Dear Diary;
Purchased products from my all-night shop-fest have finally been arriving. The Snuggie is nice, but too warm for this season. The ShamWOWs smell funny (and I haven’t even peed on them yet), so I doubt I’ll be keeping them. And the WaxVac is on backorder – which really sucks, because I wanted to use it before Easter services.

But the Bullet Blender came this morning. It looks really different than the commercial, and it’s smaller than I thought it would be – way too tiny for breakfast shakes. The package does say Bullet though… It also included a recharger and samples of some kind of oil that tastes weird, so I sure as shit won’t be blending with them.

In passing, I mentioned to Sister Juanita that I’d be returning it, but she seemed quite eager to try it first. I told her that was fine but I have no idea how she’s gonna be satisfied with something that small…


Dear Diary;
Everyone’s gone down to the main office for Holy Thursday services, but I faked sick so they let me stay home (woohoo!). I don’t wanna be around to watch Jorge today; he’s such a big fat show-off…

All by myself for the first time in I can’t remember how long! Spent the afternoon eating those good olives the kitchen staff always hides from me (they give me gas, but these days everything gives me gas) and catching up on Teen Mom 2. I also snuck into Sister Juanita’s room for a peek at her diary – she writes lots of lesbian fantasy stuff about Gloria, the assistant cook. It’s good reading… pretty steamy, actually. Always gets my blood pumping. She should consider publishing it.

If I get bored enough, I’ll ride the Hoverround to the local gelato stand down the street. If only to steal some of Jorge’s publicity, the little turd…


Dear Diary;
Hoveround Power Chair arrived yesterday. The delivery guy was pretty funny – he didn’t think it was really me until I showed him my smashed up ring that I wear under my shirt on a chain around my neck.

This chair is the freaking BALLS – especially with the dashboard Jesus on the handlebars and HONK IF YOU THINK I’M JESUS bumpersticker… Can’t believe how quiet it is! I snuck up to within arm’s reach of Cardinal Nardozzi and would have scared the shit outta him if I hadn’t cut that loud one (I gotta cut back on the three-bean salad at lunch). I’m telling you, this is gonna be WAY more fun than the time we set up Angelo with that fake exorcism (she was actually a stripper)…


Dear Diary;
I AM ROCKING THESE PAJAMA JEANS! I probably shoulda ordered the bootcut (they would have been more flattering on my pear shape) and I gotta get used to handling them in the men’s room (no zipper…), but I love how they’re snug and yet not confining. Nice cheek lift too; even Sister Mary Mary says my ass looks totally hot in them.

I can’t wait to wear these babies to Easter Mass. They’ll look great with my hot pink Crocs and brand new cappello (white, no less – it is, after all, Easter…).


Dear Diary;
Invited Jorge over for lunch yesterday. He was late, having stood outside the gate for 45 minutes chatting up the locals and having his fucking ring kissed. I got him back by eating all the shrimp poppers off the hors d’œuvre tray, which gave me gas so bad it would have gagged a skunk in heat.

Anyhow, things were fine once he finally got here. We chatted about what he should wear for Holy Week services, pissed ouselves over that hysterical photo of Deacon Albani at last week’s seminary Spring Fling, and discussed whether he should keep his personal Facebook page (I didn’t think any harm would come of it, but urged him to change his status back to ‘single’). He did get pretty testy when I suggested he go easy on the Old Spice (he practically bathes in that shit), then I hit the roof when he asked me to kiss his ring (I told him I’d rather eat rotten cabbage outta my own ass). But the sisters calmed things down with a few rounds of chilled Jagermeister, and off he went to his next photo opp. Which was fine with me, because Breaking Dawn just arrived from Netflix and I wanted to see what happened with Jacob (he is soooo freaking hot!).


Dear Diary;
The bad news: I was up all last night from being so embarrassed about the see-through yoga pants debacle. The good news: I am replacing them with Pajama Jeans. I ordered three pairs (once they assured me that a size 14 would provide a roomy enough inseam), which should arrive in time for Easter Mass next week.

Never knew about all the really cool shit sold on late-night TV. So far, I bought a Snuggy (in that faux leopard-skin print), a Bullet blender, a WaxVac (two for the price of one!) and 16 ShamWOWs (they’ll be good on the La-Z-Boy – those early episodes of Three’s Company make me laugh so hard, I tinkle a tiny bit…).


Dear Diary;
Got a RECALL NOTICE today from the company that manufactures my yoga pants. Turns out you can see clear through them, naughty bits and all. Fucknuts…

Note to self: send back yoga pants.

Second note to self: start wearing undies under yoga pants.


Dear Diary;
Spent yesterday afternoon watching the inaguration. Such a difference: eight years ago, I was standing on a stage in the sweltering sun wearing the itchiest garb you could imagine, for what seemed like days. Honest to shit, even my shorts were driving me freaking nuts – and I could feel tiny beads of sweat making their way toward my buttcrack. Total suck!! And there I was yesterday, sitting in my La-Z-Boy super-plush recliner man-chair, eating Doritos and sipping chilled tequila while wearing my favorite I’M WITH DUMBASS tee-shirt (and with Sister Concetta Consuella seated next to me, no one would deny that). Yessiree, I totally prefer this inaguration!

Incidentally, I sure hope they washed that pallium of mine before they placed it on Jorge: last time I wore that, it slipped off and fell into the urinal…


Dear Diary;
Spoke with Jorge last night about those spontaneous walks through the streets. It’s wreaking havoc with the Swiss Guard, who asked me to have a word with him about it. Turns out he doesn’t see what the big deal is. Says it’s making him wildly popular, and that he wants to be known as The People’s Pope. Sweet Jesus, I may have to start calling him Pope Diana…

Anyhow, since I have very little patience these days because my back is feeling the effects of that shit-ass mattress they’ve got on my bed, I made some snide comment about how it’s not like he can walk on fucking water and to just cut the crap.

Next thing you know, he’ll be diving off the balcony for a crowd surf…


Dear Diary;
The sisters woke up early this morning all excited about their Saint Patrick’s Day present: a green tee shirt that reads, KISS ME I’M IRISH. Seriously??? First off, I’m not Irish, you stupid bitches. Second, I ain’t gonna wear it (polyester blends makes me itchy). Third, no one gives St. Patrick’s day presents; not even the feckin’ oirish. And fourth, don’t wake me up so damned early on a Sunday, girls… I’m freaking done with that.

Besides, there are only about three people in all God’s world that look good in green. Not even St. Patty himself looked good in green. You never see pictures of him in green – and I know: I used to hold the key to all that religious art stuff. And I’ll bet it’s because he probably looked like shit in green. Especially with that pale limey complexion and all them snakes around him…

Too bad that Jorge didn’t name himself after Saint Patrick. Woulda given himself his own holiday. I know how much he likes that whiskey and soda bread. It shows on his big fat ass…