Man!

Listen to your office message and think what is wrong with it.

No, you don't know what I'm talking about. Listen again. What's wrong with it?

Repeating the question I only reassure you that there's something wrong with me.

M - F, 8 - 4

Dude! Is it a job? Office hours? O.K. let's not hang onto semantics. Shouldn't it be exactly opposite? I mean your hours. The time you officiate in that nondescript room between smelly chapel and Intensive Care Unit, anytime I'm there you're glued to the computer screen. Man, M-F, 8-4 this should be your sleeping schedule and you should be at least available for the rest of time to those you proclaim to be of service to.

MON              TUE                WED

TH              ...it's finnaly Friday

Don't you know when the most patients die? Wee hours, weekends, when fat nurses yawn and talk trash in their stations, when doctors sleep. Why don't you be thankful and keep on thanking for a privilege to serve the suffering and those in the anteroom of the death?

You made a job out of it,

M-F, 8-4.

Jerry Bass, I know who is not your boss. Who is your boss I haven't found out yet. Whoever he is he should fire you. Well, if he's the LSU man he should keep you by all means. Now, you are a boss of that poor sap, father Miguel - you should fire him. Fire that senille Catholic priest, you are both useless, he does not speak English ( this actually has its upside when it comes to confesions), you don't speak Human, but I believe even that farce called Pastoral Services has some face value to maintain and wooden tongue is your forte. Miguel stood over dead body of our daughter and wouldn't even bother to look at her face. He's M-F, 8-4 man too. About my grandson who died on Sunday morning he hadn't even heard. He showed us bare name of our daughter in his notebook and smiled like he proved some acomplishment.

Citizen Bass! You've got to be patriotic

PS. You may wonder Jerry Bass why did I pick you from the whole crowd implicated in the death of my daughter?  I did not. It is not personal. You are just one of them. None of them though invokes the Name as you do.

You say - "I was only selling hot dogs to the cheering crowd in the amphitheater when they martyred St.Peter. What about Nero, tormentors, traitors?"

Jerry Bass you were supposed to be a preacher not a vendor in the University Hospital. 

Ask Bass if he is "saved" and he will say yes and ad the formula  you've heard ad nauseam.  All I can tell you is - He's safe in the University Hospital. He's been there for almost two decades, he's been a good boy there. He's got emotionally challenging job. He visits even AIDS patients. He loves everybody.

Don't ask Bass where he'd been in the days after the hurricane, when the only place to be for a man of the cloth was in the front of the Convention Center or inside the Superdome. He fled. They all did. There was nobody to minister to the sick at Memorial Hospital, to be at their bedsides when the doctor usurped herself the right to terminate lives of the patients, robbing them from their own deaths and last, perhaps most crucial for their souls days and hours. But look at the pictures from those tragic days and look at Bass' portrait. For years he cultivated an apparition to please redneck customers, he relentlessly pursued his approximation of how a white Baptist preacher should look like and he's got it. Ad to that phoniness and stereotypes of his oral delivery and you'll agree that it might have not gone well for him in the crowd of the thirsty and abandoned. He came back after the National Guard conquered the city of New Orleans.

Ask Jerry about pictures bellow, then again, Jerry's been pretending for a living. Even his nose must have been pretending. His Temple, chapel on the second floor of University Hospital, it stinks. It really does. Of urine  precisely. The chairs are soiled as pictured. This off course proves how great there is  a care for geriatric, incontinent patients who are "bread and butter" of the hospital. Jerry is a humble servant of LSU management, he wouldn't complain, neither would he clean the chairs himself instead surfing the web, so he lets that disgrace fly. The least he could do is to eat his lunch in the chapel, always, religiously.