Here in December's subtropical temperament I am in a heavy shirt. {Heave-** my skirt pagan!} My prayers involving tremendous wealth, vigor, vengeance have gone ignored. I'll have to petition the Holy Father through underworld emissaries once again. Will my pleas be gratified? My shortcomings rectified? The threads that bind me to His Will, His Law, are frayed. I'll continue to sing His praises as a soldier. I'll honor what our planet's orbit demands. A parachutist doesn't jump from a plane because he has a fear of flying. He jumps to gorify, {maybe horrify} his openings, or to glorify the Holy Father. To a Mexican: “Tom, **** or Harry,” sounds like: “Tom's **** is hairy.” But who cares about how things sound to a Mexican? Because, after all...