Parting Glances: While the cat's away

Hi, Parting Glances readers. It's Fr. Manly Everhope here! And it's I, everybody's favorite DKNY wash-and-wear wimple nun, Sr. Serena Scatterpin, Renegade Sisters of Mary.
Pox vobiscum. Et cum spiritus a a-go-go. Have a blessed day. Jesus saves. The GOP invests. You foot the bill. Amen!
We're – if you'll pardon the expression – jointly writing this week's Parting Glances column while Charles is off doing God knows what, with which, to whom in whatever vacation venue he finds himself that happens to tickle his fancy.
Indeedy! And right off the baseball bat I want to set the seventh inning record straight – well, as much as any playboy, base-stealing, slide-home, pat-butt priest can set anything straight (God knows I've tried) – I've never so much as given the slightest thought to tickling Charles' or any other grown guy's fancy.
He's much, much, much too old for me. If you're going to tickle anybody's fancy they should be young. The younger the better. Provided they have three pieces of ID. (Begged, borrowed, or stolen.) And, hopefully from someone of same-faith background. Or, ready to convert. (Mormon missionaries on bikes not included.)
And, Fr. Manly, as far as my participation with Charles on that or any other amatory score – while I certainly do find the old phartist – for his age – devilishly cute – in a bald-as-a-ivory-cue-ball sort of way – he's not my type. (Contrary to Protestant rumors, my RC status does have its limits.)
If I'm going to tickle anyone – in or out of the parish – I want to tickle – and/or tackle – a real post-Vatican ll man. Our intimacy has consisted of nothing more than allowing Charles to wear my wimple now and then on a Holy Day of Obligation or a Moveable Feast of his choice. (Other than Halloween. And never in Gary Glenn's presence.)
Sister, I don't mean to switch the subject – truth is, I'm not really an out (and-three-strikes-you're-really-out) switch hitter – again to borrow a bit of baseball lingo – but, let me ask you: What advice might you give to, say, the infamous Council Member A who e-mailed me the other day, quite by accident I'm sure?
Oh, yes. I got the selfsame e-mail, Father.
Subject: DEAR ANY FRIEND OF GOD'S A FRIEND OF MINE! How in hell do I get out of this Synagro mess I'm in? Fashion conscious RC nun that I am, I e-mailed back. DEAR SPEAK FOR YOURSELF! Make your first court appearance memorable. Wear a rhinestone tiara. Basic pearls. Smile a lot. Hum, but don't sing 'Onward Christian Soldiers.' (Leave showbiz to the piano-bar divas.)
Better still. Silence is golden. (24 karat. 40K. As in store up your treasures in Heaven, but get a pawn ticket down here on earth just in case. Bailout's a bitch.)
PS: If you can get one or two Baptist ministers to wear stars-in-their-crowns, courtroom tiaras, so much the better. Be sure to supply each and every juror with a Jesus-in-the-Garden church fan. A pair of crucifix earrings can work wonders, especially for those time-honored moments of solitary meditation you're sure to encounter sooner or later.
Sister, truth of the matter is that crime doesn't pay, unless you're an elected official or a televangelist like Pat Robertson into cornering the diamond market in Africa. Even honest politicians like our buddy Ferndale's Mayor Craig Covey aren't safe.
Well, Father. Craig left his sidedoor open. A cat burglar got in while he slept. Made off with lots. Fortunately, Craig's an immaculate (as in Mary) housekeeper. Only one fingerprint. The burglar's. The cops nabbed him.
Question, Scatterpin. Did the cat burglar rearrange the furniture?