The Coughing Statue of the Blessed Virgin: Situated in a public square in the village of Opatija, on Croatia’s Dalmatian Coast, this marble likeness of Mary is said to clear its throat loudly when people stop paying attention to it. Passersby have also reported hearing murmurs of “Hey! Over here,” “Stop fawning over that cheap Michelangelo knockoff,” and on crowded days, “Coupons! Free drink coupons!”

The Mostly Holy Rough Draft of the Sermon on the Mount: Contains seven previously unreleased Beatitudes, including “Blessed are those who speak softly in restaurants; they shall receive good service,” and “Blessed are the managers at Shlomo’s of Judea Hair Salon, for they readily accommodate walk-ins.”

The Immaculate Hot Tub at the Spokane Motel 6: Although the chlorination system has not functioned properly since 1987, thousands of guests have shared this Jacuzzi over the years without a single reported infection.

The Boning Knife of St. James the Greater: James was a fisherman by trade, and when Jesus fed the five thousand, this “original Miracle Blade” helped with the filleting. Since then it has been connected with several miracles, including the feeding of an entire Italian-American wedding from one stuffed flounder.

The Healing Spirit of St. Finbar’s Distillery: Made in County Kerry, Ireland, this 110-proof aged whiskey relieves pain and inspires ecstatic visions when consumed in sufficient quantities. Those who experience spiritual communion with Christ Himself are awarded a free T-shirt.

The Incorruptible Timex of St. Ignatius: Although this Benedictine martyr was buried alive, dug up again, drowned, boiled in fat, partially devoured by wolves, and then reburied in a peat bog, his wristwatch was still running when his remains were exhumed in 1931. This is doubly astounding, since Ignatius died several centuries before wristwatches were invented.

The Miraculous Lucky Strike of Conshohocken, Pennsylvania: Smoked continuously for thirty-one years by Monsignor John Carroll of the Philadelphia Archdiocese, this unfiltered cigarette burns perpetually but is never consumed.

The Tangentially Blessed Hotel Bar of Palermo: Located in the Marriott-owned Bellavista Suites, this casual nightspot is mildly revered because the weekend bartender, Carlito, has a sister-in-law whose great-aunt went to the same grade school as Saint Bernadette.

The Latent Stigmata of Glenn Taubes, Canadian Postal Clerk: Described by his Ottawa, Ontario friends and neighbors as a “very nice man,” Taubes suffers occasionally from medically inexplicable cramps in the hands and feet, accompanied by a “sharp, poking sensation” in his right side.

The Divine Message at Charles Schwab, LLC: On December 12, 1999, the figure of Christ appeared to Matthew Kartali, a senior partner in the Atlanta office of the international brokerage firm. “For My sake, do not invest further in telecommunications, for thy earnings shall be vanquished,” the Lord reportedly said. “Liquidate thy holdings from the NASDAQ and take refuge in real estate and government bonds, and you shall be spared the pain of the coming Apocalypse.” Kartali was later indicted for insider trading.

The Mystery of the Holy Intersection: Fifteen miles outside Lubbock, Texas lies the junction of Highway 631 and Old Dallas Pike, which, when viewed from overhead, uncannily resembles the sign of the Cross.

Dubuque

Time to midtown: 3 hour flight, then 1 hour on the M60 bus from LaGuardia

Rants and Raves: Loyalists love Dubuque’s “small-town feel,” sweetened by the “super-cheap rents” (a one-bedroom in a doorman building averages $525 per month); other pluses include “good public schools” and “awesome corn.” Naysayers lament the “homogenous, vaguely Midwestern population” and say “good luck finding a decent Sri Lankan restaurant.”

The East River

Time to midtown: 25 minutes swimming with the current, 45 against; longer in droughts

Rants and Raves: “Astounding views of Manhattan, Brooklyn, and Queens” are yours for the taking in this “ultra-convenient” location, “less crowded than the Hudson” and without the direct impact of New Jersey’s sewage. And you can count on constant change here — one reader says “you’ll never step in the same river twice.” Drawbacks: residents complain of “damp” conditions and “constant flooding;” the E.R. also tops our list of ‘hoods that are “bad news for people in wheelchairs.”

ReLiTER (REar of the LIncoln Tunnel Electrical Room)

Time to midtown: 5 minutes

Rants and Raves: Look out, Dumbo and Nolita: Reliter is catching up fast, thanks in no small part to being “spitting distance from the theater district” and “completely impervious to weather in all its forms.” But don’t move here if you’re bothered by “round-the-clock pitch-darkness,” “frayed, illegibly labeled 1000-volt cables” and “hazardous levels of carbon monoxide.”

