Let's face it I'm no damn priest! But I play one on the Internet, in bars, restaurants, gas stations, at plays, bars, Sunday Mass, parties, barber shops, and did I mention bars. The discounts are of tremendous savings, and the memories that are made - truly heavenly.

Everyone knows confessions are made with the belief that strict confidentiality will be maintained. Well I'm not one of those people. I believe that I can make others' lives less neurotic by sharing the experiences and tales collected over the years. I hope you find solace in this great information I shall bless you with.

My First Leper Sighting in Kansas City
He was a scabby looking brute. All disheveled and drinking the finest cheap beer known to mankind (PBR). It was apparent he needed a friend.

A Tail for the Ages
Brooding over a row of killed-off Long Island Iced Teas; she was waiting for the melting process to carry down what little booze remained in each glass.

The First "Jesus Touched Me Here and Here" Confession
It was shocking to learn that the Son of The Big Man was residing in Kansas City. It was even more informative to learn what his after hours hobbies consisted of.

My First Leper Sighting in Kansas City
He was a scabby looking brute. All disheveled and drinking the finest cheap beer known to mankind (PBR), it was apparent he needed a friend.

It was in the prime hours of a Saturday night. Not a seat was available, except for two bar stools on either side of my newfound friend. People would approach, sit, observe the man, and immediately leave. A travesty.

I hopped up on the stool to his right. The usual was placed in front of me, and within seconds it was time to freshen my shot glass.

Waving at the barkeep, I turned to him."Have a drink with me my son."

His perplexed look was that of astonishment. Could it be true someone wasn't horribly repulsed by his appearance? Or, was it that a Priest, in a bar of all places, just pounded a double Bushmills and a pint of Harp in ten seconds flat? Either way, after the initial shock wore off he accepted, nodding his damaged head slowly.

"Call me Ike." I said offering my hand in the accustomed manner.

Again the puzzled grimace flooded his splotched face. Over the years it has become apparent that the simple act of shaking hands is often taboo with lepers, amputees, and royalty. A damn fine group, don't get me wrong, just a bit stand-offish.

He finally shook my hand. It felt like a dehydrated cat suckling a tit. He withdrew his hand quickly, and observed it.

"What's your name son?" I inquired as the next round was placed in front of us.

"Jeff." He squeaked at me in a higher pitch than I ever would have imagined.

"Well Jeff, here's to your health!" First the double "B" slid down easy followed by the Harp. Obviously still in astonishment, I noticed he was ignoring his whiskey. "Are you going to finish that?" I inquired politely.

Five seconds to a simple question like that is usually enough, but I gave him the benefit of the doubt. A good fifteen seconds passed before I assisted him.

"Whiskey should never be left in the open air too long. It evaporates quickly." His response remained unchanged at my statement.

It was more and more obvious that this poor bastard's disease had stolen his mind along with his physical appearance. Two more rounds later he was still just sitting there watching me. There was little I could do to assist him further.

I offered him a cigarette, and received no response. So I moved on looking for a more worthy drinking partner.

A Tail for the Ages
Brooding over a row of killed off Long Island Iced Teas, she was waiting for the melting process to carry down what little booze remained in each glass. It's a damn shame finding a skilled drinker lacking. I immediately sat beside her and ordered a round for the two of us. She quickly warmed up to me.

There was no immediate shock at the collar, and that is always a dangerous sign.

"My name is Ike. What's yours kitten?" I asked smoothly.

"Kitten?" She asked, her bright eyes opened wide. "I'm. . . I. . . .Ah. . .Oh! I. . ."

"Well woman! Do you have a name?" I wasn't going to let her practice the alphabet all night.

"Call me Kitten! I like that." She smiled devilishly. "Can I call you padre?"

"No."

Not a bright girl, but the evening would go well. After all, I had guessed her name on the first try. It was obvious something was troubling her. I just hoped I could get it out of her in complete sentences. This one had a demon in her, and I was going to save this naughty girl.

The drinks arrived and much to her amazement, I liked the well-blended four liquors as much as she did. I ordered another round. In fact, I ordered two more. It was obvious that the barkeep was upset at how long it took him make the damn concoction, and how quickly they disappeared.

"You have something on your mind. Share with me. I'm here to help," I said softly.

"I'm not religious," she replied guiltily, honestly thinking I was a 'man of the cloth'.

"I'm here solely as a friend. Tonight I'm not a priest." That statement has gotten me out of so many court cases. "I want . . . to help."

Her eyes closed. The lids quivered. Tears welled up, and the river of pain flowed free. Her tranquil stature flew into uncontrollable sobbing. Quite embarrassing actually. I looked around to make sure no one of importance (or with better jugs) was watching me work my mojo with this emotional disaster.

It was all really quite disturbing, but nothing new. Her fiancé left her, and blamed the STD's on her. She was of course pregnant, and wanted to find a strong man to raise the bastard. Her mother recently died in a home invasion. And the best of the lot, she had recently been arrested at K-Mart for shoplifting tampons, which it turned out she didn't need, what with being knocked up and all. All for naught.

The second and third rounds arrived during this break down. She barely finished the first. I escorted her to the restroom, and made a break for the bar. The last two Long Island Iced Teas went down nice and easy. I considered her remaining half drink, swallowed it easily, and moved on to better Tails.

The First "Jesus Touched Me Here and Here" Confession
It was shocking to learn that the Son of The Big Man was residing in Kansas City. It was even more informative to learn what his after hours hobbies consisted of.

A young lad sat alone and was obviously suffering at the isolated end of the bar. He was far too wasted to even be bothered by the barkeep.

The drink master had done his job. I asked him to bring the usual to the end of the bar for me. I approached; it appeared as if the poor boy was chewing his cud. Hoping it wasn't a gag reflex holding back a torrent of previously consumed drinks, I sat an extra stool away. The usual arrived, and it drew an immediately interested glare from the lad.

"Here's to you." I said, and it was gone. "Join me for another round?"

"Please!" He exclaimed.

It was clear now that he wasn't drunk enough. He had some other poison coursing through his veins. Likely the venom of Satan. How wrong I was.

The next round arrived, and the scamp kept up with old Ike. He looked a little less devastated, so we did another round. By the eighth round, he actually was a charming individual. I had at last found a worthy drinking partner!

A champion of human conditioning he was, too. He had all twenty-seven traits of mankind, the three most important being a desire for procreation, inebriation, and shopping at Target.

DING! The thirteenth and final round sounded, "Last call". It was obvious he was ready to confide in me as to what happened to de-shell this fine character of his naturally strong moral fiber.

As the story unfolded, I learned the Son of God was in town again. I had heard of him appearing occasionally in Kansas City, but never would I have thought he and I would be so near without having a chance meeting.

Being a bastard in the wood trade and all, he unleashed his magical powers on this fine lad for homosexual favors, quite a dirty trick. The sad schmuck never had a chance. Sure it was just a little make out session, but the joy/fear/excitement/horror of having had the Big Man's Boy, even for a moment, has to be an extraordinary let down when it ends. To this day he claims it was the bad breath and the loss of a promised undisclosed drinking fund, but I can smell out the truth.

Here's to you Elvis Schall, you poor, misguided child. I tip this one back in honor of your chance meeting with the Sandal Man!