in league with Taliban.

“So what’s your theme?” he said.

“Slap-happy hicks with slapstick shticks,” I said.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he said.

“Show up on Saturday and you’ll find out,” I said.

“Well, you’ll hafta go some to beat that one you did in the last parade,” he said. “That one was a real winner …”

I waited for the inevitable … and didn’t have long to wait.

“… except for a few details you missed …”

I also missed the rest of his analysis. And I missed it was because I had three days till the parade, and what seemed like 300 chores to take care of, and no room in my rattled consciousness to allow any of his criticism in.

The great Irish writer, Brendan Behan, summed up my feelings about critics best. He said, “Critics are like eunuchs in a harem; they know how it’s done, they’ve seen it done every day, but they’re unable to do it themselves.”

And therein lies the difference between Winter Carnival’s critics and theorists, versus the people who do the actual work.

While I’ll admit The Brothers of the Bush look like naught more than a chaotic rabble — and probably are a chaotic rabble — still, a whole lotta work goes into that chaos.

Phone call after phone call has to be made, to shamelessly beg peeps to join up. That’s my job, and luckily I have no shame.

Our fabulous money (Bubkes Bucks) that we give away in the parade has to be designed and drawn. Br. Mike Cochran has done that year after year, always finishing by the deadline, and never uttering a complaint. Actually, I guess maybe he has complained, but who has time to listen?

New props have to be made each new theme, and that’s Br. Jack Drury duty … and delight. This year, Jack’s wife Phyllis was pressed into service as the Brothers’ Official Seamstress, a title and chore that added a joy and fulfillment to her life she never knew possible.

Br. Bruce Young is the group’s scrivener and artist, and it takes only one quick phone call for him to leap into the breach, pen in hand.

Master cabinet maker Br. Russ Defonce always offers his services long before the call even goes out, and of course I always accept them. His prop this year is so fabulous that describing it could do it no justice. So you wanna enjoy the fruits of his labors, you’ll hafta hie down to the parade and check it out, up close and personal.

Then there’s our flagship. All right, to you it’s just a truck. But, still, we need one, along with a driver, and our man at the helm is Br. Ron Burdick. Bro Ron also has the additional duties of tying up, fastening down, loosening, cutting, and/or patching whatever needs it at the lineup.

And speaking of the lineup: The parade starts at 1, but a bunch of us are there, attending to one detail or another, starting at 10:30. And rather than freezing our fidoolies off in The Great Alone, we pass those hours in sultanic comfort, thanks to Hyde Fuel, who let us have their office for a first-class warm-up hut. In return, we’ve generously given them the official title of Brothers of the Bush Official Parade Headquarters.

Then there’s the candy. Obviously, the stuff doesn’t grow on trees. And given the amounts the ragamuffins lining the parade route can stuff down their gaping maws, a bunch of moolah gets spent on sugar-coated sugar of all colors, shapes and sizes.

Of course, a bunch more chores need to be done before we can boogie down Broadway, and inevitably someone or other in the group does them, if not enthusiastically, then at least willingly.

So why do we, and all the Carnival volunteers, go through all the hustle and hassle? It’s for one reason, and one reason only — Fun. Fun for us, and fun for everyone else.

It’s just good to remember the essence of our Carnival is this: To make lots of fun for all, takes a helluva lot of effort for some.

I’m never prouder of My Home Town than on Sunday night, after the fireworks. The Carnival’s finally over and I no longer have an ounce of energy or an intelligent thought, but I’m utterly delighted that we did it: We pulled off the world’s best ten days, and we did it on a dime, with a host of activities and and army of volunteers.

And best of all, we’ll do it again next year!