Dear Diary:
This morning, I read in the newspaper* that Jorge is gonna make a speech this week about his views on global warming. Which made me laugh out loud and spew my Apple-Peach Cream of Rice all over Monsignor Alonso Escudero Villanueva Esperanzadozza Cortés – who we call Eddy because no one can remember that fuckin’ long name of his.

Anyhow, it made me laugh because just the other night at my place while we were binge-watching season 2 of Big Ang, Jorge didn’t even know what the hell global warming was. Benny, he asks me, what’s all the fuss everyone’s making about global warming? I didn’t want to tell him that I didn’t know anything about it either, so I said to him HEY! what the fuck do I look like – Google? You’ve got staff, for crap’s sake: make them write up something and quit pressing the damn PAUSE button every time you’ve got a question! 

I’m telling you, the guy’s got a question every five minutes. Benny: should I consider expanding the role of women in the Church? Benny, do you think I should issue a statement about the immigrants in Italy? Benny, should I pack some cookies for my trip to South Korea? Benny, when you were running the place, what did you do about chafing? Benny, should I have the French fries or baked potato with dinner? Benny, how much should I put in the tip envelope for the house maid? Honestly, it’s amazing he doesn’t need help wiping himself…

*By the way, I don’t actually read the newspapers these days; they pay Sister Rosita Carmella to read them to me. But I’d get bored listening and nod off, and Management knows that Jorge is coming over here for advice so they want me to stay on top of all that bullshit. Now Rosita reads them to me in a whole bunch of different accents. Which makes it shitloads more fun (her Arnold Schwarzenegger is a dead ringer, I’m telling ya!). It sometimes causes problems though: last month, she used an uncanny Nicholas Cage voice to read me a piece about the Chinese building an island in the South China Sea, and I got my wires crossed and mistakenly told Jorge that it had something to do with a hijacked plane of angelic prisoners who were looking for buried treasure in Washington DC. (Okay, so maybe it wasn’t a complete mistake…) Anyhow, it’s a good thing he went to his own staff about the global-warming crap…


Dear Diary;

Now that they’ve finally restored my online diary and given me back my password, I can catch up on a few things…

Why did it take so long to get my password back? It all started when Jorge and I wagered on who would win the World Cup match. If Germany won, he reluctantly agreed to make a formal, public request during Sunday’s televised Mass on the square that prayers be said for Sammy the Hampster, Cardinal Ferlucci’s beloved pet who’d recently came back from the dead but was still not feeling all that well. And if Argentina won, I promised to streak around Saint Peter’s while wearing nothing but my Nikes and a second-rate, glow-in-the-dark mitre gifted to me by the Sisters of Fürkhofstrasse (who got it while on holiday at Comicon, silly buggers!).

Well, Bless Me Father, Germany won! YAAAHOOOOOO!!!! So off I go on Sunday morning to sit by my window and listen to Jorge’s Liturgy. (You can’t see him from my window, which I think they made sure of when they picked out my apartments, since the last time I was within eyesight of the cameras during Mass I was wearing my I’M WITH STUPID shirt and it pointed right over to Jorge, which I thought was a fucking riot but he didn’t…) Anyhow, there he is on that balcony, getting to the part where he announces prayers – and there’s no mention of Sammy at all. Not a freakin’ word! Instead, he announces that prayers are needed for ME due to a small accident in the shower, during which I got a bit too zealous with my Pope-on-a-Rope soap and suffered a bruised left testicle. And while the whole of Saint Peter’s Square is reciting ‘Lord Hear Our Prayer’ in unison, he’s snickering. SNICKERING, I’m tellin’ ya! What an arschloch!!! So I grab my bullhorn (which I keep by the window for when the young nuns in training saunter by), and loudly scream Hey, you unholy Philistine Pig – it was a fair-and-square bet!!! I’m gonna get you back, you fat-assed shit!!!

