Last Rites

A man was struck down by a bus on a very busy street.

As he was lying near death after being pulled up onto the sidewalk, a crowd of spectators began to gather around him.

“My God, a priest. Somebody get a priest!” the critically injured man gasped.

A policeman checked the crowd, and yelled out, “Is anyone here a priest?”

Out of the large crowd stepped a little old man of at least 80-years-of-age.

“Mr. Policeman,” said the old man, “I’m not a priest or even a preacher, I’m not even a Christian. But for 50-years now, I’m living behind the Catholic Church on First Avenue, and every night I’m overhearing their services. I can recall a lot of it, in fact, most of it. So, maybe I can be of some comfort and assistance to this poor injured man here?”

The policeman agreed and cleared the crowd away so the old man could get through to where the injured man was lying.

The old fellow knelt down beside him, leaned over him, and said in a solemn voice… “B-4, I-19, N-38, G-54, 0-72”