Dear Diary;
Apparently, the liquor cabinet key I left behind doesn’t work. Turns out I inadvertently left them the key to my locker at the Club. Explains why I can’t find my swimming trunks anywhere… Anyhow, my secretary is driving it over this morning.

Speaking of swimming trunks, they finally opened the pool here. Thank Christ! Unfortunately, the papparazzi are camped out in the trees just over the security fence, trying to snap a photo of me bathing topless with Mother Mary Clarence. Fuckers…


Dear Diary;
Spent a few hours this morning on Skype with Jorge. Gave him the password to the Twitter account, told him about jiggling the toilet handle a few times, made sure he knew about Mother Angioletta’s bad ear (she can’t hear for shit on her left side), warned him to stay the hell away from the cook’s marinated pork butt.  Also suggested he get Housekeeping to change out that mattress: it reeks of Angelo’s homemade pastrami (I really gotta back off on the calzone).

I also told him about the secret stash of porn in his nightstand drawer and sent him over a gift card to the Vatican Starbuck’s. He freaking loves those Frappuccinos, even though he needs to stay away from them… Speaking of which, I mentioned that he might wanna stay away from the gold damask stoles: he hasn’t got enough height and they’ll accentuate his fat ass.


Dear Diary;
On the phone most of the night with the cardinals getting all the skinny. Angelo claims he’s pretty happy he didn’t get in… says it would have clashed with his upcoming book tour (I think the real reason is he knows he looks like shit in white).

Anyhow, he says the votes were going pretty well until Cardinal Dolan started screaming about everyone there being such gringophobics (freaking New Yorkers…). So after Cardinal Betori Googled the definition of gringophobia, the whole place erupted in a fighting mob. Angie says they were swearing like Teamsters – Madre di Cristo, that must have been something! Apparently, Cardinal O’Malley punched the shit outta that cardinal from Sydney (those Irish sure can hit!), while Cardinal Tagle ran like a little girl straight to the WC (he’s pretty tiny and has a nervous bladder…). Dolan’s such a holier-than-thou turd. Probably thought he had a chance at the big chair. Arrogant Americans.

Once it was over and they found a vestment that would fit Jorge (he has a pretty big ass), they tossed him out on the balcony for his debut performance and then called for takeout from Olive Garden. And after the third round of Jello shots, everyone was all I love you, man! and finally made up. Then they finished off the Doritos, updated their Twitter accounts, said their evening prayers and trotted off to bed.

Honest to shit, it’s like tucking in teenagers…

3/13/13, parte seconda

Dear Diary;
JORGE!!!!! Holy shit – who freaking knew!!!! Thought he’d mentioned no longer being interested in the big seat. Two-faced ass. Wish I’d known: that $75 EU I placed on Angelo at Vegas would have paid back over $2000 if I’d put it all on Jorge. Hot damn, that’s a whole lotta margaritas…

He and I haven’t had much contact other than that annual Vatican Talent Show about ten years back, when a few of us (Jorge included) dressed up as Flying Nuns a la Sally Field for a synchronized pole-dancing number…  we even won third place! Ah, memories!

Other than the occasional Disneyworld postcard, there hasn’t been any other correspondence. Up ’til two weeks ago, now that I think of it, when he sent an over-the-top goodbye gift basket containing that engraved shoe horn and my favorite Mallomars, along with a QR code on the card that sent me straight to PickMeForPope.com, his campaign site. What a swine…


Dear Diary;
Can’t believe all the mail I’ve been receiving. (I also can’t believe people still remember how to place a freaking stamp on an envelope.) So many letters!! The highlights so far: Oprah wants an exclusive interview (no), Mel Gibson wants an appointment for confession (fuck, no), and Dennis Rodman wants to stop in en route to Pyongyang to ‘hang with my new homeboy’ (holy crap, are you kidding me??!).

The biggest surprise was an autographed photo of Queen Elizabeth with an attached note that reads, ‘Heard you were retiring. You’re such a pussy. Love E.R.’

Mother Carlotta is searching online to find the perfect frame for it.


Dear Diary;
Suddenly realizing that, without the mitre and vestments, folks just don’t recognize me as the Pope Emeritus. In fact, while attending Sister Angelita’s Wild About Wimples demonstration this weekend, I actually wore a HELLO MY NAME IS badge. People had to get a good, long look before they realized it was me in the ball cap, QUESTION AUTHORITY tee shirt and yoga pants.

DAMN – this is gonna be fun. Walmart, here I come!


Dear Diary;
Getting involved in the classes and activities here. The morning Zumba classes led by Sister Mary Mary (you can never have enough Marys) get me going (literally), and Thursday night Bingo is jam-packed. I think it’s the free Chex party mix and Vodka chasers… Anyhow, I created a beautiful candy dish this weekend, using paper mache made of torn up church bulletins! And I’m looking forward to Tuesday’s feature lecture based on ArchBishop Giordano’s runaway bestseller, Tips and Tricks to Becoming a Patron Saint. Hey – you never know.

Speaking of which, I’ve decided to add Saint Joseph, patron saint of carpenters, to my list of daily prayers. Hoping it will speed things up at my new house. Meanwhile, the freaking Jacuzzi here has yet to be opened. I wonder if there’s a patron saint of hot tubs…


Dear Diary;
Lots of calls about product endorsements! Seriously considering some… that PICK A POPE mobile app sounds pretty fun, and the KEEP CALM AND SAY TEN HAIL MARY’S shirt is a freaking riot! I also gave the go-ahead for this year’s Bene-Blanc, a dry white that will be added to the line of Vatican Vino they sell at the gift shop. And last week, the local mercato sent over a sampling of their custom-blend of Pope-Pourri, but frankly it smelled like cat piss.

So far, my favorite idea is the line of designer vestments for the smartly dressed priest to be marketed under the label VatiVesti. It’s a top-rack-only collection that includes a velvet-red Cape of Good Pope for those molto special occasions. I wonder what it would look like with my yoga pants…


Dear Diary;
Dying to know how the meetings are going. Feeling so out of touch! Yesterday I asked Rafaello, the custode who cleans my rooms, to use his connections and find out what’s been happening. Well, I think he got a bit over zealous because he left yesterday morning with one of my old vestments under his arm and I haven’t heard anything since. Except on the news. So I handed my personal Visa to Father DiSantis, who will post bail for him this morning. Stupid fuck, doesn’t he know that cardinals don’t wear Fedoras?!

Meanwhile, the coffee in this place sucks donkey balls. I’d commit a mortal sin for a mocha Frappuccino…


Dear Diary;
First weekend without work in I can’t remember how long! At first it was a bit awkward being in the audience during Sunday Mass, but it was nice to be able to nap and not have to dress up. Or write a stupid homily. Those fuckers would keep me up all Saturday night until a topic would finally come to me…

Nosiree, I’m gonna like sitting in the cheap seats! The only thing that bothered me was the communion wafers. Archbishop Ippolito is wheat-intolerant, so in this chapel the Body of Christ is a gluten-free product. Tastes like warmed over shit, but I suppose I’ll get used to it.