Tis the Vigil of the Feast of the Nativity of a certain Dominican named Michael.
When he joined us 5 years and a million air miles ago, he was just a sprout of oh, 25. Or 30. Tops. With hair.
You know the type - or maybe you don't. But I do. I've spent the last 14 years trying to hold my own with charming, wickedly brilliant OP's named Michael. You have no idea.
See that wicked, jesuitical gleam in his eye? Desperate times required desperate measures.
My only equalizers were height and treachery. (Must all Dominicans be so short?) I promised him Hawaii. I gave him North Dakota in February. Over and over again. With the occasional day off in Bunkie. Lousiana.
Five years later, I have succeeded in reducing him to a frazzled shadow of his former macho weight-lifting self. My sources tell me that Fr. Mike could hardly blow out the six dozen birthday candles on his cake tonight.
I fear that I have gone too far 'cause my plan was for Fr. MIke to slog through the November rain and snow and bring home the old Institute bacon while I lounge by the fire, sipping Irish creme lattes and thinking great thoughts.
But if our ID readers join in with a rousing chorus, I'm sure that he'll be rejuvenated.