Just when I was growing convinced the only way my freedom could be regained would involve an earthquake (possibly caused by the small thermo-nuclear device Brother Richthofen’s Friends from Seminary have begun assembling from stolen smoke detectors), a miracle intervened in the form of a threat involving something far more unpleasant. That’s right - Alex Jones!
You see, My Beloved Sinners, once the FBI became serious about the alleged similarity between my DNA and that of an extraordinarily handsome and obviously learned Biblical Christian of whom I’ve never heard, Bishop Quinine contacted a few of the young agents to whom he ministered back when J. Edgar Hoover still took a personal interest in ensuring each of his most senior officers was a man’s man. After reminding them of how much he’d hate to have to tell Alex Jones the truth about what really happened in Roswell on one warm July evening back in 1947 (we all know drinking Thunderbird with mescal chasers can produce the occasional adverse reaction, but how could anyone have possibly expected it to kill the poor bug-eyed little aliens?) they immediately agreed there was no need to further investigate the matter. Especially as retesting found my DNA samples prove I’m actually a 22 year old lingerie waitress, with absolutely no relationship to a certain brilliant Orthodox Leader with unique skills as both a parachutist and parish fundraiser.
Consequently I am now once again free to minister to highways and byways of my wonderful parish. Dear old Ichabod Springs may not be blessed with the beautiful panoramic scenery of Akron, Ohio, and we don’t enjoy the mild, pleasant winters of Minneapolis (nor the gentle, balmy summers of Yuma, Arizona), and we mightn’t, for that matter, have the unforgettable public architecture of Natural Bridge, Alabama, but even so there’s still nowhere else on God’s earth that I’d rather share the sound of my weed-whacker at half-past five in the morning.
Indeed, so charming a place is this town so blessed as to be called my home that there can be no doubt of the role it has played in the Archbishop of Canterbury’s alleged decision to retire next year. For years there’s been no secret about Rowan’s yearning to join My Ministry Team in an honorary capacity (given young people just don’t get excited by the idea of a five hour lecture on Dostoevsky the way they used to - personally I blame video games – there’s no way the parish could justify his appointment him upon a stipendiary basis), and so after the past few years of monkeying around with the Primates (as opposed to primating around with Monkeys?) it looks like the young man finally feels qualified to join us.
But now, My Beloved Sinners, I must break your hearts by returning to tasks more important than teaching lost and ignorant evildoers such as yourselves. You wouldn’t believe the amount of correspondence awaiting my urgent attention – and it’s not just all emails from Russian women proffering psycho-sexual pharmaceuticals at a fraction of the legitimate retail. No indeed, the first task once this homily is evangelistically displayed upon the intertubes will be to advise a delightful little man of the cloth who has been simply begging for my assistance. In fact he may well be someone with whom many of you are familiar: he lives in Charleston and is generally known as by the name of “Bishop Quisling”...
I’m Father Christian and I teach the Bible.