Then all of a sudden, the Swiss Guard bangs down my door, grabs me and my pimped-up Scooter, tosses me in a van and drives me three hours away for what they later tell the press is an ‘extended, rehabilitative rest due to recent psychotic episodes…’

I was at Saint Polycarp’s Holy Convalescent Home for the Tired and Bizarre for just under a year: for the first two months involuntarily, because Jorge knew I’d get him back by pissing in the sacrificial wine or something like that… and for the rest of the time, voluntarily. Partly because the food there was shitloads better than at my place, and partly because the guys living there were a frickin’ laugh a minute.

My roommate, Cardinal Giordano, was clearly a bit touched in the head and, while mostly happy, staunchly claimed that Jesus came to him in a dream (dressed as Wilt Chamberlain) and told him that the exact date of Armageddon was revealed somewhere in Ferris Bueller’s Day Off – so poor Gio watched it nonstop for clues. (I gotta tell ya, that’s a pretty funny flick the first few dozen times…) Then there was Brother Ricci, who, on Tuesdays after the desert/drug cart had come through, would gather all his bed linens into a large pile and stand upon them, pretending to ascend into Heaven with The Almighty (who, on a technical note, never ascended anywhere – what a putz…). And Archbishop Mastrobernardino, who would spend his days embellishing the chapel’s religious statues in Miss America garb (we were all especially blown away by his transformation of Saint Anthony as Miss Nebraska 1968…).

I spent most of my time with Cardinal Schröder – who wasn’t a loony afterall, but was there for some character development ideas while polishing his latest murder-mystery novel. We’d hang around and play cards with the dementia priests, who’d insist we were cheating (we were) – but could never remember that we were once they’d called over the nurses. In the afternoons, we’d watch a lotta Meg Ryan movies (Hans just loved Meg Ryan). But my favorite days were when the Jehova’s Witnesses would show up. We’d bring them in and have snacks and tequila shots… really nice people, those Witnesses!

Yessiree – it all made for some pretty fun times. But eventually I got homesick and wrote Jorge to ask if I could come home. He made me promise not to seek vengeance about the bruised-testicle thing (which I’d completely forgotten by then) and I arranged for a ride back in the Holy See carpool.

When I get home, Jorge walks in and does this big Oh! I’ve missed you so much! bullshit, and hands me back my blog password. Which I promptly put in a safe place. But then I couldn’t remember the safe place… so I had to call the IT folks for another password. And then they were all Oh mio Santo Papa, you need to fill out a form... Took four weeks!! Asswipes.

Anyhow, I’ve been home for a few months without much of an incident. Unless you count that Baby Ruth in the vatican pool thing… Oh well, back to restocking the bar!


THINGS I GOTTA DO THIS WEEK, when not I’m praying or doing other funner stuff:

  1. Bless new batch of garbanzo-bean rosaries for shipping.
  2. Send box of laminated, three-D, autographed Papal Prayer cards to the Sisters of the Holy Order of the Resurrection of Mercy of the Blessed Sacrament of Jesus, Inc.
  3. Poop (actually, this should be number 2).
  4. Return George Foreman grill (it stopped working when I dropped it last week, but I’ll leave out the dropping part when I return it).
  5. Confess and forgive myself for number 4.
  6. Download season 2 of Archer.
  7. Select coffin to match custom-carved sarcophagus.
  8. Delete browser history (ya never know…).
  9. Buy tickets to see The World’s End (Sister Juanita says it’s not religious, which is great because I’m pretty fuckin’ tired of Charlton Heston flicks).
  10. Post video on YouTube of Jorge and Mother Albertina twerking during last week’s TGI Meatless Friday Taco Fiesta.


TO: Publisher, Modern Catholic Magazine
FM: His Holiness Benedict XVI, Pope-Emeritus (call me Benny)
DT: August 10, 2013
RE: Responses to Your List of Frequently Asked Questions for Upcoming Article

How do you explain the concept of the Holy Trinity?
I tell people that it’s kinda like Bruce Wayne and Batman: they’re actually the same guy who fight for the same causes, but they can never be seen together. (Hope that wasn’t a spoiler for your readers…)

Is it true that Catholic priests have supernatural powers?
All priests have the power to change bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ and to forgive sins in the Sacrament of Confession – but that’s pretty much it. Over the years, a few priests have sworn to posess actual super powers, but it’s always ended up being bullshit.

