Page 101 Prayers

(Prologue by Roy Garde.)
      Until they read this everyone in the World will continue to think that the tumultuous political changes that have occurred in the last few years came without Divine Intervention. It’s time that the truth came out.
     The man who was and still is the catalyst wants to remain anonymous, for reasons that will become obvious to everyone, but he decided that his story must be told and he asked me to tell it and under the name of ‘Joseph AKA Mercury.’
      I taped his account in three, two-hour interviews and during editing I decided to re-write it in the first person. This way he gets added protection and I get freedom to put it across easier. He has read it and he approves of it as-is.
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Joseph Mercury.
     It hasn’t become a chore yet. When I’m working in the city having to drop in on the way home every Monday and Thursday still mildly excites me. Their profound thanks and blessings also keep me showing up twice a week but if I’ve been working in a different Borough and it takes an extra half hour to get there then the bloom is off, as it were. The same parking space is always available and the side door is always left unlocked.
    I go into the building and bolt the door behind me, as instructed, and then I climb the half flight of stairs to the room on the left past the little broom closet. I go in and then pull the door closed and put on the light and I then take off my coat and hang it up and then check to see if everything is in place.
      It always is.
      I push the call button once and then I switch on the dim side table lamp and switch off the overhead light.
     There is a prayer stand in the center of the far wall and a small mattress pad is on the floor placed lengthwise to it. I lie down on the mattress and wait.
     After one or two minutes the door opens and then closes softly. I hear the latch being pushed home and then the rustle of heavy clothes.
     It is, seven or eight times out of ten, the Mother Superior herself but whoever it is they all say more or less the same thing, something like, “Good evening, it is good of you to come and help us, I have three (or four or five) prayers tonight.”)
     She moves over to the prayer stand and kneels at it and starts in with her preliminaries, usually in Latin (the Mother Superior always in Latin the others in English or, if it’s the Canadian, in French) but they all change to English for the specifics.
    After a few minutes, still praying, she frees and lifts the skirts of her habit and throws them back so that they drape my chest and then she lowers herself on to my face.
    I then start in with my licking and kissing. I’m an expert after all this time.
    I’m allowed to reach up and fondle belly and buttocks at all times and if she’s released her belt I can search out her breasts. One of them never undoes her belt. She is thin and either she has no breasts or she’s old and they have shriven and she knows my touching them would turn me off. Or she has other reasons – I guess they’re entitled to their little privacies. It can’t be easy for them.
The intensity of the praying increases in step with her emotional state and she positions herself in relation to my tongue so that she finishes the prayer as she reaches orgasm.
Even if she shouts out the final words – a rare happening now except when it’s a newcomer, as it were – no one comes to the door.
She then raises herself off me and leans forward onto the prayer stool for as long as it takes for her internal turmoil to ease off. Then the prayers begin again and soon after that she lowers herself onto me and we do it all again.
Besides the Mother Superior four or five other nuns use me on any one night and although, at the beginning, they were the same ones after a few weeks of that I called the Mother Superior on the phone and tried to get her to let all of the Sisters come and pay me a visit, using the argument that the more varied the prayer-givers were the more ground we’d cover, but she said that she thought that only a few of them “are stable enough at present” but she’d keep my idea in mind.
I, of course, wanted to get to know more women but I now realize that it doesn’t matter much because the only thing different about them, besides their voices, is their weight. I would have thought that each would smell and feel and taste differently but this is not true and it stands to reason when you think about it because they all use the same lye-based industrial soap and a flower-scented spray of deodorant and when their natural body odors overwhelm the flowers the tastes and smells are all the same – Woman.
    I’ve always liked that smell very much, of course, and I’m pretty sure that I always will.
When the last one has finished her last prayer, and is leaning forwards onto the prayer stool, I know that I have to ease out from under and leave to let her continue praying when she’s recovered enough and avoid a confrontation, which would be awkward, to say the least.
