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!