My beloved flock of moderately sober souls, today we gather not just for communion, nor just for Bingo Night Eve, but for divine intervention in the Vatican’s recruitment policy. Yes, I speak of the sacred and heavily stained path toward the elevation of “Dick” Bulger of Boston—a man whose robe smells like malt liquor and expired deli meat—unto the Throne of Saint Peter.
Let us pray:
“Oh Lord, who once chose a humble fisherman, and more recently some fellas who couldn’t even reset their iPhones… why not now select Dick Bulger, thy chaotic servant from Boston, whose only miracle was surviving on roast beef and Bud Light for 47 consecutive days without scurvy?”
Lord, he is already dressed for the part: a tattered bathrobe that clings to him like original sin, sunglasses that hide the emptiness of his soul, and a beard white as the Holy Ghost’s armpit. He smokes cigars with the confidence of a man who hasn’t paid taxes since the Reagan administration. And unlike other Popes, he already has a CB radio antenna welded to his headgear. Glory be.
And yea, though the other cardinals weep and scream and dry-heave in his presence, we know they are merely overcome by the Spirit—either that or the fumes from his beefy incense.
So, we beseech thee, oh Lord of heaven, sausage, and discount electronics: let Dick Bulger sit upon the Papal Throne. Let him declare every Friday to be roast beef mandatory. Let him replace holy water with Miller High Life. Let the Vatican finally install an official CB radio on the balcony, so the Pope may scream across the airwaves: “This is Pope Dick, doin’ a shout out to all you sinners on channel 38. I forgive ya, but you still gotta venmo me ten bucks.”
And all God’s people said: “Break Three Eight, Amen.”