    I collect my coat and go to the bathroom up the hall where I rinse my mouth and wash my face and hands carefully. I drink the glass of orange juice they put there for me and have done ever since I first asked them to do so. Clearly, I don’t want to drive all the way home with that smell on me and that taste in my mouth.
     I never see anyone on my way out but I always hear the bolt of the side door slide home before I’m half way to my car.
    We’ve been doing this for nearly three years now, ever since I arranged an interview with the Mother Superior through a friend of a friend who does clerical work at the Convent.
    It was a difficult interview but I had to do it because the thing had become an obsession with me. I told her, when we finally got down to it and she wouldn’t let me prevaricate any more, that I believed that there are so many prayers going to heaven that if we could find a way to somehow boost our prayers they would get special attention. I rambled on but you can be sure that I remembered to work in the old line – “Sensuality is a gift from God and how dare anyone return it unused.” “Especially if it can be kept unsullied,” I added.
     She showed a lot of interest but also a lot of puzzlement and I couldn’t go on but she’d already invested a half hour of her time in me and so she coaxed me to explain myself fully.
    When I finally managed to describe the method that I intended to use she was stunned. First at my courage for actually proposing such a thing and then at my audacity. She was speechless for several minutes as the idea went around again in her head and then she asked me to leave and said she would pray for me but that she couldn’t bear to so much as look at me anymore.
    I, of course, felt terrible and I couldn’t shake the despondency for days. Not in fact until the friend of a friend who does clerical worker in the Convent got word to me that the Mother Superior wanted me to go and see her again.
    I made an appointment and when I got into the same room that I’d seen her in before she had some coffee waiting for me. This time it was she who had difficulty getting to the point. We both drank two cups of coffee before she finally asked me to explain how it could be done. It became obvious that she didn’t know how orgasm could be reached without penetration (which was obviously out of the question) and, with this being a given, how could the male possibly put up with the huge amount of frustration that must be generated by such proximity and such full access to a female’s body?
    Good question, without a doubt, but having already thought of this objection I was ready to tell her that I’d been impotent for four years, ever since a vasectomy had somehow gone wrong, and that while I still loved the female body I would never again be a threat to one.
    Good answer too!
     I then got on to some dangerous ground by trying to explain the difference between vaginal and clitoral orgasms but she bought it all!
     It became obvious that as soon as the “threat” question had been answered satisfactorily she wanted to go ahead with the experiment because she then started making a list of what we’d need to set up for the first trial assignment.
When we’d agreed on a time and date – and where I could park and how to get inside the building and how to find the right room, etc. – she thanked me profusely and started talking about “inspiration” and “revelation” and it was an hour before I could get out of there which was especially difficult for me because I wanted to be alone to gloat and to hug myself.
    As for the frustration that she’d asked about – I ease it by always making love with my wife in the mornings of the days I go around there. Even so, in the first few months of my visiting the Convent, and sometimes to this day, I more often that not needed some serious loving the minute I got home again.
This “inspiration” and “revelation” had come to me after a holiday in the South of France. My wife, who didn’t much like the beach anyway, had gone back home, and back to work, after one week and so I stayed on alone for the other week that we’d already paid for.
It was a mistake, staying there alone.
All the beaches were topless and some were bottomless too.
I had enough sense to keep away from the completely nude beaches but even so, being among all those beautiful women and girls and not being able to touch any of them, nor my wife, affected me terribly.
    It got so that I could think of nothing else most of the time and, for the same reason, I couldn’t sleep properly. If I drank a lot of whiskey I’d sleep for about four hours but I’d still wake up with images of women’s bodies saturating my mind.
     I couldn’t move around much because I’d disturb the other guests in the house so I had to lie there and sweat and try to not think about women’s private parts.
    I kept going to the beach, partly because there was little else to do and partly because it was expected of me and mostly because I love the sun and swimming helped me somewhat. But I couldn’t stay in the water all day and when I was back on the sand I’d be surrounded by beautiful women again and so the longing grew and grew and I almost went out of my mind.
