Breafast On Pluto Page #2

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any ordinary old curate's drudge.

"And most definitely not...

"a perfume-sprayed vision...

"named Mitzi Gaynor...

"with a head of bubble-cut curls...

"that would make any man's privates

go sprong. "

I've got the standard uniform, Father.

The blue housecoat

with the bow at the back...

the tan stockings, color of stale tea...

the old hairnet,

which says to all them Mickies...

whose duty it is to stay inside

and wear black serge...

"No Mickies today.

"Down, boys. That's it, my sweets,

off with you and say your prayers."

Breakfast, Father?

By God, and now you're talking.

Mickey is devious...

and no matter how much you tell him...

he simply won't stay down.

But drab old housecoats...

and tea-colored stockings

might well have kept him down...

if it wasn't for that pesky spot of grease.

Oh, this is powerful altogether.

I would do jail for another rasher.

Do you know that, Eily?

I'll fry you some more

this minute, then, Father.

Come here till I tell you. Did you hear

the one about peanuts at confession?

No, Father. At least I don't think so.

Says the priest to the young fellow, "Did

you throw peanuts in the river, too?"

To which the young lad says,

"No, Father, I am Peanuts."

Not a very funny joke...

but she laughed and she laughed.

In fact, you could say

she laughed until she cried.

My skirt and housecoat are riding up.

Better abort this task at once...

or we could have an exploding clergyman

filling the air with pent-up sexual energy.

Oh, no!

-Priest grows wings in latest miracle.

-Eily!

"When she found herself enveloped

by his skirts. "

Now, Father, is this another joke?

That hurt, Father.

Frank Sinatra wouldn't do this, Father.

Neither would Vic Damone.

I'm all wet, Father.

What are you doing down there, Father?

Are you playing squidgy

with my Fairy Liquid?

But she was soon to realize...

it wasn't Fairy Liquid

he'd been playing with down there.

The end.

No...

it wasn't Fairy Liquid at all.

"...privates go sprong."

"Privates go...."

How dare you?

When I said, "develop your literary skills"...

I did not, repeat, not, mean this.

Why did you write it?

I thought there was a moral, sir.

A lesson, if you will.

Young girls in mortal danger.

Get out of this classroom, Braden!

To the Dean's office!

Hello, class. My name is Miss Kitten...

and I'd like to tell you about the perils

of being a priest's housekeeper...

especially when you look like Mitzi Gaynor.

Hands up who can tell me

who Mitzi Gaynor is.

So, you see, Patrick, we're on your side.

We're here to help you.

I don't think you understand that.

Well, no, you're wrong, Father. I do.

So, if you can think of anything

that would help us to help you, well....

Well...

there is one thing, Father.

-Instead of PE...

-Yeah.

...I could take Home Economics

and Needlework class.

And you think that would help you...

knuckle down and apply yourself?

What's that, Patrick?

Oh, and you can call me Kitten, Father.

Kitten?

Yes, Patrick Kitten Braden,

after Saint Kitten.

Well, now,

there was no Saint Kitten, Patrick.

Oh, no,

but there was a Saint Cettin, Father...

and some have been known to call him...

or was it a her...

Kitten.

Saint Kitten?

He or she was an acolyte of Saint Patrick.

Wore a dress. As did Saint Patrick, actually.

A hairy dress.

Quite ruined her complexion.

And they're for your sister, Patrick?

Oh, she really needs a bit of glamour

in her life, Mrs. Coyle.

But then again, don't we all?

The trouble broke out as the Minister

of State for Northern Ireland, Mr. Channon...

was visiting Derry

to see businessmen there...

for the second time inside a month.

Jesus, Mammy, I'm exhausted.

At least you have a job...

which is more than that waster yonder

is ever likely to have.

Now, one more complaint from that school...

and it'll not be good for you,

by Christ, it'll not.

Oh, Mammy?

Do you have the price of the dance

and a cup of coffee?

Price of the dance and a cup of coffee?

Price of the dance and a cup of coffee?

Well, do you think I'm made of money?

Do you think I'm made of money?

Will you just hand over the cash?

Will you just fork out the money...

and stop blathering,

you f***ing whiskery old whore.

Here. And don't ask me again.

Well, thank you so much, Mammy.

Thank you so much.

-No. No, no, no, no, no.

-Why not?

I'm not obliged to give you any reasons,

but I'll give you two anyway.

Him and her.

Don't have to stand for this, do we, Paddy?

Oh, Paddy's her name.

Well, that's reason number three.

-Did you ever ride a man, Lukie?

-No, but I rode a man that did.

F*** you.

-Evening.

-How you doing?

Mikey, go get the lads.

I'm warning you, get out of here!

F*** them and their Rob Strong.

We'll go to the glen.

Excuse me. Can we have a lift?

Get on.

Moving out.

Druids, man. We're like the Border Knights.

Knew all about the space-time continuum.

-No, Lawrence! No. Excuse me, please.

-Open his eyes.

-What do you see, bro?

-Sausages.

No stars?

Stars and sausages.

Now you're talking.

Gotta get behind the surface.

Yes, surface.

I see four green fields, Brits in one of them.

-Not for f***ing long.

-Hey, no politics, man.

Border Knights don't allow them.

Jams the astral highway.

So why do you call yourselves

the Border Knights?

Because the only border that matters...

is the one between what's in front...

and what you've left behind.

When I ride my hog,

you think I'm riding the road?

No way, man.

I'm traveling from the past into the future

with a druid at my back.

-Druid man or druid woman?

-That doesn't matter.

What matters is the journey.

-You know where it goes, baby?

-Where?

We'll visit the stars and journey to Mars

Finding our breakfast

On Pluto

Pluto?

Pluto.

No, not Pluto the dog. Pluto the planet.

Named by Percival Lowell

and William H. Pickering...

after the invisible king of the underworld.

You think about that.

Oh, kiss me, Joseph.

Kiss me, Joseph Hanratty.

I'll beat your f***ing....

Now, boys and girls...

a retreat is time for prayer and reflection.

Some of you may have already noticed

that your bodies are...

going through some changes...

and I would like you to feel free

to approach us...

about any problem that concerns you.

So, I will leave this problem box...

here by the altar rails.

No problem should be precluded.

After all, that is why we are here.

Now, does everyone remember last week

we were talking about....

You'll not bring my retreat into disrepute,

do you hear me?

How dare it. How dare you, you pup, you....

Sir, you're hurting me.

-What did you write on the paper, Patrick?

-Nothing.

Nothing.

Just, did he know any place

that does a good sex change?

Disgraced!

Disgraced in front of the whole town,

so we are! Oh, Jesus!

How could you do it, Paddy?

Mammy has a bad heart!

-And now you've broken it.

-Oh, God, oh, God!

Oh, Jesus Christ. My arm!

-She's not my mammy.

-What did you say?

I'm sorry, Caz.

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