Don't Launder Those Boxers!

How about that Virgin Mary? For a chaste woman, she sure gets around. And she leaves a lot of stains. You just never know where she’s going to make her next appearance. It’s a veritable "Where’s Waldo?" for bibliolatrists.

In the past year, she's shown up in grilled cheese sandwiches and on bed linens. She’s currently playing a gig on the wall of a Chicago underpass. I’ve been looking for her in my frozen pizzas; apparently Jack’s isn’t her brand. Great Value baked beans haven’t interested her, either. I haven’t washed my bed sheets in three weeks, and I’m starting to make out the shadow of a figure when the afternoon sunlight streams through the cobwebs in the corner of my bedroom window. It looks more like Oprah at this point, but who knows what another week will bring?

The indigent fellow who calls that Chicago underpass home is marveling at the thousands of doe-eyed pilgrims filing by, caressing the vomit stain he left on the wall after last Tuesday’s bender. And he’s no idiot. He’s determined to puke on something he can sell on Ebay.