Father Mechanic

for any of you going through lecram withdrawal i offer this little ditty, which you won't like nearly as much, but i don't care. so long as someone gets offended.

FATHER MECHANIC

(Scene: A mechanic's garage, front office. The waiting room. Bob is at the counter. Man enters, kneels and genuflects beneath the Tire Iron Cross on the wall. Approaches counter. Bob doesn't notice. Man waits a bit, finally rings the bell on the counter. Bob looks up, gives beatific smile. )

Bob: And another greasemonkey gets his flanges. Yes, my son?
Man: Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It's been 3,116 miles since my last confession.
Bob: You are overdue, but it's a venal sin. Tell me all.
Man: I mixed 20/50 oil with the 10/40 you prescribed.
Bob: Hmmm. What else, my son?
Man: My battery is trying to give up the Holy Ghost.
Bob: Ah. Are you having trouble in the morning infusing it with the Holy Spirit?
Man: Yes, Father Bob.
Bob: It could be a cable straying from the flock.
Man: There's more.
Bob: Go on, child.
Man: It shames me.
Bob: There is no shame when you repent before the True Light of the Tire Iron. Go on.
Man: Last month I tried to adjust the brakes myself.
Bob: Sweet Mother of All That Is Oily. That is serious. Why?
Man: The shoes were beginning to speak in tongues. I was scared. I heard weird sounds and voices in a harsh metallic language and tortuous screeches like demented, lost souls each time I attempted to control my automotive Ass. I panicked and tried to exorcise them with my Lay Wrench.
Bob: But you were not successful?
Man: No. Now my Ass balks and shudders when I wish it to simply stop.
Bob: It is good you have come to confess. I only wish it were sooner. I can save your Beast of Burden, your locomotive Ass. I comprehend the various tongues of the Devil and I can talk to your Ass. But I must know if you have told me all. Is your Ass flatulent and does its exhaust reek?
Man: Yes.
Bob: When put to bed at night does it complain and refuse to settle down in a timely fashion?
Man: Yes, Father Bob.
Bob: And, when unsupervised, does it excrete a dark, viscous discharge onto the floor from behind its manly pipe?
Man: Yes!
Bob: And you say it's been 3,116 miles since I last looked at your Ass?
Man: Yes.
Bob: By any chance, was part of your Ass manufactured by Germans?
Man: No, it's a fine American Ass. Corn fed.
Bob: Ethanol, eh? If I didn't believe in the Divine Schismatics I'd say your Ass was infested with demons. Wormwood. But I believe in the Healing Power of the Diagnostic. Your Ass will reveal all when I attach my clamps to its fuel-injected nipples and stick my probe up its glasspacked tail orifice.
Man: Thank you, Bob! Thank you! What is my penance?
Bob: (toting up on a calculator) Oil change, valve and brake adjustment, timing, tire rotation, smog check, oil filter, fuel filter, ring replacement, crankcase seal, biorythmic enhancement, possible Deomnic possesion and four mea culpas...$414.17. Oh and pray for a Hail Mary in tomorrow's Notre Dame game, would you? I have a twenty riding on it. Now, go and sin no more for the next 3000 miles.

(Man exits and at the same time a woman enters. Woman genuflects and approaches Bob)

Woman: Forgive me, Bob, for I have sinned. Can you remove semen stains from leather upholstery and unwrap a bra from my rear axle before my father returns tonight from his vacation?
Bob: I'm not omnipotent, child. Go next door to John Paul and Traci of Lourdes Miracle Car Wash.