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Father Bicgock

Father Bicgock was making his rounds at the Chapel when he came upon Sister Margaret weeping.

"What is wrong, dear Sister?" Bicgock asked, sitting beside her.

"My hand," Margaret replied, "It is broken." Her left hand was in a sling and wrapped in a cast. "I had a nasty fall and broke it, but it doesn't hurt anymore."

"That looks quite damaged," Bicgock said, "But why must you weep if you are no longer in pain?"

“I may no longer partake in activities that bring me joy, as I may only use one hand,” the Sister said, “It makes me sad that I must remain idle until I am healed.”

“My dear Sister,” Bicgock replied, “There are ways to bring pleasure to one’s self that only requires one hand, you know.”

Sister Margaret’s eyes widened for a moment. “W-Whatever do you mean, Father?” she asked.

“Well,” Father Bicgock answered, “You may write with one hand. You may play the melody of a song on the piano. You may pet animals.” The list went on and on.

“Oh,” Sister Margaret said with a sigh of relief and a smile. “My goodness, I had thought you meant something else when you first started to speak.”

“What do you mean?” asked Father Bicgock.

Sister Margaret leaned in closer and whispered, a look of mild disgust on her face, “I thought you meant to suggest masturbation.”

Father Bicgock chuckled. “Oh no, dear Sister,” he said, “I need two hands for that.”



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