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She knew the drill. She could pray with the best of them. But something wasn't right. So, clutching an outdated copy of People Magazine for strength, and being as diplomatic as only a mother can be, she smiled and replied, "Uh, no. Thank you very much. I'm sorry. Uh, but, he's resting." Then, without warning, my father woke up, from his Rip Van Winkle coma, for larry david the first time in weeks, and slurred, "Come on in. Come on in." And "Come on in" they larry david did. The Holy Roller, who my mother had described as the "Head Honcho Holy Roller," entered the room with five devoted teenage followers. "Ladies and gentlemen, The Hospital is proud to present, live, at your death, SIX TEENAGE CHRISTIANS." My mother was defeated. My father smiled in a way that he would have described as a "shit-eating grin." He looked as if he'd won some sort of "grand prize." The Six Teenage Christians circled the bed, joined hands, and began to pray over my father.
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