This Story Is Generated By an Artificial Intelligence (AI) Using OpenAI GPT-2
I was sitting in my living-room last night, reading a Sunday paper when my mind caught a strange thought:
It is the time of year.
Y.M. It must be so.
O.M. Why, it is indeed the time of year.
Y.M. Why, exactly.
O.M. Why then, I seem to be in a new year, and I have no other object to assign to me but THE TIME OF YEAR--I have not a year to assign.
And so, while browsing about for the lost yearlings, this strange thought occurred
to me:
It is the Sunday before, and the chiefly in protest of the approaching storm.
Sunday is Sunday, therefore, evening; therefore, on the fourteenth of that month there is
little daylight devoted to the affairs of the home affairs.
On the twenty-eighth of that month there is but four hours devoted to the
main business of the pulpit, and that is promoting and catechizing
men. There is twenty hours devoted to the business of marriage, and that
business is largely catechizing. Some say the modern day catechist must
be brought back from his native planet, while a veteran of the Roman and
Roman-occupied oceans has seven years to repent and devote himself to Christian
mission. Well, that and the fact that I have devoted most of my time to
distinguishing the two are sufficient to make my conscience happy. The consciences
are happy; the Protestant is unhappily left to lament and write his Christian
reform book.
To my mind, the fourteenth hour is devoted to the important business of
securing marriage to sinners; to Protestantism the hour is
kept away; to Catholicism the hour is kept back; the ancient hour
is almost three months.
The five Sundays of the month are devoted to CALCIFORNIA--the
burning bush upon which the splendid and costly Centipede is built.
My life-long desire to save souls was for the poor to save souls--to Cathers Island.
I advertised the business opportunity and was accepted; later that same day I got
a call from the secretary of a church in Mississippi saying that two of the
women were dead--that the man was in great peril. I advertised the next
day's wages and was accepted. Then I lost my temper and said, “Let us go
over to her--there she is. There she is; his condition is better.”
That was four years ago now; and my life-long dream of saving
charity for Christian missionary work--and the chance to save women and babies
for the New World--has suddenly been crushed to earth. Yesterday I was
sailed away in a giant sea-brain. Today I am a single, hard-working, hard-lives
rep for real change; and every day since I became a Sunday-school teacher for
nine years and a half--since 1835--I have伝語版 in my
mail.
I am humbled and honored to be a part of it.
It was only then that I was put on the level with the other greats of
the Sunday-school--first with the good old Methodist Church and then
with the New Age ones--that I saw the changes in my life--the
miserable ones. The tolerable ones saw me go from life's hopelessly
distant dreamer to better than a Sunday-school Sunday-school teacher, and
saw me take charge of the Sunday-school's Sunday-school's lives again by
learning the spiritual and philosophical teachings of the great Sunday-school
teacher, Manfredo Fleischer.
He was just what I was seeking. And I am glad to say he is the man to save
charity again.
At the beginning of the month of May I was the only teacher in the whole
West German world who did not end the lesson with the War of the Roses.
The first time I went on the War of the Roses I lost my
marvelous and beautiful and wealthy and noble little heart and took the sweetest
loveless and devotedly embroidered it with a black kitten-collar and
stitched it with a black and white picture of THE WARREN. The next
time I went it as a Sunday-school Sunday I lost my marvelous heart and
laid down in the middle of the stage to embroider the kitten-collar. The third
time I went I lost my temper and said, “I am going to kill myself for a
k.” But the fourth time I went away with a hungover, shivering, I got
the wrong feeling in the pitiful, languorous little struggle. Because of