Most of the time. Father McIntosh of Dublin, for example, repeatedly claims to own a Holy Garment that renders him impervious to bullets – but it’s really just a Friday-casual cassock that’s riddled with moth holes… then there’s Archbishop Monetta of Tivoli who tells everyone that Saint Baldred of Tyninghame speaks directly to him – but we discovered later that it was only the parish cat. So we had him put down.

The cat?
No – Archbishop Monetta.

Pertaining to your Papacy, what’s your biggest regret?
When I left office, Disney wanted to make a commercial. You know how they go: Pope Benedict, you just announced your retirement from the Holy Throne of Saint Peter – what are ya gonna do now? But I thought it would be tacky, so I turned them down. Which really sucks, because It woulda been a freaking riot to sit in the lead car with Mickey Mouse for the Main Street parade.

What do you believe are the biggest concerns for Modern-Day Catholics?
Lots of people would insist that it’s the sex abuse scandal, or the Holy Church’s view on the role of women – both of which I know we gotta do something about one of these days.

Sure, but what about your biggest concern while you were in charge?
Mostly, it was chafing.

Do you think the Catholic Church should change its stance on gay marriage and same-sex relationships?

Could you elaborate on this?
Certainly: FUCK, YES.

How do you think your successor is doing?
Well, he really pissed off the Housekeeping staff by insisting on folding his own laundry, and he’s still showing up at my place unannounced and expecting dinner, but for the most part I think Jorge’s doing okay. I’d like to see him dress a bit better on formal occasions, but unfortunately the official Papal wardrobe is way too small for that fat ass of his…

What do you believe was the highlight of your Papacy?
I think that history will reveal that the highlight of my time on the throne was continuing the mission of my predecessor, John Paul II, to restore the divine dignity of the Eucharist by renewing the celebration of Mass and encouraging adoration of the Sacrament. But if you ask me, the real highlight was when I had lunch with George Clooney.

Is he really that hot looking in real life?
Oh my, yes! Honestly, I swooned…


My professional resume. Recently updated. Annotated version.

Suite 316c, Mater Ecclesiae Monastery, Vatican City, Rome, Italy

GOAL: seeking part-time opportunities that require minimal physical exertion and offer kickass health benefits. Preferences include gift wrapper, Papal fashion commentator, video editor, Starbucks barista (Vatican branch only, please) or anything to do with social media. Willing to relocate if necessary, to either Fiji or Disney World (only the Orlando one: espcially the Germany or Italy pavillions). Flexible hours a must. Will not consider anything where I need to wear polyester (it makes me itchy) or work with clowns (they scare the shit outta me).

SKILLS: extensively experienced in Catholic dogma. Proven success in speech coaching and fiber optics. Good with children. Snappy dresser. Great with budget oversight, motivating teams and organizing shit. Proficient with Powerpoint and Cobol.


POPE EMERITUS, 2013 – present
Mostly involves consulting, playing Words with Friends, preparing my own funeral and hanging out.

SELF EMPLOYED, 2013 – present
Etsy shop selling hand crafted rosary beads made of garbanzo beans.

POPE, 2005–13
Extensive travel for public appearances while making speeches, wearing kickass clothes and signing my name to other people’s shit. Also catalogued large Library of art.

Managed large team, wrote papers, prepared Powerpoint presentations.

Positions held included Prefect of the Sacred Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith, Archbishop of Munich and Freising, Chair in Dogmatic Theology at the University of Tübingen, blah blah blah…

Built things, marched around… stuff like that.


BOOKS AND PAPERS: over 42 papers, 66 books, three encyclicals and two apostolic exhortations under the name His Holiness, Pope Benedict XVI. Four paperbacks under the pen name Pansy Diddlebottom (Kindle versions also available).

