A confessor was speaking in the dusty square of an old town with a pale cathedral and a blond brick clocktower. When he had finished his discourse, a pretty young woman cried out angrily, “Oh, bullshit! You’re full of bullshit!” The confessor looked calmly at her and asked, “Bullshit? In clear ontological and epistemological terms, explain to me how it is that you are not the very epitome of bullshit itself.” Shocked, the woman burst into tears and ran off. The clock struck twelve, the bells rang and the crowd laughed ambiguously. Some days later, as the confessor was returning to town from a short excursion, he saw the pretty woman rolling around in a carrall, much to the bewilderment and annoyance of the bull. “And how long has this been going on?” the confessor asked. “Three days,” the bull lamented. “I won’t go into details, but she seems obsessed with my, well, you know…” The woman was covered from head to foot in ripe, pungent dung. The confessor made her get up, and took her to a fountain in the town square where he carefully washed her with some soap borrowed from a barber as she sobbed and whispered to herself. “Maybe we will try some grammar and rhetoric before we attempt philosophy or astronomy,” the confessor kindly suggested to her. She embraced him tightly and wept harder. The clock struck one, but the bells did not ring. The confessor thought that someone should look into that.