Soon after returning from his pilgrimage to the Ganges River, where the holy man, in the company of sacred cows, spent a week ridding himself of the filthy excreta of this present world, Saint Holiday was surprised to receive several emotional telephone calls from his distant wife, who pleaded with him to take her back. She has grown weary of the young Asher Guillory. He lacks maturity, she said. And though the Marquis de Sad may not be able to surpass his rival in maturity, he does have the advantage of height and reach. Because the pious one dispenses mercy and forgiveness the way the US Treasury prints tens and twenties, he has agreed to receive his prodigal wife with open arms.
There he was, sitting cross-legged on his living room floor, singing, "Felines; nothing more than felines! trying to forget you, and these felines of love!" when the first call came. He listened as the Lovely One whimpered on the phone, allowing himself to be drawn from his great, overarching ideas into a few moments of pity for his anguished bride. "I'm sorry," she said. "I know I've hurt you deeply. You didn't deserve what I've done to you. I was carried away by infatuation. O, how can you ever forgive me? I was so wrong! Did you get your paycheck yet?"
"Come home," he replied. "Let's take it one stipulation at a time."
Since the collapse of the subprime market, Saint Holiday's struggle to find liquidity led him to the Ganges. There, among a poor and simple people, the holy man was inspired from on high. He now plans to establish the Equatorial Center for Middle Intermediacy, where he shall assume a state of equipoise in this unbalanced world, and where he shall offer courses for mental and emotional steadiness and physical equilibrium to the masses of staggering humanity. Voila le philosophe! Here is a man to be wrecked with. In the alternative, he has been training to become a hand model.