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Saint Oofta, Patron of the Clumsy

Once upon a time there was a lowly carpenter who was born away in a manger, no crib for his bed named Oofta.  He was Norwegian.  Having no crib for his bed, he decided to learn how to make one.  By the time he was 17 each and every one of his fingertips was a permanent blot of unsightly purple bruise from being bashed repeatedly with a hammer.  Not only that, but the cribs he made (his specialty) tended to collapse upon themselves if someone trod on the wrong floorboard and sent a tremor through the house. Or manger. Or whatever.

One day Oofta was patiently sawing through his thumb along with a board he happened to be cutting to the wrong size when Lo! and Behold! An apparition appeared before him.  It was a ghostly tracing in the sawdust on the floor of a cone-headed Saint: Saint Stupid. Oofta, in his excitement to examine the strange and wonderful pattern in the dust tripped and scuffed his shoe through the apparition, demolishing it. “Oh well” he said, “Saint Stupid would have wanted it that way, had he thought about it.” And now that he did think about it (Oofta, that is, not Saint Stupid) he realized that he had no idea who St. Stupid was, since  St. Stupid didn’t come into the world until a couple thousand years after he, Oofta had lived, died and tripped on his shoelaces for the last time. So this was really a surprise.

The account of Oofta’s life was seriously marred when he spilled a quart of grape jelly on it, then tried to wipe it off with a linen shroud, but the meticulous efforts of bored canonical librarians eventually reconstructed Oofta’s remarkable life.  Predictably, everyone who reads of Oofta’s stunning, miraculous achievements falls prey to freak accidents and bizarre, senseless mutilation, so we’re just going to keep his story to ourselves. And we don’t want to hear about your pitiful misfortunes either, so just keep it to yourself.

Novena Prayer to Saint Oofta:

Glorious, inimitable spiller of milk, I implore you to intervene on my behalf.  Your gracious, well-timed cursing heralds unlimited jubilation at each and every toe stubbed, carpet stained, tire flattened, collar scorched by the iron and every other manner of oafish misfortune.  I entreat you to hear me (mention your request).

Feast Day:

Each and every Monday of the year.  But be careful that you don’t stab yourself in the lip with your fork. The line for bibs forms to the right.

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