Who among us, trying to collect our thoughts and prepare our souls for the reception of the Blessed Sacrament, has not had their fervent meditations on the True Presence interrupted by a Wilhelm followed by the meaty *thwap!* of yet another just recently deceased member of the congregation, who, having picked up a fatal Ebola infection from the bacteria-encrusted hands of some other Mass-goer, one whose hand-sanitizing habits fell lamentably short of brain-surgeon-level, has dropped dead right there in the aisle?
What to do, what to do? A full-on scrub station, overseen by Nurse Ratched, while certainly called for, might seem, I dunno, less than fully Christian. How about, right by the doors:
There you go! Non-existent problem solved!
Now, how about some mental floss for the panicked-obsessive fear mongers who think imposing this kind of randomly chosen locus for their free-floating anxieties on innocent church goers is a good idea.
I wish I were kidding.