    One morning on the beach I looked up from my book and saw that a woman who I’d never seen before had just arrived and was spreading out her towel and beach gear about fifteen feet from me. She had a novel, “Das Hotel New Hampshire,” and some German magazines and she was quite attractive and probably close to forty years old.
    She settled in and like all women over, say, twenty-four she sat down before taking off the top of her bikini. She had nice breasts, very white, and also a little, protruding belly. Her legs were a bit too thin and the skin on them was a little too mottled in places but still, overall, attractive.
When you go to a topless beach you have to follow the rules. If a woman catches you looking at her breasts you must look away at once and never attempt eye contact at that time. Wrong sequence. But whenever I looked up from my book and admired her body
(frequently because I never get bored by them and so I can look at half-naked women for hours on end) this German woman would know it somehow and she’d move her body so that her breasts would take on a different profile which, it follows, made me want to keep looking. One time, when I glanced up at her face, I saw that she was already looking at me and she held my look for a modest second or two and then smiled slightly and went back to her book.
    It had been a definite come on, unmistakably, but, to be sure, I kept looking at her and the next time that she looked over I tried a smile and it was returned, and held, so I put on my sandals – the sand got too hot to walk on barefoot after 10’o’clock – and strolled over and told her “Hello” and that I was going to buy me a beer and did she want something. She smiled nicely and said, “Yes please, an orange or a lemonade drink would be good.” She had a bad accent but, it turned out, a large vocabulary.
    I went and got our drinks and she invited me to sit on her towel but I said I’d rather bring my own over and the sun shade too. When I’d set them up she moved into the shade and things got to be cozy for us. We talked about France and the French and about the English and the Germans and the EU and we got on famously.
    She told me that her husband was a lawyer in Hamburg and, like my wife, he did not enjoy the beach so they took separate vacations. He preferred fishing in rivers while she loved getting the sun in large doses.
When it got to be around two o’clock I suggested that I go and get some filled baguettes for lunch but she said she had to watch her food intake carefully so she prepared her own lunch at her apartment and asked would I like to have lunch with her there.
We gathered our things up and I put mine in the trunk of my hired car and then helped her carry her stuff over to her place, which was just a half block away.
    Her apartment was one large room. It had two single beds in it and a dining area and a sofa and two easy chairs. The kitchen was in an alcove at the far end. The bathroom was to the left and the whole right wall was made up of sliding glass doors.
We put down the things we were carrying and she suggested we take a shower before eating and that I should go first so that she could start lunch.
I took a quick sluicing and of course put on the same clothes when I’d toweled myself dry.
When I came out she was standing there, by the door, naked!
I was stunned and couldn’t move.
She smiled and slipped past me into the bathroom and closed the door. I weakly moved to a chair and tried to control my breathing.
When she came out she had a short robe on and as she moved across to go to the kitchen I wordlessly raised my hands and, no surprise there, she came to me. I opened her robe and at last could touch the actual breasts that I’d been looking at for hours and generically dreaming of for days.
She let me touch them all that I wanted but when I smoothed her belly she held my hand where it was and said that I’d better know the ground rules before continuing. She said she couldn’t let anyone other than her husband actually penetrate her because she didn’t know how to lie to him and he was very important to her. Anything else was all right but not that. She then astonished me by saying that she wanted many orgasms that afternoon, “and so lets get started.”
     I asked her how on earth could I give her even one if I wasn’t allowed to penetrate her
and she said that I wasn’t to worry about that because she’d show me.
     She got up and moved to the beds and asked me if I liked giving head, (that’s how good her vocabulary was.) I told her that I’d invented it but really I was only blowing smoke because the truth was that I had hardly ever tried it and then never for longer than about ten seconds.
     She tugged the mattress off the far bed and pulled it around and laid it on the floor at right angles to the other bed. We got undressed and after a little more kissing and touching she told me to lie down on the mattress that was on the floor with my head about two feet from the bed frame. She then squatted over my head with her knees near the bed frame and her arms and shoulders on the higher mattress.
     She then lowered herself onto my face.
