
"Hold it! Hoooold it!"
you yell after Father O'Cutleybits. The man halts abruptly and turns
around, teeth flashing.
"Was there something else, my son?"
"I'LL be asking the questions here, 'padre'." you say smugly.
"First you said it was gumbo you were preparing... then you said it was
stew. Which is it, huh? And don't lie... cause I'll know." That
last bit's a lie, but you don't think he'll know.
Father O'Cutleybits continues to smile, but his eyes narrow slightly.
"My son... what does it matter?"
"Close only counts in horseshoes and urinals, pappi." Your reply earns
you some puzzled looks from your friends. "Just take a look at this:"
gum·bo n. pl. gum·bos
1) Chiefly Southern U.S. See okra. See Regional Note at
goober.
2) A soup or stew thickened with okra pods. Also called okra.
3) Chiefly Mississippi Valley & Western U.S. A fine silty
soil, common in the southern and western United States, that forms an
unusually sticky mud when wet.
4) Gumbo A French patois spoken by some Black people and Creoles in
Louisiana and the French West Indies.
"And this:"
stew n. 1) a) A dish cooked by stewing, especially a mixture of meat or fish and
vegetables with stock.
b) A mixture likened to this dish.
2) Informal. Mental agitation: in a stew over the lost
keys.
3) Archaic. A brothel. Often used in the plural.
"I think I've made my
point." you finish. Father O'Cutleybits looks unvexed, save for a slight
blush, but that might be due to your mention of the word 'brothel.'

"See here, you
little... I mean, my son. These definitions obviously allow for
cross-referencing. Would it please you if I said that whatever I'm
cooking, it's going to have okra in it and it's going to simmer slowly
in its own juices? Would that make you leave me alone? Right now, I'm
not looking to kill anymore childr- TIME, not looking to kill anymore
TIME right now."
You frown thoughtfully, trying to poke a hole in his story cause you're
still a little upset about that comment he made about your little
accident. Meanwhile, you fail to notice how your friends are cautiously
backing away from the chaplain.
"Well excuuuuse me, Major Vocabulary." you finally say, a little
hurt. "I just thought a Catholic chaplain would not use such sloppy
semantics."

"I... don't believe...
that's your concern... my son." Father O'Cutleybits responds,
turning red in the face and trembling so violently he may be on the
verge of having an epileptic seizure.
You scoff audibly. "Yeah. Well. Pfft. You just go on and get out of
here. You're off the hook for now."
Giving you a nod, which seems to require considerable effort, the priest
turns around and begins shuffling off into the woods again.
"Oh, just one more thing, Father!" you call after him. He stops in his
tracks, but does not turn around.
"Ye-hesss... boy?" he wheezes.
"Next time you mention your rabbit dish, you might want to refer to it
as 'stew with okra' instead, to avoid confu-"

Before you get to
finish your sentence, Father O'Cutleybits spins around and charges at
you, machete raised high. Screaming out some fierce obscenities and the
words "GUMBO! STEW! DEATH!!!" over and over again, he makes swift
work of skinning and gutting you alive. Your 'friends' aren't any help,
as they've already run off to find shelter, or a functional make-out
spot. In the end, the majority of you ends up in the good Father's bag,
and because, by the time he's done gutting you, the sun's starting to
rise, he decides to head home and make you into a fine soufflé. Or a
meatloaf. Whatever.
HUNGRY FOR GUMBO? HUNGRY FOR STEW?
HOW ABOUT A NICE HOT BOWL OF "START OVER!"
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