INTERESTS: carpentry (wow – just like Jesus!), papal commemorative coins, napkin folding, lesbian porn and Asian cooking (specialty: beans and legumes).

REFERENCES: furnished upon request.


Although the public is not privvy to it, lots goes on during the Enclave before that final round of Papal elections. Several activities, intended to determine the most suitable candidates for the Highest Office in the Holy Church, are employed. When the swimsuit competition was removed in the late sixteenth century and the pistol competition in the mid eighteenth century, bake-offs and essay contests were introduced and have since been widely successful. During the Papal Enclave of 2005, I entered my mother’s Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte to qualify for the top ten (it beat the snot outta Cardinal Morelli’s Banana-Sour Cream Cheesecake). Then came the essay round: what follows is my entry, which won over the judges and got me elected.

by the Most Reverend Cardinal Joseph Aloisius Ratzinger,
Dean, College of Cardinals, Cardinal Bishop of the Suburbicarian Diocese of Ostia

Mostly I wanna be Pope because once, when I was a young boy, Saint Peter himself came to me in a Sacred vision, prophesizing that I would one day be elected Pope. No shit! It happened while fishing by the brook in my childhood village of Marktl. I looked across to the opposite bank and there he was, sitting at the edge of the water, dressed in my mother’s morning coat and holding a bottle of orange Schnapps. Joe! he called out… You must leave home, head for the Vatican and dedicate your life to the Holy Roman Catholic Church. And bring a sweater, for crap’s sake – they keep that place cold enough to freeze ice!

Well, you can imagine my surprise. But I heeded this Sacred vision, packed a bag and went off to the seminary in search of my destiny. Unfortunately, my destiny also included conscription into the Luftwaffenhelfer and German Infantry. But I don’t like to talk about that, so let’s just flash-forward to the day I was ordained a priest. I’m telling you, the very moment I read my vows, the skies opened and a burst of heavenly light shone down upon my face so bright and brilliant, no one there dared look upon it. Alas, I learned later that it was only the cinematic spotlight from my mom’s Super-8 movie camera…

Anyhow, lots happened pretty quickly after that. I got a few college degrees, wrote a ton of papers not too many people read, and gave a lotta boring lectures on dogmatic theology. In my leisure time late on Friday evenings, I would tutor the young village girls on contemporary Catechism in a private room at the local beer hall. I believe it was this charitable work, along with the custom-tailored Lederhosen I gifted Cardinal Bocaletti (which was hand-delivered by Gretil, my most [ahem] enthusiastic student), that kickstarted my Vatican career. Jump ahead twenty years: I’m in charge of the College of Cardinals (damn, I look great in red!) and working for the front office of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.

I think back now to my humble beginnings and that Sacred vision, more than sixty years ago, when I witnessed our beloved Saint Peter, the Rock upon which Jesus himself built this church, seated himself upon a rock across from where I was fishing on that warm summer afternoon in Marktl. And I now realize that it probably wasn’t Peter at all, but more likely my strange Uncle Vilma who would, when the moon was full or the mood simply struck him, dress in my mother’s clothes and terrorize the local boys with his pornographic Navy tattoos.

Damn: I coulda been a plumber.

Anyhow, even though it wasn’t Saint Pete, I still wanna be a Pope. I’ve got all the requisite experience and I look fabulous in white, thanks to my delicate Bavarian complexion. Just give me a few years in the big chair so I don’t end up looking like a stupid, freaking failure on my resume. Then I’ll fake sick to make way for the next guy. To show you how serious I am about this, I’m enclosing $214 Euros (I had more, but lost it the other day at the Blackjack table during Pre-Enclave Casino night).

Thanks for your time and kiss the kids… Joey R.