     She started telling me what to do with my tongue and with my hands and fingers and how to change my rhythm according to her needs and it was as if we were in a clinic but I willingly went along and I learned a whole lot about female reactions and preferences which continue to help me a great deal to this day.
Sure enough, she climaxed a few minutes after I got it right and then she lifted off me and leaned forward onto the bed moaning and nearly sobbing. When she’d quieted a little she lowered herself again then she remembered that I couldn’t possibly know her routines properly and so she lifted up to tell me that she wanted to do that another five times and that after that, “I’ll take care of you.”
    I was sorry when the sixth time came and afterwards I found out that, not amazingly at all, she was satiated and I had to help to get up on the bed to lie down.
    It isn’t often that one can receive that much pleasure and give as much or more at the same time.
    She lay there panting and moaning in German for several minutes then she thanked me and said that it had been marvelous and that it was now my turn. She got off the bed and indicated that I was to lie on my back in the middle of it.
     She climbed on top of me so that her head was hovering over my knees and then she eased her way back to get into position and as she was doing so she said, “You can look at and kiss me there all you like while I’m doing this for you but you mustn’t expect to get any reaction from me because, as I’ve already told you, I’m totally replete.”
     She then said something that was truly astonishing – “Oooh, how nice! I like having big ones to work with but it’s a pity that you’re not Jewish, as I can clearly see. Uh, please listen to what I’m going to ask you now because it’s important for me – it’s obvious that you’re not a homosexual but you don’t by any chance have any Jews in your family do you? No. Well how about some Polish or Gipsy blood? No. Well, so be it, I’ll have to settle for knowing that at least it’ll be Non-Aryan semen and that will help me along with the fact that, because I’m satiated, the self-loathing that I need to get – laced with the subjection aspect of it all, of course – will let me extend my punishment satisfactorily.”
        That was a little off-putting but not to much by any means so I let her get on with it and she worked hard at it and when she got the eruption-coming-in-seconds signal she deep-throated me expertly – and cleverly too because, as I eventually got to realize, by doing that she not only avoided the gagging and the messiness and the unpleasantness but she also accentuated and augmented her role as the subjected female as she’d mentioned.
When she came back from the bathroom she laid herself down next to me and we did some holding and kissing and then she told me thank you and that she wanted to rest and would I please leave her.
    I got dressed and asked for another date for the next day at the beach and she grunted her assent. She barely acknowledged my goodbye kiss – she had somehow gone back into her satiated state – and I left feeling doubly grateful. She had not only given me a thorough hauling-of-the-ashes but had also had saved my sanity by banishing longed-for but unobtainable images from my brain.
    We did the same things every afternoon over the last three days that I was there and it got better each time. I was tremendously grateful and I wanted to give her a present so I asked her if she preferred broaches over necklaces and what were her favorite stones. She told me, in severe terms, that she wouldn’t accept anything from me in the way of a present “Because of the implications.”
     When we were cuddling up in the spoon position for the last time – I’m not stupid – I ventured to ask her about the atonement thing and after calling me, “Ah, another naïve Yankee and how I do so wish that I was one too,” she eased away from me so that she could lie on her back and she searched out my right hand and put it on her left breast and held it there and then she started in on telling me her life story.
    Thinking about the whole thing since then I suppose that ‘telling-all’ served as a catharsis for her – combined with the facts, maybe, that I was not only leaving her forever the next day but I was also ‘a naïve Yankee’ who should be made aware of the hideousness of collective guilt however well earned it had been by the actions of a past generation – but obviously only a very mild one seeing the enormity of the whole.
     She told me that her parents had always categorically refused to talk about The War to her two elder brothers and to her so they all, and their friends, had had to learn about the myriad atrocities in bits and pieces and, seeing that it was impossible to come to terms with any of it, they too had all agreed to stop discussing it, to save their sanity, but, “The grisly, impossible to believe details, kept coming at us – and keep on coming at us – and the accompanying guilt is ever present, believe me, and doesn’t show any sign of lessening no matter about leaving.
