Where Angels Go, Trouble Follows

- I'll die if I don't get chosen.
- Of course you'll get chosen.

And so will I. After all,
the qualifications are so elementary.

B average, good social attitude,
reasonable hygiene habits.

That takes care of me. I got a D average.
Reverend Mother says my attitude stinks,
and I'm a slob.

- Nobody's perfect.
- Hey, we'll be late for class.

Who wants to go
to a stinking rally anyways?

You're only saying that
because you're not going.

Shrivel up.
- And you're not going either.
- I'm straight A's, three years running.

- Grabs you, don't it?
- Not terribly.

Grades only count for so much.
You don't get points for blowing up the lab,
except from Sister George.

- I think I hate her.
- So why should you be an exception?

No chance, right?
About as much as a snowball in...
Hello, Sister George.

What's our local mafia up to today?
- We were just talking about the rally.
- And how great it would be if we're chosen.

It's going to be a memorable experience,
and one that we'll cherish forever.

You don't have to do a snow job on me.
You know, I'm the one who suggested
going to the rally to Mother.

And I have the scars to prove it.
You don't happen to know
if we were chosen, do you?

That's classified information.
- But you know whether or not you qualify.
- That's the trouble.

You don't suppose Reverend Mother would
break down and reconsider so we could go?

Right now, Mother wouldn't give
either one of you a free pass to a disaster.

Isn't there anything we can do?
You might try praying.