Angelo: I cannot go on with this deception any longer. I can't marry you. I'm not a priest. I never was.
Dorothy: Uncle Angelo, what are you talking about?
Sophia: I gotta sit down.
Angelo: Let me tell you a story. Picture it: Sicily, 1914. I promised our dear sainted mother on her deathbed I'm-a gonna join the priesthood. On my way to the seminary in Palermo, I stop off in a local trattoria for a glass of Chianti. The waitress bring drink to the table is a vision. Luscious lips, full bosom and a behind so round, so firm, you got to fall down on your knees and cry put at its magnificent regal beauty. I'm a butt man. Anyway, my devotion to God doesn't waver. But suddenly, the idea of living with a bunch of guys in itchy robes doesn't seem quite as appealing as that tuckus. So I tear up my priest application, ask Philomena to marry me, and we lived the next 72 years in wedded bliss.