Sainted

It’s been years since I was in a church, I told the old rector.
He handed me an envelope. “We have the skin from the cheek of St. Anthony,” he said.
Inside was an offering card, a photo of some guy in robes, and other slips of paper.
“Which St. Anthony?” I asked. “And which cheek? Left or right? And was it his buttcheek or from his face?”
“The information’s in the envelope,” he said. “The Vatican investigated and confirmed it.”
Unlike all the cases of child abuse, I thought.
I left the bomb under a pew, smiled, and left.

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