I was just telling this story the other day: Many years ago when I attend the Insult Mass, I was an altar server/MC (I say "server" instead of "boy" because I was in my thirties at the time). The local "bishop," in all his benevolent splendor, relegated us to the mausoleum. Therefore, our "confessional" consisted of a kneeler in a back room with a curtain separating penitent and confessor. Now, I'm from the Midwest originally, and this was in California, so my voice stood out. One Sunday morning, after I had finished confessing and received absolution, the priest reached his hand around the curtain and asked, "By the way, can you serve Mass this morning, 'Charlemagne?' I'm short-handed." I stammered, "Yes, Father, uh, I can do that. Sure." Talk about an unsettling feeling.