Dear Diary;
Not feeling too swell these days. Sister Juanita insists it’s all the cheese I’ve been eating, but I’m thinking it’s just my life winding down. I dunno, maybe it is the cheese… Either way, I gotta start making some arrangements and writing things down. Just in case. So here’s my initial list. Juanita is gonna have it notarized and we’ll keep it somewhere safe:

I wanna be buried in the scarlet satin chasuble. The one with the velvet trim and delicate gold piping. NOT the one with the silver piping (I look like shit in silver). If there’s any confusion, look for the tequila stain on the right, about four inches down. (I didn’t bother changing after Mass one Sunday and things got a bit sloppy…) Just put it right over my Pajama Jeans (if I’m gonna spend eternity with the Heavenly Father, I wanna be comfortable). And don’t bother dressing me in an alb: they make me itchy…

I’m leaving my money to the Holy Sisters of Saint Norbert in Wankbahn, Germany. Partly because they sent me a box of the best Pfeffernüsse cookies I’ve ever tasted, partly because they kindly asked me for help to buy a large-screen plasma TV for movie night, and partly because it makes me laugh out loud to say Wankbahn (hell – I chortle just writing it!). They can have all my savings, except for about 65 Euros for Sister Marietta, the chambermaid who keeps leaving a tip envelope on my bedside table. I want someone to give it to her with a note that reads, are you happy now, you persistent bitch? (If I die in bed, change the note so it reads, clean up this shit!)

I’m leaving Monsignor Alcoser my Olive Garden Loyalty Card. Whenever Joe visited me at the office, we’d dress up as Franciscan monks, don French accents and hit the Garden. Good times! There are two free meals left on the Card, and they don’t expire for another seven months so he has plenty of time…

I’m leaving Sister Juanita my Bullet. She knows why.

I’m leaving Jorge my sixth-century, emerald-green silk fanon. It never looked that good on me, and it smells funny. Besides, I stole it last year from the papal wardrobe when they turned the heat down too low (cheap-ass fuckers), so technically it’s already his. I’m also leaving him my water pick. He knows why.

I want Cher to sing at my Funeral. And none of that Ave Maria crap: I want something upbeat. Ask her to sing The Shoop Shoop Song. With backup singers. Try to pack the place with celebrities, like they did for Princess Di. Make sure someone invites George Clooney (he’s soooo hot!).

And no sarcophagus downstairs from the office, for crap’s sake: I know about the drinking parties down there… I wanna be buried by the ocean. And for the love of Saint Pete, make sure I’m completely dead first!

Yup… I think that’s it.


Dear Diary;
Things sure are better now that Jorge’s relying on his administrators, who have been telling him all along to leave everything to them. Which he should… makes things easier and gives him more time for Words with Friends. Heck, when I ran the place, I practically never ran the place! I just showed up when they told me to and ate whatever the hell they put in front of me. Which mostly tasted like warmed over shit – and if I never see a beet casserole again it will be all too soon.

Meanwhile, all’s well here. Spent last week catching up on Game of Thrones (Stark – so yummy!). Also thinking about growing a mustache, as Sister Juanita insists it would make me look exactly like Richard Madden.

Incidentally, we’ve made her an optometrist appointment for next week…


Dear Diary;
Having my own iPhone app made. People will be able to use it to send me prayer requests – for a few Euros each, of course. Pet requests would be extra, especially for cats. (I hate cats). After I pay that cocky little shit of a developer, it’ll hopefully bring in enough denaro to pay the liquor bills (the price of that top-shelf stuff is really pissing off my accountant).

Was gonna call it Pay-Pal (you know, like Pa•pal), but Sister Juanita told me that the name’s already been taken. Which is okay, since now that I know what it is I’m gonna use it to process the payments. Maybe I’ll call it Pimp My Pope. Or Pay to Pray. Or Benny-Dictions


Dear Diary;
Jorge’s been asking if I would watch the office while he takes a few days off. Are you freaking kidding me? He’s only been on the job for just over two months… What a pussy.

I told him if I did this, I wanna get paid. And I want the adult channels added back on my cable. And a few cases of those good olives…

On another note, the housekeeping staff keeps leaving me a tip envelope by my nightstand. What the frack is up with that??!