Margaret's Best Confession Ever

by T.M.R.

After twenty years as pastor of St. Dismas' Church in How-Many-Syllables, Vermont, the Rev. Dennis MacAuley went mad.

The widening rift between Fr. Dennis and reality first affected his work on the evening of Saturday, June 26, 1995. Fr. Dennis was hearing confessions with one ear, and the voices of Theodore Roosevelt, Josephine Baker, and Vince Lombardi with the other.

The voices were giving him advice. However, they were all talking over one another, and he was having trouble understanding them.

"One at a time, please," said Fr. Dennis, adding, "I'm going to the track, baby."

On the other side of the confessional sat Margaret Roche, his oldest parishioner. Nearing the end of an almost blameless life, Margaret was ninety-five and homebound. She had never sinned very much to begin with, and now, even her opportunities to sin were limited.

Margaret, nevertheless, came to confession every Saturday evening. She spent much of her time in between confessions writing down a list of her sins -- or what she believed to be sins -- so that she wouldn't commit another sin by wasting Fr. Dennis' time.

She had no idea that on the other side of the confessional that Saturday evening, Fr. Dennis was getting advice from Theodore Roosevelt, Josephine Baker, and Vince Lombardi, and that all of them were speaking at once.

"One at a time, please," said Fr. Dennis.

"I'm sorry, Father," said Margaret. "I was going too fast."

"One at a time, please."

"I know. I will."

"One at a time, please,"

"I had angry thoughts about my nurse this week."

"One at a time, please."

"No, not both of them. I mean that trailer trash on the night shift."

"One at a time, please."

"I'm sorry, Father. I called her trailer trash. In church."

"One at a time, please."

"I feel terrible."

"Make her run ten stadiums," whispered Vince Lombardi.

"We don't have a stadium," said Fr. Dennis.

"Oh, Father," said Margaret. "May I donate?"

"Can you hear them, too?" said Fr. Dennis.

"I can," said Margaret. "Those people in back are so rude."

"Why can't they just shut up?" said Fr.Dennis.

"I know, Father. Bless me, please."

"Why?" said Fr. Dennis.

"You're so right, Father. Just give me a penance," said Margaret, holding her breath. Since childhood, she had always felt cheated if a priest didn't assign her a burdensome penance.

"Five hundred thousand Our Fathers," said Fr. Dennis, "and," he thought about it, "Two million Hail Marys. Now drop and give me twenty."

Margaret was thrilled. "Twenty what, Father?" she said. Fr. Dennis hesitated. He wasn't sure.

"Push-ups," whispered Vince Lombardi.

"Push-ups," said Fr. Dennis.

"Push-ups?" said Margaret.

"Make it forty," said Vince Lombardi.

"Forty push-ups," said Fr. Dennis.

"Forty?" said Margaret. Her eyes brimmed. "Thank you, Father. Thank you so much."

"One at a time, please," said Fr. Dennis.

"Of course, Father," said Margaret. "One at a time." She called to her nurse. "Debbie. Help me get down on the floor."

"One at a time please."

"I understand, Father."

"One at a time, please."

"Don't be angry with me, Father. I'm very old."

"One at a time, please."
,

Wrong Time in October to Start a World Series

Howdy Pop, Jim, Country Jim, etc.

Am gonna cut this short as I realize the mega drama is beginning in San Fran as we speak, or rather, as I bloviate to no one. Here's hoping 1954's magic is here again! Also, I wanna see that guy who looks like he stepped out of a time warp from a 1968 Bryant/Newtown H.S. game (Tim L...whatsisname). Haven't seen such long stringy hair or such a baby faced beardless look since, well, since you looked like that once upon a time.

Rus

Relationships

Stinky earned his nickname early in his teen years. Enamored by Brylcreem; he wasn't convinced that a little dab'll do ya. Initially, his nickname was "Slick," but that sounded almost cool. By all standards, especially the lowly ones of his cohorts, Edward Doohickey was not cool.


Stench overrides grease, and cruelty reigns over generousity of spirit; hence Edward "Stinky" Doohickey.

Perhaps it was fate; Stinky now cleans septic systems for a living. Hey, s#*t happens.

To prove the old adage that there is someone for everyone, Stinky found a girl who, after an unfortunate ordeal in a skunk and turnip farm, developed an hysterical and permanent loss of smell.


Ironically, her name is Rose. She calls her husband "Eddie."

She calls Edward Doohickey "Stinky," because everybody else does.

Eddie Budds is her husband. They don't talk much anymore, not since the ordeal in the skunk and turnip farm.

Rose has a thing for slick hair; she has no regard for the smell. She is not exactly Stinky's "type;" he doesn't really have a type. She's not a septic system. Theres is a complicated, but satisfying relationship, as long as no one mentions Ghandi. (Stinky is of the opinion that Ghandi's extreme weight loss only served to highlight the size of his nose.)
He has issues with intimacy. She has no arms.

Yes, there is someone for everyone, but Eddie Budds is still looking.
His standards are low, but at least one arm is a prerequisite.