“What kind of business are you in?” he asks. She looks him square in the eye. “I’m a call girl.” “I’m afraid I don’t—” “A prostitute.” “Ah.” “What do you do?” He smiles. “I’m a priest.” “You’re not dressed like a priest.” “You’re not dressed like a prostitute,” he says. “Actually, I’m even worse than a priest, I’m a bishop. An archbishop.” “Is that better than a bishop?”
