Why can’t I be pope?
It’s in the Catholic Rulebook, more commonly known as the Bible, that any Catholic can be Pope. The next one should totes be me.
To those who say, ‘Why you?’
I reply, ‘Why not?’
Just in case that flawless argument isn’t enough, let me expand.
At only 34-years-old, I’m good for at least fifty years of service. Not like that current guy, who didn’t even make a decade. There’s a reason most companies are reluctant to hire senior citizens. That’s because they’re senior citizens.
I’m available. That is, I’m both single and without solid employment apart from the odd comedy gig, so I’m free to start immediately. Most other jobs and/or wives require at least a few weeks notice.
I can surf. It is widely reported that the Catholic Church needs of an image boost. Who wouldn’t go bananas for a Pope on a surfboard? It’s got to be better than a Pope not on a surfboard. I’d be Pope Kelly Slater the First™.
My other big marketing idea is to use celebrities on the ads, billboards and little wafer thingys. I’d reel in the biggest names with blanket forgiveness and an attractive afterlife package. Finding celebrities won’t be a problem as they’ve got plenty of sins, and if the Scientologists can sign them up, well it must be easy.
It’s also worth mentioning that I’m up for abstinence. After being told repeatedly, ‘You’re such a great guy. Great chat, great in bed, okay looking, but I’m just not ready for a relationship because (insert rubbish reason here).’
I’ve had it with girls, and guys aren’t really my thing. So I’m bang up for having a crack at getting God into the sack. Metaphorically, spiritually and/or physically.
And who else is sick of mumbling Popes who look like they’re about to fall asleep, or are already asleep? Compared to your average Pope, people can actually understand me when I talk. If the congregation I’m addressing don’t speak English, I’ll organize a monkey to stand in front of me and hold subtitles. Or a translator. But probably the monkey.
On day one as the Pope, in the lodge or underwater lair or wherever the Pope lives, my first order of business would be to pimp the Popemobile. Lower it, add mag wheels, and a personalized number plate – actually there’s already one of those on it, proving that the Pope’s a bogan. I’d also drop in an engine big enough to take anything at the lights.
On day two I’d churn out replicas of my spiritually superior mean machine and sell it for a hefty profit, as part of a long line of merch including surfboards, holy bottled water, incense sticks, those stupid hats and Pope endorsed condoms.
Days four and five would be spent visiting old people and orphanages and lepers and Catholics and that. You know, good Popey stuff.
On day six of my reign I’d rename Mass on Sunday morning ‘Football’. Few of us like going to Mass, but everyone loves going to the footy. I’d replace the bells with sirens, the vestments with jumpers and at halftime hand out oranges, and allow everyone to kick around a football.
Then on the seventh day, I’d rest. Or go to the ‘Football’.
Xavier Toby is a writer and comedian with upcoming shows in Melbourne (Mar 27-Apr 9), Sydney (May 7-11) and Brisbane (May 12-19). For details and more stupidity: www.xaviertoby.com
Read all about it
Up to the minute Twitter chatter
The latest and greatest
Good morning Punchers. After four years of excellent fun and great conversation, this is the final post…
I have had some close calls, one that involved what looked to me like an AK47 pointed my way, followed…
In a world in which there are still people who subscribe to the vile notion that certain victims of sexual…