Bob, there's many a person, some truly religious, some not so religious, who suddently wake up one morning and say, "I think I'll make myself a prophet!" (You can spell that a couple of ways.)

I recall a guy named Brother Ralph J. Sander of the Revival Center (used to meet in and broadcast from the old Moore Theater). He would tell the listening audience to "Put your hands on your radio and you'll get that glorious feeling!" He forgot to say that to "get that glorious feeling," it helps if you stand in a bucket of water.

He'd end his program with a plea for funds. "Keep sending in those cards and letters, folks. And your contributions! Don't forget your contibutions! Send them to Post Office Box 888, Seattle, Washington. That's Box 888, the same forewards, backwards, and upside down!"

Every six months he would run off to Tijuana with a female teen-ager from the congregation and the Revival Center's fairly substantial funds. They'd haul him back, he'd whine and grovel, saying that because he is such a devout person, the Devil pays extra-special attention to trying to break him. He'd beg forgiveness, they'd forgive him, and six months later, he'd grab a teen-ager, a valise full of money, and he was off to Tijuana again. That old Devil was certainly persistent.

Pat Robertson has a much bigger operation than Brother Ralph, and he's a bit more articulate, but they're right out of the same cookie-cutter.

They're both buffoons!

Don Firth