The last post reminds me of the story Joe Heaney used to tell, about a Northern Irishman who fell for a Catholic woman and decided to get married. The priest said, "You'll have to convert to the Mother Church," and Pat (for that was his name, wouldn't you know?) said that for love, he'd do it.

After a couple of weeks of marriage and attending Mass, Pat goes to the priest and says, "Father, I don't yet feel like a Catholic. How can I feel more honest in my religion?" (For, to tell the truth, Pat was an honest man, and intended to stick to his new vows).

The priest said, "Just keep repeating this, especially when you feel like you may be backsliding: I'm a Catholic! I'm a Catholic."

Pat leaves the church repeating his new mantra (though mantras themselves are a heathen invention of the Devil himself, don't you know?) -- "I'm a Catholic! I'm a Catholic! I'm a Catholic!"

Friday comes around, and himself (the priest) goes for a walk. As he passes Pat's kitchen window, he smells a most un-Friday smell. It can't be fish that smells like frying beefsteak!

So the priest goes into Pat's house and marches to the kitchen, where he sees Pat, spooning the drippings over the frying slab of beef, saying, "You're a fish! You're a fish! You're a fish!"

Bob Clayton