And, say, Miss Partido, though I know it's an affront to the Virgin Mary to be mixin' business with pleasure, pleasure is my business—the extension o' pleasure, indefinitely, eternally—and my immortal soul is warmed by the loveliness o' you, you're a sight for sore eyes, so to speak"—he trapped his shamrock patch with his empty snifter—"and I deserve to be chained by night in a church basement without company o' cassette player if I am not man enough to ask you for the teeniest, slightest brush of oral-muscular affection.”
