The rain hammered down like the armies of

The rain hammered down like the armies of Odin as the monk rose from his slumber and crawled to the door. "Mercy!" he cried to himself as the thunder rumbled across the Himalalayas

. The other monks stared. They'd had it. This new monk was a Southern Elderly Harlott who'd left her "golden" friends back in Florida to find inner peace. Her name was Blanch

ed Veggies. At least, that was all she would tell us before she disappeared into the "mountains" (Miami). That's where all of the modern "working monks" went. In South Beach,

you could save seven souls, get a fabulous tan, and pick up an STD or two all before lunch. The Consulate had stopped accepting South Beach as an appropriate mission area but monks

all over the globe gathered there anyway, shedding their robes and donningbrown woolen thongs. Uncomfortable, yes, but the monks were used to them. They maintained their silence

by having their vocal cords surgically removed and placed into mason jars filled with formaldehyde. To raise funds, the monks sold these "mystical relics" on eBay. In six mere

yoctoseconds, the vocal cords were sold out. "Good thing, too," one of the monks said. "I was worried we'd have to use them in a bake sale." With the funds, they decided to

buy a glitzy collection plate, one with magnets that attract all coins within some holy radius. As the vocal cordless pastor mimed Matthew 22, buttons were magnetized from shirts.

Miraculously, imprints of Jesus dressed in his tux preparing for the wedding slowly emerged on the back of the shirts. People nearby gasped & grasped for the shirts the pastor held

up in the glow of the sun through the stained-glass windows. The organ played "How Deep Is Your Love" and the people put on the shirts and danced out onto the street, laughing.