“I held my breath, my breasts trembling, nay, swelling over the neckline of my churchiest bustier. It had been quite a day already, what with running out of Cocoa Puffs and the minister collapsing all over poor Mrs. Trumble's plastic hip. But when the man with the sexiest peg leg I had ever seen clomped his way to the front of Our Lady of the Perpetual Flogging's congregation, I knew this Sunday would be special. Even more special than the day the choir rapped about birth control.
The riveting man, with his riveting wood, leaned on the podium and swilled Father Peter's rum, which he had left there before vomiting blood. They'd never get that stain out of Jesus's loin cloth.
Then, the stranger's shoulder-parrot spoke. ‘Yar, the message in today's sermon be givin' t' th' poor. Dubloons not be growin' on trees, mateys. Before ye find yerselves in Davy Jones’s locker, damned for all eternity fer ye selfish ways, ye be needin' to make a small donation, ye scurvy dogmas. Polly want a cracker, brawk!’
Well, I certainly didn't know what crackers had to do with it, and my name isn't Polly, but I felt stirred down to my churchiest g-string. The stranger’s companions, many with colorful jungle pets of their own, milled through the pews, gently turning worshippers upside-down and shaking them.
The man himself hobbled to me, his remaining eye fixed on my overflowing booty. He snapped his fingers and the parrot squawked, ‘Ye make me Jolly Roger fly, brawk!’
I hadn’t heard such romantic squawking since Sister Mary Pat drank too much holy fire water. He crushed me against his frock coat and kissed me until his bird looked uncomfortable.
And that, officer, is all I know. Tell me, how did you lose your leg?”