Rikers Island

Time to midtown: 15 years to life, with time off for good behavior

Rants and Raves: “NYC’s best-kept secret,” R.I. is rapidly scoring points for its “central location” (equidistant from three boroughs), “spacious accommodations” (shared doubles are bigger than a studio in Chelsea) and — no kidding — “free room and board.” Now the cons: lifers warn that it’s “easier getting in than getting out;” the “cigarette-based currency” can be frustrating to newcomers, who should “avoid showing weakness at all times.” And bachelors take note: despite the “thriving underground sex scene” Rikers is still considered a “lousy place to meet women.”

UnMetExRamNeJeT (UNder the MEtuchen EXit RAMp off the NEw JErsey Turnpike)

Time to midtown: 25 minutes

Rants and Raves: Within a few years, Unexramnejet is poised to become the “next Unsecexramnejet” (under the Secaucus exit ramp) only “less snobby.” Home to a thriving native population of “rats” and “derelicts,” Unmetexramnejet scores points for being “nicer than Jersey City,” and “convenient to gas, food, and lodging,” although the “constant traffic noise” and “unfashionable Metuchen zip code” keep some would-be gentrifiers at bay.

The New York City Morgue

Time to midtown: 15 minutes

Favorite Haunt: The conscience of your murdering husband

Rants and Raves: “Cozy single accommodations” are the rule in this “dead-quiet” nook of Manhattan; one self-proclaimed “Morgue Mama” says she’s “never once been bothered by the neighbors.” Some are irked by the “meat-locker air conditioning,” and a “stiff” local population that “isn’t aging well;” squatters are advised to “switch drawers every two or three days” or risk being “dissected” or “incinerated.”

Betelgeuse

Time to midtown: 425 years at light speed

Rants and Raves: Talk about “hot” — this “shining star” of the outer-outer boroughs “burns bright” with the force of 60,000 Suns! “Incredible views of the Milky Way” are yours at this “world-renowned” address, which remains largely “untouched by life as we know it.” Watch out for “commutes that far exceed the average human lifespan” unless your Honda can “defy Einsteinian physics” by outpacing the speed of light; be prepared to make peace with the “total lack of atmosphere.”

Hell

Time to midtown: Eternity

Rants and Raves: “Primo celebrity sightings” and natural wonders like “boiling craters of sulphur” are two of the attractions at this “ultimate destination for many New Yorkers.” Opportunists have crowded out the fringe, but there’s plenty of room in the lower circles, whose denizens are uniformly “full of Pride.” “Infinite, unbearable suffering” and “permanent separation from the loving arms of God” are common gripes from new arrivals; old-timers grumble that “everything’s turning into a Starbucks.”

Researchers from the University of California say that if men share household chores…their wives will find them more attractive.

— Yahoo! News release

Sure I sold myself. Who in our society doesn’t? Just like anyone else, I provided a valuable service. I made a lot of women very happy, if only for a couple of hours. I gave them a kind of satisfaction that their husbands and boyfriends just couldn’t provide. Trust me: if they were getting it at home, they wouldn’t be coming to me.

I started young. I was barely nineteen, halfway through a Comp Lit degree at Swarthmore and two semesters behind on my bookstore bill. I had lost my job at the 7-11; they had finally installed an automatic hot dog rotisserie, so they didn’t need anyone to turn the crank. Times were hard. Lucky for me, when your bedroom is more or less on public display and you share a co-ed bathroom, word about your potential eventually gets around. I was typing up a letter to Student Accounts about my ongoing and expensive struggle with dengue fever when my hall advisor, Reynaldo, dropped in. He told me there were some ladies out on the Main Line who would pay serious money for a little time with me — no questions asked. I was nervous, but I needed the dough, so how could I refuse?

I remember my first trick like it was yesterday. Mrs. Helene Goldman, forty-three years old, with a body that could easily pass for forty. Her husband was a thoracic surgeon, and they had a five-bedroom house in Bryn Mawr that was full of everything except the attention she desperately craved. I showed up on a Wednesday morning around ten, after the kids were in school. She led me into the kitchen and my heart started racing. She must have known I was green, but she played it cool. She laid a C-spot down on the table, stretched out across two chairs, kicked off her slippers and told me exactly what she wanted.

“Take out the garbage,” she said.

She spoke in a hungry, husky growl — kind of a cross between Marlene Dietrich and a broken air conditioner — and I knew right then that she would not be denied. Whether I could live up to her expectations was another question. Sure, I had taken out my share of trash, but usually just the little wastebasket from my dorm room. This was the real thing: a Hefty tall kitchen bag filled with coffee grounds and carrot peels and two empty Eggo boxes that had definitely not been pre-crushed. Remember, this was before the heyday of the Cinch-sack or any of your other modern conveniences. I had nothing but a flimsy twist-tie and a ten-year old memory of Boy Scout knots to help me bring this woman to the peak of satisfaction.