    “Ach, Mein lieben Herr! (If I remember that right) You’re so lucky to not know any of it. Let me tell you that it’s always there but sometimes it increases to the point of enveloping us and it darkens the sun even down on the beach at midday.”
     She went on to say that that her two brothers were both working in hands-on down-to-earth Social Services – one in Berlin and one in Prague – and that they had given away their trust funds to Jewish charities and that although she wanted to do the same she couldn’t get herself to do it, “Not yet, anyway, because of my special needs and my own way of dealing with it all.”
       She had been married once but not for long because her husband hadn’t shared, and didn’t want to learn how to share, her deep-seated guilt and its accompanying gloominess.
       Since her divorce she spends six months a year – the cold ones – in various resorts in the south of France and in Spain and she picks up single foreign men on the beach, or in bars or wherever, “Jewish ones if possible but never Japanese or Italians,” and offers them her brand of ‘comfort’ in exchange for a salving injection.
       When I got the chance I asked her what she had against straight forward sexual intercourse and she said that there were several practical reasons for not doing it that way but the main ones were, “It’s far too normal and it’s not nearly humiliating enough.”
     I gasped on hearing that and she squeezed my hand and said something in German and then went on, “You see, the thing of it is that I think that I’m a lesbian at heart in that I’ve always disliked, and now I really hate, all penises without exception. From that you can guess how horrible it is for me to have to take one of them into my mouth.
“However, when I know that the cock in question belongs to a Jewish man that generates a huge boost in potential as regards my mental atonement level when I’m getting on with the disagreeable task and, also, it’s ideal for me in that all the time that I’m doing it I know that my efforts will soon provide me with a good amount of physical atonement too because I’ll be getting myself two million, or so, Jewish spermatozoa which will make me Jewish by injection. Right? Or, in your case for example, I become a naïve, untroubled Yankee American woman.
    “Ah, unfortunately, I can’t fool myself for long because the good feeling of kinship lasts for only around three hours which is the amount of time that my body needs to deal with the invasion and when it has done so it follows that that will have negated its influence.”
       When I left her apartment for the last time she gave me a kiss that said it all again and when she opened her eyes I saw in them that she’d meant to convey just that to me and I believe that my naïveté dropped away right then like a shed coat.
      Well, although that happened several years ago the trouble is that since then I’ve wanted to get invited to go down and commune with a magic pussy – they’re all magic – every night. My wife lets me do it in the most conventional way that there is but because I’ve become so skilled at it she jumps up onto the bed after a minute or two and demands that I join her there and pound away at her.
     Clearly, I wasn’t getting nearly enough communing time in.
      Not being able to get enough of it, legitimately, led it into becoming an all-consuming obsession with me and although I don’t remember when the idea of reinforcing prayers by uttering them when reaching orgasm came to me – the noises that came out of the German woman when she was being carried away in one of the six different ways that she taught me didn’t sound like prayers to me but they were in German, so what do I know, but it’s possible that that’s where I got my idea – and immediately following that realization, I saw that, logically, nuns would be the ideal participants because clearly they’re all experts at the praying game and would probably be willing to ‘experiment’ with what God had given them so long as someone in authority told them that no ‘sin’ would be involved and that they’d remain eligible, mentally and physically, to continue to be called, “Brides Of Christ.”
