Radical San Marino Programming Activates

...speaking of Barack Obama...

“Evan?” I knocked again on the bathroom door. He'd been in there awhile.

“Are you all right? Can I bring you some Pepto Bismol or something?”

“No,” he called through the door. He sounded weak. “No, that’s okay. I’m just going to..arrg..uhll…pray.”

“I’m sorry, you’re going to what?”

“If it’s God’s will, this, too, shall pass.”

“Hmm. I wonder if some Pepto might not be part of God’s plan for your bowels?”

“No! I am no longer taking medicine of any kind. The ills of the flesh…I just have to…ahhh, ohh…pray harder.”

“But you’ve never---” Then suddenly I remembered: Evan spent five years at a Christian Science elementary school. And he was a choir boy. The indoctrination had finally taken hold of his mind.
I’d married a fundamentalist sleeper agent.

“All those morning chapel sessions,” I said hopelessly.

“Errrg,” said Evan.