I tried to look professional, but I was sweating bullets. I had never done anything like that with somebody watching, let alone paying for the privilege. Let me tell you, it isn’t easy to perform under that kind of pressure. The bag was pretty full, so I used my foot to squash the trash down, and for a second I caught her wincing. Not a good start. But then something — inspiration? Desperation? The hand of God? — made me slip the dirty shoe off my foot, and set it upside-down on the linoleum, so I wouldn’t mess up her fresh mop job.

“Ooh, you’re good,” Mrs. Goldman moaned, squirming with pleasure. That kicked me into high gear. I yanked up the sides of the bag and started fumbling with the knot like I was defusing a bomb. Helene put her hand on mine. “Slower,” she said. She guided me along at her pace until I got the hang of it. From that point instinct pretty much took over. After I finished, I carried the bag out the back door with one hand cupped gently underneath it, and not only locked down the outdoor bin but took it out to the curb to boot. When I returned, I wiped off the sole of my dirty shoe with a paper towel and Fantastick before I put it back on. Unsophisticated, sure, but it sent the right message.

“Marv almost never takes out the trash, and when he does, there’s always a trail of bread crumbs or dental floss or some kind of liquefied vegetable slime all the way out to the door,” Helene said breathlessly, handing me a fresh bag and checking the windows for peeping Toms. She was avoiding eye contact now, and I think she was crying. “I just need someone to think about what I need every once in a while.”

I rolled the new liner gently over the lip of the can and said, “Of course, Mrs. Goldman. It’s the least you deserve.” She looked me straight in the eye with a white-hot desire, and for a second I thought she was going to ask me to scour her broiler pan, but then the postman rang and she shoved the Franklin in my hand and my butt out the back door.

Within six months I had more janes than I could handle. I cruised grocery stores, strip malls, Lord and Taylor’s. I could spot a potential client on sight. Mid-thirties to early forties, married five, ten, maybe twelve years, a couple of fidgety kids in tow, not quite enough makeup to hide the wear and tear of a thousand thankless little chores. If the husband was around, he was usually waylaid in the Electronics section, comparing the pictures of six identical TV sets. Poor schmucks. They didn’t know what they had — or what they had already lost.

I was always a pretty fastidious guy, but I never imagined that all my anal-retentive habits would pay off like this. A lot of the girls wanted me to clean the bathroom, and when I actually scrubbed the tile cracks with a toothbrush and soap scum remover, they went straight to heaven. I’ve made more than one grown woman squeal with joy just by dusting underneath her desk lamps. And if there are any men reading this, here’s some free advice: Learn your way around a few choice vacuum attachments, and you’ll never need marital counseling.

You might think someone like me would wind up in a lot of nasty scrapes with jealous meatheads, but it’s actually pretty easy to stay below the radar. The husbands see what they want to see. They’ll come home at the end of the day, and the entire dining room will be cleaned top to bottom — including the blades of the ceiling fan — and there’s a brand new tablecloth and it’s been pre-washed and ironed, and if they notice at all they think this is the sort of the thing their wives do in their leisure time, like pottery or canasta. I remember one time I actually left an old pair of my boxers in Phyllis Whistler’s silver chest — I was using them to polish up her sugar bowls — and apparently when her husband found them, he said “Why did you have to go and ruin these shorts, Phyllis? They’ve only got three holes!”

Of course sometimes you just get caught. Once I was elbow-deep in Kate Berman’s utility drawer, lubricating her rollers to massage away a stubborn squeak, when her fiancé walked in. There was no covering it up; the entire kitchen was littered with spatulas, wooden spoons, and potato mashers that she had tossed aside in a fit of reckless passion. I stood there, slackjawed, while he stared at us with a mixture of shock and betrayal. Finally, he just blurts out: “I was going to do that on Saturday!” Next thing you know they were throwing plates, and I was already halfway over the backyard fence, with a spooked-out Rottweiler chomping at my heels.

Would I ever go back? I don’t think so. It’s a young man’s game; I just don’t have the stamina for it anymore. Besides, after a while the girls start taking you for granted. I’ll never forget the day I scrubbed down every last window in Ginny Chamberlain’s house. Those windows were filthy. For all Ginny knew, Mount Pinatubo could have erupted right on her front lawn, and it wouldn’t look any different. I shined and polished that glass until I had a tennis elbow like Andre Agassi’s, and when Ginny came home all she said was “Who the hell left all the blinds open?”

It’s a good thing I got paid to put up with that crap. Otherwise I’d really have gone crazy.