The Knights of Columbus

About this time, the members of St. Anthony’s Knights of Columbus council decided to intervene. Their pastor was rattled by a series of accusations and now his hands were sticky with too much evidence and not enough excuses. The bishop was coming to determine whether the parish was economically “viable” for being included in the pastoral plan that would fold a number of local parishes into one entity, all being forced to attend Mass at the gigantically phallic St. Rita Church across town. The cardinal’s men had been around for the entire week, harrying the BINGO-players, razzing the altar boys, insinuating themselves into the PCCW Tuesday Luncheon (Jello mayonaisse salad with melba toast), trying to prize information from anyone and everyone who would talk. Worst of all, the kegerator in the Knight’s Hall was on the fritz again – and this time it looked as if it was going to escape its mortal refrigeration coil once and for all.  Realizing with that uncanny sort of  knowledge (the kind you just can’t get in a can) that things were coming to a head and the approaching storm would no doubt break over their own uncapped heads  just as the weekend’s “Blowfest” – St. Anthony’s fundraising bizarre – would be hitting its full stride, to a man the Knights of Columbus Monsignor Alan De Beers Council #101 decided to act quickly, decisively and with unanimiity. Whipped into a froth of resigned excitement, as only one can after finally and fully engaging in a matter of grave concern, they let Father know that he could count on them.  Appearing after Mass on the steps of St. Anthony’s where Father was greeting the enemic crowd of worshippers, for their part, they said, although not wont to undertake unilateral initiatives as a regular council policy, mind you, in this one case, in this one instance, desperate and dire as circumstances were,  they would, with his permission, agree to keep the beer tent open until 9 p.m, instead of, as in years past, the customary 7:35 p.m.

But first…

…he was careful to take the matter to prayer. “Help me, Blessed Mother, to be a wise shepherd to my wayward flock…”

As news of the scandal spread to the highest corridors of power…

The Pope vowed to pry the lid off of this whole secretive mess.

The Parish drunk…

Suddenly, St. Athony Abate Parish member Aristotle Carpazzio didn’t feel quite so ostracized by the greater parish community. Although he hadn’t touched a drop in months, it seemed only now that the rest of the parish – and especially the Ladies Sodality – were beginning to take a shine to him. Whether this was due to some sort of domestic “Road to Damascus” experience on their part, whereby the scales of castigation and prejudice fell from their eyes, or because Aristotle felt – almost literally – like a fish out of water, he couldn’t say. What he did know is that, despite the rudderless drift of the pastorage – so tragically and recently hooked in the gills by the barbs of fallen sin – the whisky tasted as good as ever. With a pert grin on his face, he also knew something else: as long as Father Angelica was persona non gratis around the parish, he could go back to this Jacob’s Well of good fortune, as it were, as often as he liked….

Penitent, Fr. Angelica returns to his training…

Memento mori, Father. Memento mori.

If Ladies Sodality gets their way…

…Fr. Angelica will be sent before the Cardinal. He’ll know how to handle the Father’s wayward spirits…

Ladies Sodality Responds…

Filled with disgust and emptied of anything remotely resembling compassion, the Ladies Sodality took the news as a personal reproach of all they stood for and believed.  Greeting Father Angelica at the rectory door, the grim demeanor of each parish blue-hair was underscored by their collective attitude of silent recrimination.

Like this, Potter?

SCANDAL! Fr. Angelico caught in flagrante delicious with church secretary Mrs. Butterworth. Congregation sighs, “At least it wasn’t that sweet little altar boy Honeybear.”