Inevitably it begins to seem incongruous, even uncomfortable, to offer earnest prayers to the Blessed Virgin that she might grant one, this very hour, the right to administer tender affections upon a horsehung thug.
Holy Mother, grant us this day a rugged bruiser!
That hunger sticks. Cold baths, pure intentions and bleached underpants do nothing to allay it. One prays without meaning to, in odd corners of the day.
Doesn't it only seem fair, if heavenly men tattoo across their back a blue ink Virgin, that the Holy Mother ought to keep, beneath her skirts, a man or two?
Just the same, the Mother blushes at our prayers and so, clutching our clipboards, we continue on a little further down the hall. . .
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