Papal Place

Dear Diary;
New iPhone arrived today! Already uploaded my Zumba playlist and all my eBooks; now installing iRosary, iConfess, Prostate Pal and Zombie Gunship II. Also installing Words With Friends so I can take on Monsignor Allegretti, the current Vatican champ who beat the snot out of Mother Mahoney last week by successfully challenging her spelling of vulvae. What a freaking useless word… as if you can actually have two…

Dear Diary;
Less than 24 hours in and this place is already making me crazy. My mattress totally sucks and they only packed my itchy pajamas. Every time I crack open Fifty Shades of Grey, those asswipes at the office call with another question. The sisters won’t leave me the fuck alone, Wi-Fi is practically non-existent and they haven’t even opened the pool yet.

I gotta go find the sacramental wine stash. And call the contractor for an update on the house…

Dear Diary;
I am OUTTA HERE! Getting ready for the copter ride that will fly me off to my vacay for a few months. Even though it’s really not a vacation: the stupid-ass contractors need more time, so they’re shipping me off. Turds… Besides, everyone thinks it would be best for me to be out of town while the new guy gets settled. So to make things easier for him, I left behind the key to the liquor cabinet, the code to override the parental controls on the porn channels, and those hideous brown shoes the Mexican folks made for me (they look shit-awful with my yoga pants… and they smell funny). Instead, I’ll be taking the pair of Nike Hyperdunks that Dennis Rodman sent me last week. Those babies are the balls!

Oops – they’re tweeting that everything’s ready for the de-poping. Castle Gandolfo, here I come!

Dear Diary;
Last day on the job. Wearing my yoga pants under my vestments while they push me around St. Pete’s for my official goodbye. Fuck ’em if they don’t like it. What are they gonna do: fire me?

Glad those individual meetings with my cardinals are over. Such high maintenance bitches! NO, I can’t put in a good word for you. NO, you cannot have my red shoes. NO, I can’t TIVO DWTS for you. Tomorrow, you’re ass is someone else’s problem. Get outta my face, already!

Last night in the big bed. Good thing because that mattress is shot. Thank Christ I’m not gonna die on it…

Dear Diary;
DWTS cast announcements today – can’t freaking wait! Now that I don’t have to share television time with the house staff or have my programs censored by those turds over at Vatican TV, I can watch whatever the hell I want. Reading my TIVO instructions right now. I also ordered the entire Bond collection, Ferris Bueller on BlueRay, and Seasons 1 and 2 of Downton for my iPad (that Thomas… such a naughty man!).

Final touches on the retirement home are almost finished. Found out there’s an at-home confessional just off the second-floor sauna. Not sure if that location is due to convenience or coincidence…

Dear Diary;
Spending the day signing documents, handing in the keys, posing for photos and tying up the loose ends before Thursday. Starting to feel like I’m in the way. This morning, I saw the WELCOME POPE (fill in name here)!! sign hanging over my desk…

They also moved my stuff over to the new house today. These movers are really chapping my ass: they packed my iPad without asking. How the fuck am I supposed to video conference my life coach??

Dear Diary;
Yoga pants arrived today. Can’t believe how comfortable these babies are! Wore them under my vestment to the final Sunday blessing this morning. Since I was standing at the window, no one out there had a freaking clue! Although I could hear Monsignor Merloni chortling behind me; he says they make my ass look pretty saggy. But I don’t care – I’m ordering more yoga pants and that’s that. They’ll be perfect for hanging around the new man cave…

C’mon Thursday!

Dear Diary:
Food poisoning – from my freaking retirement dinner! Grazie a Dio that stupid bitch of a cook is not joining my new staff. I have informed her several times that her marinated pork butt runs through MY butt faster than the bulls in Pamplona, but nnnoooOOOOooo, she thinks it’s all in my mind and slips it onto the all-you-can-eat buffet. Which I would have normally avoided, but we’d all dipped a bit too far into those peach margaritas that Sister Juanita had specially prepared, and I never caught it.  Next thing you know, I was praying to the papal porcelain most of the night. Could barely even hold down my Eucharistic wafer the next morning. Porca Puttana!

Six more days. Almost packed. This week could not possibly go faster…

Dear Diary;
Heard through the grapevine that they weren’t gonna stock my new bar. Turds…  I fixed things by calling the stupid liquor store myself. Pretty easy stuff once I figured out you had to dial a 9 to get an outside line. Offered the delivery folks a few autographed photos and gave them the back-door access key, and they tossed in the top shelf booze for nothing. YES!

Dear Diary;
This morning, I ordered a Hoveround Power Chair for the new place. They’re giving me a bigass discount if I write a testimonial! Cardinal ‘Frankie’ diFranco has kindly offered to bless it for me. This is gonna be lots more fun than that motorized platform they’ve been pushing me around on for the past few years. And the chair even comes with a chalice cup holder and wicker basket to hold my at-home communion kit. Which, by the way, I’m now calling my Pontifikit – or maybe even Porta-Pope… I haven’t fully decided.

Nine more days!