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: [Explaining why he's not a priest
] Picture it, Sicily, 1914. I promise our dear sainted mother on her death bed I'm gonna join the priesthood. On my way to the seminary in Palermo I stop off at a local trattoria for a glass of Chianti. The waitress bring drink to the table, is a vision, luscious lips, full bosom, and a behind so round, so firm, you've got to fall down on your knees and cry out at its magnificent regal beauty.
] Uncle Angelo
: I'm a butt man.
] Uncle Angelo
: Anyway, my devotion to G-d doesn't waiver, but suddenly the idea of living with a bunch of guys in itchy robes doesn't seem quite as appealing as that tokhes. So, I tear up my priest application, ask Filomena to marry me, and we live the next 72 years in wedded bliss.
: [in an Italian accent
] I met a beautiful, young Sicilian aerobics instructor. Gorgeous eyes-a, angelic-a mouth-eh, and a behind that must-a been made on a Saturday, because even da good Lord him-a-self wanna take a day off-a to admire it. I lost-a my heart. And I opened my wallet, eh? Oh, da expensive-a gifts, the fancy dinners, en-a weeekends in Mikonos, eh. I even wore onnea those, eh, tiny speedo swimsuits, shows all-a you gingerbread an' everyting, ya'know. And she leaves-a me. What does a six-foot-seven-inch, American-a basketball player got that I don't? Blanche Devereaux
: Well, Angelo, speaking in terms of the gingerbread alone...