What the wives unknowingly succeeded in doing, however, was to plant the proverbial seed of doubt. That night, alone at his devotions, Jackass sought guidance. “O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mother, why is there disrespect here on earth? Why do you tolerate it? You would not believe the nastiness spoken by Hen and Sow and Ewe.”
“Dear Jackass, I hear them,” replied the Great Lady, haloed by her white doves. “I know their sad and wicked words. Why, I enjoy plenty of tumbles when I deign to materialize on earth. My virginity is of the celestial, ceremonial sort.”
Jackass blushed and closed his eyes more tightly. “I’m not sure that’s the issue,” he said in his most obsequious manner. “It’s the besmirch-ment that bothers me, the sully-ment of your raiment, the merest hem of which they are not worthy to touch.”
“They are a grubby lot,” the Virgin agreed, “but you realize, don’t you, that they provide a jolly spectacle when we are up here in the ether. Spirit can’t do anything but vibrate in sympathy with the music of the spheres. We depend upon flesh for entertainment and enlightenment.”
“Does my flesh satisfy you?” Jackass inquired with both hope and humility in his heart.
“Oh, dear, yes, in the best way!” The Virgin delightedly clapped her Holy Hands. The doves ruched their wings and wisps of white feather fell like snow. “Just the other day the boys and I were commenting on your holey bucket.”
Jackass shuddered with transcendent joy. He picked up his bucket and resumed his ordeal.