Papal Pleasures

"Every hard-boiled egg is yellow inside." Goddammit! I'm upset and distraught and so on.  My application to be Pope was ignored.  I even took up smoking to create the white smoke to signal my acceptance.  But sadly I was passed over for that German fellow.  Oh woe is me.  It's so unjust living in Godzone, the land of the long white mortgage.  I would have been New Zealand's first Pope. Seeking condolence, I called into my local bar to drown my sorrows.  The owner told me to remove my Pope's outfit and stop waving smoking incense around.  Apparently smoking in bars would cause the sky to fall and create pestilence throughout the land.  I'd taken great care to ensure my Pope's outfit was authentic.  I wore a carpenter's mitre box on my head and my sheet was hand painted with golden stripes and gathered at the waist.  My purple slippers were made in Taiwan and thus genuine Vatican issue.  I even carried a copy of Best Bets to guarantee being first past the post on race days. The prison Chaplin told me I was a worthy soul and would be glad when he saw the back of me.  He obviously realised I was qualified in Papal procedures. When they let me out, I decided to brush up on religion.  There was a church around the corner.  I'm not sure what breed it was but it had a bell tower, lovely wooden rafters and multi coloured paper squares over the windows.  A deep sense of religious fever overcame me and whetted my thirst for atonement.  At the top end of the church I discovered a small room and low and behold, there were six bottles of sweet sherry blessing my indulgence.  In full sight of God I hid under a big table covered with a white tablecloth with frilly edges.  It had a large silver ornament in the middle.  I think they used it for sacrifices. Toasting my forthcoming appointment as Pope, I was into the third bottle when I noticed a disturbance at the far end of the church.  Lifting the tablecloth, I watched with amazement.  It was totally disgusting.  A group people led by a man wearing a long skirt were deliberately trying to drown a small baby in what looked like a king-sized ashtray on a stand.  They were dipping the baby in water and chanting and waving.  The baby was crying.  It was so uncivilised I almost dropped my bottle of sacramental wine.  I was so upset it took the last three bottles to calm my religious fever. The next day I booked into a motel to permanently borrow the Gideon Bible they kept in the top drawer.  Once I'd worked out which way up it went, I commenced reading my intended employer's word.  The fables were excellent and made it obvious that all one needed to live in profitable society, was to obey His word without question.  Having been on sabbatical for many years, I readily agreed.  After all, a job was a job and the sacramental perks on Sundays would be most welcome. I also obtained a copy of the Koran.  Apparently Koranism was another breed of religion and much to my amazement I found much the same advice as the Bible promoted.  It was then I knew I would make Papal Pleasures my life's work.  It was obviously God's Will and Testament that I become Pope. But alas, God's Will was not to be.  I awoke to find I had been passoverly forgotten.  I couldn't stop shaking until the liquor store opened.  But life goes on and I've decided to auction my Papal outfit on Ebay with a reserve of $5 million.  This will keep me in relative comfort while campaigning for the job of President of the United States.  I can't possibly lose.  I've talked to God about it.