     Besides that, there’s very little doubt that I was influenced by seeing what I still think of as being the most erotic scene in any movie ever made. I mean the one in “Canterbury Tales” that begins with when the good-looking but deceitful youth shows up at a convent and indicates to the Nuns inside that he’s hungry and both deaf and dumb. Soon after that the same idea comes to just about all of the Sisters, at about the same time, and from then on he’s allowed very little time to – uh – to himself. To this day if I close my eyes I can see every second of the scene where the plump senior nun, in flowing robes, lies herself down in the hay in the stable where he’s working and after telling him – even though she knows that he can’t hear her, indeed, that and the fact that he will never be able to tell on her are the only things that gives her license to proceed and that, clearly, adds immeasurably to the shock factor because of what it tells us about Nuns viz. they’re human! Hello! – that she wants to find out about what everyone says is God’s greatest gift to men and women and she then lifts her clothes up – her habit, I guess – and out of the way and then she opens up her legs as the camera closes in on her huge bunch of – never trimmed, ever – pubic hair and her attractive – that, of course is a given – labia coyly lurking below it and in ten seconds we go from our built in and accustomed respect for her ‘withdrawn-from-the-fray and never-to-be-seen-by-man body parts that are covered in all enveloping black’ to seeing that she’s very definitely a woman too and so if she wants to have a man penetrate her then – it must follow – we males must ‘make it known that we’re available’ to all women in future simply because nature is, at the end, clearly and definitely on our side!
    Well, seeing how successful it’s turned out to be, and there’s no doubt about that, it was the best of a large number of ideas that I’d dreamed up to try to get more muff-diving time in. I’d tried to get my wife to experiment with the prayer thing but that didn’t go far. She said that she already knew all about praying and she didn’t need me, an agnostic leaning far over into atheism, to try to tell her anything on the subject thank you.
    I thought about it a great deal more and became convinced that the way to go was to convince a Mother Superior to let me experiment with her and her Nuns because they’re all virgins and are well versed, as it were, in praying and thus have the potential to develop the maximum possible amount of legitimate force that there is to drive the prayers up, or wherever, and so my boosts would be most likely to get the best results with them and, far more importantly, it would guarantee that I’d be able to indulge amply in my all time favorite pastime.
So, I had to find me a Convent full of nuns.
It took me weeks to get up the courage but I was fixated on it and couldn’t stop thinking about it most of the time and so I eventually forced myself to ask my friend to ask his friend to arrange an interview with the Mother Superior and, as I’ve explained, it worked!
My idea works too.
But, perhaps, too well unfortunately!
    We’re all very worried and we are now “on hold.” It’s almost as if there’s a sign up somewhere in the room, “This Is Only An Exercise,” because the only prayers that are going up are little personal ones, like ‘Please help Judy Mansion by curing her arthritis because she finds it difficult to cope with her large family’s needs,” that are so boring that I don’t even listen to them anymore.
    They all know that we’re wasting a precious asset but after what happened recently we all agree that having a détente is the wise thing to do.
    I firmly believe that they’d all cut their tongues out before admitting that they really, really enjoy being – uh – administered to by me whereas I, an avowed agnostic who believes that if there is a God he should be left alone to get on with his more important duties, regularly thank Him sincerely for giving me the opportunity to ‘commune’ often because doing so has become an enjoyable and deeply satisfying part of my life.
    The reason why they’re all so worried is that we are in awe of our newly-found power.
    To illustrate that consider the fact that the very first prayers that the Mother Superior sent up with me in place, boosting as it were, were for Obama to win the election of 2008. Because her charges are all in awe of her they are easily influenced by her and, sure enough, all of the other – uh – supplicants followed suit and for a month before the election we sent up a veritable barrage of boosted prayers which, clearly, tipped the vote count in his favor.
     Finding out about her political bent intrigued me and so I did some research, and a good deal of ‘asking around,’ and I found out that she, the Mother Superior when she was plain Margaret Sims, had been born with big bones and a rather plain face and stringy hair and with a certain attitude that people found to be standoffish. Although she’d excelled at sports and had a fine mind she’d not been able to make, or keep, any friends since she’d become a teenager.
     She’d been made Captain, from sheer talent and determination, of just about every team that she’d joined in high school and that became the pattern in college too.
      She, to no one’s surprise, majored in Ph. Ed. and also in English Language and when she’d graduated she spent two years getting a teacher’s license but she never practiced because in the mean time, although she’d thought of herself as being a liberal free thinker – she’d joined just about every protest march that had presented itself – she’d gradually become more and more interested in her lapsed religion – Roman Catholicism – and eventually she was easily persuaded to become a nun in his Order by a charismatic priest. The fact that she was still a virgin was irrelevant but it certainly must have made it easier for her to accept her new role as a Bride of Christ and her abilities saw to it that she got to be promoted to Mother Superior in record time.
