Now that we're all huddled together down here with the ice machines in the basement of the Publishing Society, it's time to kick some keister and restore the Church Center to its former glory. First, l'elephant blanc. What? The Library, Mary. What were you people thinking when you built that thing? Just a rhetorical question, since I know only too well what you were thinking. Anyway. To give it some much needed pizzazz, reopen the espresso bar and add an atmospheric (maybe stars and planets, Mary) saloon. Then how about a branch of Meow Mix and something like it for the gents--Tom Mix, let's call it? That should bring in some of the "elusive spondulicks". Squiffed "researchers" can then go upstairs and rummage through the drug-addled old lady's letters and personal papers. Finally, we'll let The Salvation Army and maybe a full-service pharmacy have some space, if there's room, in this mini-mall on the ground floor. They would lend some real class and give us a couple of "betterment of humanity" pegs to hang our chapeaus on.
Now, Mary, let's have some spicy centerfolds in the Journal--full color, but not too tasteless. You know what I mean, I'm sure. They could be called Cuddly Candy Strip(p)er of the month and Scientific Stud of the month. Next, Trammell, Harris, and Gill can work on revising Science and Health and the Church Manual. Cut out all the boring and wet-blanket crap. End up with one slim volume the size of an i-phone. That'll show folks we're with the times. Next, make sure our medical guru,Virginia, and one of the J-boys keep on top of the Bible lesson committee. We want a deck as cold as we can make it, and the suckers who use it will still think they're getting an honest "deal". Lectures will be packages of mass-produced baloney sprinkled with a few platitudes and some pixie dust. Lecturers will be little more than sales reps chosen for their willingness to say whatever we tell them to in return for a nice payday. We want more paying church members, and I don't care if they are Tiger Woods, Nancy Pelosi, or a foul-mouthed Joe in his cups. Kaching, kaching is the theme song of The Mother Church, Inc., LLC.
Finally, for the nonce, we'll turn to the Original Edifice and convert all that wasted space into a flop house and drug rehabilitation center. The hoi polloi can even bring their libations over from the Library and crash. What? Quit giggling over your eriscope, Mary, I said hoi polloi, not hooey pooey. Talk to her Nate. We can turn Mother's Room into a cozy boudoir for indigents with a little extra change in their pockets. Charges will be modest, but realistic. Don't forget, we're running a business, boys and girls, not a church! This should show the critical rabble out there and the New York Times how much we love and care for our fellow man. If this place was good enough for the invalid junkie who built it, Tom, it should be good enough for them.
Let's close this confab with a prayer. Call Father Whatshisname for the Paternoster. Busy? Never mind. Group dismissed.