Word count: 1043 | Reading time: 5 min read
Pretzel Logic
What’s a nice yid like me doing with a dream like this?
Let me let you in on one of my deepest, darkest secrets.
I have papist envy.
I want to be Pope when I grow up.
I even hear music in my head sometimes, from the musical Fiddler On The Roof, explaining it all.
“If I were the Pope, man… yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yadda yad…”
It’s something that’s always been tucked away, down in the deepest recesses of my mind. Pope Howie Phillip the First.
What a first it would be.
First Pope with a beard.
First Pope to smoke dope.
First Holy Father with kids of his own.
And, to top it all off, first Holy Hymie from Hymie Town.
Pope Howie Phillip The First: The Yontiff Pontiff.
My secret yearnings were confirmed as I watched the present Pope driving through Giants Stadium to the cheers of thousands.
That guy, I thought to myself, has it going on.
Great threads.
Boffo lid.
And, living the dream of every red-blooded ‘Merican male, a nifty set of wheels named after him.
The Popemobile.
You have to be pretty special to have a car named after you.
A dead Indian chief, like Pontiac.
A dead racist innovator like Ford.
A caped crusader. Batman has the Batmobile (not to mention the Bat Boat, the Bat Cycle, the Bat Copter and, my all-time favorite conveyance, the Baterang). Courageous Cat has the Catmobile. Homer Simpson has the Homermobile.
Well, Homer Simpson’s not caped and he’s no crusader, but you get the point.
Think of how great it would be to drive around Philly in the bulletproof Popemobile. I could run out in the middle of the night for a prescription, oblivious to the Uzi-toting crack dealers or the even-more-bloodthirsty members of South Philly’s special families, who after years of ineptitude have finally learned a little about marksmanship.
“Hey, Skinny Joe, kiss my ass,” I could yell through the speakers of the Popemobile, thumbs in my ears, fingers wiggling in contempt. “Nya nya, nya nya. Joey is a sissy.”
There are many other perks to the job.
Like free meals.
When’s the last time you ever saw the Pope reach into his vestments to pick up the tab? It’s like being president or mayor. And what maitre d’hotel would even think of keeping me waiting for a table?
“Pardon me, Holy Father, but could you wait at the bar?”
Or.
“Pope, party of four…”
I don’t think so.
Going to the movies would be great.
How many people are going to yell, “Hey, pal, move the miter or I’ll knock it off?”
And no one would fuck with me even when I got out of the Popemobile. See those guys with the funny suits and the long poles? Nobody, I mean nobody, screws with the Swiss Guards.
You get your own theme music.
Me, I would have the Peter Gunn theme blaring before I make my entrances. Imagine how pumped up the crowd would get hearing that.
Then there’s the artwork. And the fact that, as Pope, you could cheat at cards and get away with it.
Who, I ask, would dare question the pontiff?
“Aah, excuse me your Holy Eminence, but was that an ace you pulled out of your chasuble?”
Of course, I would make a few changes.
First and foremost, celibacy would be eliminated.
What good is being a hep cat like the Pope if you can’t have groupies? Abortion, birth control and homosexuality? Hey, do unto others, baby.
Secondly, I’d hire my own band. Call it the Holy Roman All-Stars. Clapton, Page and Jeff Beck on guitar. Robert Plant singing. John Paul Jones on the bass. I’d fill in on the drums and harp.
I’d get rid of those damn pigeons. Think of how much I could save the Holy See in cleaning bills.
Every Pope needs a papal saying.
Mine? “Now You Can Hope, ‘Cuz Howie’s The Pope.’”
And no more of this kissing my feet stuff. No more groveling and stammering for words.
I imagine that, just once, the Pope would love to sit down with someone who wasn’t genuflecting and stuttering and blushing and babbling about “how very nice it is to meet you your Popeness… ah, I mean holiness, uh…no, uh Mr. Pope, sir…” That someone would actually try to kick his ass in a game of Scrabble.
Being that I live in Philly, “Yo, Pope” would be the new, official papal greeting.
Right now, it’s the height of coolness, I think, that there are papal pogs.
But under my reign, that would only be the start. There’s always a concern about reaching the younger generation.
I would start my own line of Papal Action Figures.
GI Pope.
Teenage Mutant Ninja Papists.
Papal Rangers. (I wonder how many kids would fight over who gets to be Tommy the Blue Pope?)
Transformer Popes.
Sister Barbie, complete with habit and matching pumps.
I would have a Barney the Purple Pope kiddie show.
Where In The Vatican Is Carmen San Diego?
I would start my own talk show: Jesus and Kathy Lee.
My own cooking show: The Vatican Gourmet.
Taking a page out of Charles Schultz’s coloring book, I would endorse everything.
Got a piece of The Rock?
Fooey.
Get a piece of the Pope.
Like a good neighbor, Pope Howie is there.
You’re in good hands with Pope State.
There are, of course, downsides to all this.
I would have to enroll in the College of Cardinals.
I’m no Cardinals fan.
I can’t stand Buddy Ryan.
But what the hell, I mean heck. A guy can dream, can’t he?
Back when I was growing up in Brooklyn, there were only two kinds of people.
Jews and Catholics.
And that’s where I contracted Papist Envy.
They had the Pope. All we had was some bearded old guy named Schneerson, whose suits and hats came in only one color, black. And, because we weren’t Orthodox, he wasn’t really even our guy, anyway.
I don’t mean to piss off my Catholic friends, who are many.
But like the old saying goes:
The Pope is always greener on the other side of the fence.