    However – see her first boosted prayer, above – she evidently retained some of her left wing tendencies and what little she had forced her to be appalled, like so many other people, at the very thought of having a McCain/Palin team in the White House.
     After our triumph we, that is the Nuns with me as the Booster, decided to leave Obama alone for a while and after taking care of petty problems in the parish, we turned to the big picture again.
      The Mother Superior had always slipped a prayer into her curriculum regarding the introduction of Christianity into Godless China but she did it only perfunctorily – perhaps she was held back by remembering that Square where the student defied a huge tank which demonstrated that anything could happen in that country – as was evidenced by the fact that none of her Sisters-in-Christ followed suit, but then it became obvious to me that something had triggered her awareness, and dislike, of the Islamic faith because the China prayer was dropped in favor of pleas to do something positive about the long-lasting stalemate in the Middle East.
     One day after she first sent up that prayer every last one of my – uh – clients added a similar plea into their own lists and, after a week of that, they all began to use up more than one of their – uh – slots to add emphasis to that goal.
         Around three weeks after being barraged like that the incident in Tunisia happened and then the Egyptian people followed up and then the Libyans and – well, everyone knows what happened next.
         Another triumph for our side!
         We were all pleased no-end by our success but then something unfortunate happened.
One of the Sisters had been given a copy of the best seller, ‘Unbroken,’ and it had affected her so strongly that she’d had the temerity to actually query The One On High as to whether or not the Japanese people needed a reminder at once, and then regular ones “from now on,” of their culpability and their sinful behavior in the Second World War. When all of the other supplicants, in turn, started to do the same thing I presumed that the book was being passed around and was so moving that they all became of a like mind.
         The Mother Superior – I know that it must be annoying for you when I don’t call her by her real name but that’s how I think of her and I can’t get my mind to refer to her in any other way – didn’t join the others in that particular prayer but, nonetheless, that huge earthquake off Japan’s coast took place not long after the fourth Sister added that particular one to her list and the accompanying Tsunami caused – well, we all know what happened then, too.
        I guess that you’re all ahead of me on this one but yes, when the tenth anniversary of 9-11-01 got near the Mother Superior evidently ‘suggested’ to them all that they should combine their efforts to get Bin Laden arrested and – bingo!
      Although they all thought that killing him outright was a bit too heavy handed the extent of the entire nation’s rejoicing at the news quickly filtered through to them and that served to modify their sense of guilt a little.
       Since then they’ve concentrated – not to say ‘ganged up’ but that’s how it sometimes seems to me – on trying to get Obama’s Health Care bill put into effect because they’re all very aware of its need through their charitable work where they see, every day, how disgraceful it is for the richest nation in the world to make its poor, not even excluding the children of the poor, rely on charity for basic cures that should have been avoided in the first place.
      That – plus, of course, world peace and an end to Godless Communism in general and an established Jewish State as a first step to turning it into the Christian Holy State and then handing it over to the Pope – is their only combined project nowadays but they are uncomfortable with having to put restrictions on their new found power to make changes.
     Well now, what are they to do in your opinion? Do you think that they could ask the Vatican for some advice? No way because who would dare to be the one to explain the details to the Pope?
       So, it’s been months since serious prayers have been formulated and speeded on up by me and I’m beginning to worry that maybe they are debating among themselves as to whether they should discontinue our efforts. The Mother Superior assures me that they’re going to keep on with the program but I can’t help but feel that I’m just being used now.
      Well, it’s obvious that I’m being used, of course, but am I being used?
      In the meantime we continue as usual.
      We have to, don’t we?
      Don’t they?
      Don’t I?
      “Yes” “Yes” and “Yes.”
      None of us, it seems, wants to risk losing our skills by letting them get rusty.
      We’re waiting and we’re hoping for a suitable goal to come along and, in the meantime, we are all sleeping very well indeed, thank you.