Being Poped

Yesterday, I cavalierly said:
"Well, it was hard to let everybody down, but I had to bow out of the running (which caused major confusion: hence the initial black smoke). Instead, they had to go with the second choice: the German Doberman (or was it some other mean breed that the British press compared Ratzinger to?)
:)
It would have cramped my style, anyways."
Well, my British expert, Lever, helped me out (although, I'm *sure* he doesn't read the tabloids... ;) ) It was actually a Rotweiler that Ratzinger was compared to. (Aside: I adore British tabloids: they're so fuckin funny and generally spot-on!)
Then:
Keeefer said...
"Tough Luck BBFK,
Ya know girls aren’t allowed to play. These dresses are strictly men only.....do you think his bum looks big in that?....he really should get it taken in at the sides the whole billowy things so last century. On the plus side if you took the incense out of the burner it would make a good handbag."

Unfortunately, I haven't seen any good ass shots of Ratzinger, so I can't gauge. Maybe he's trying to hide something...

But after all this commentary I feel compelled to open up to you, my internet buds.
That's right. I haven't been completely honest with you. There's another reason why I was put out of the running for being Poped, and it wasn't just because I turned 'em down.

There have been 2 incidences of note that I am going to reveal to you here in confidence, that one may label as "detrimental" to my being poped.

1.) I had a car accident in a church parking lot. OK, and this is something that I have a hard time admitting to, pretty much because I like to promote the idea that I'm a good driver, and in part because I hit a non-moving vehicle. OK, yeah, that's right-yuck it up. I hit a fucking parked car. Even better, no one was around at the time (well, at least visible) and after inspection of the car in question (which seemingly had nothing wrong with it), I decided to be done with the situation and leave. Now, in my defense, I was driving the family vehicle: a giant van, and I rarely drove anything at that young, time in my life-so I was very inexperienced.
Well, as it happens, a woman had been spying from the window of the rectory, and didn't bother coming out to aid, as I looked quizzically around for help with the situation. Also, I was a good little girl, and was spending the weekend volunteering for the church's fund raising fair (as I did every summer), so of course I returned later for the rest of the evening. You could imagine my surprise when I was accosted by a police officer who needed to talk to me, as I was trying to run the bean-bag throw game of the kiddie booth. I was taken aside and told that I was being charged with a hit-and-run violation and at the ripe age of 18, would likely never drive again. Fortunately, the *good* police officer saw the ridiculousness of the situation (blazingly, fucking obvious when you consider the lack of ANY damage to either vehicle-I had been parked and was going 2-5 miles per hour at collision-and the fact that I was young, naive, and confused about how to deal.) He spoke with this old bitchy, religious snob who kept telling me that "She would pray for me and my errant ways" as I sobbed out "I'm sorry" over and over. He got the woman to not press charges.
And yes, that really did happen, as did this next story:

2.) My brother was a good little Catholic boy and spent time in servitude every Sunday, as an altarboy. One especially late mass: I believe it was a midnight Christmas mass, he was left in charge of cleaning up. Any good Catholic knows that the steps involved includes extinguishing all the candles, dumping the incense, returning the props (crosses, etc.) to their storage spaces. Well, he did it all, he just didn't actually make sure that the incense was completely extinguished before throwing it in the wastebasket.
We got a call at 4am in the morning that the church was burning. Yes. That. Is. Right. *MY* adorable brother (who hasn't been excommunicated yet, surprisingly) burnt down the church. I remember a year-long period or more where we were forced to celebrate mass in the gym, while the church was being reconstructed. Oh, and there's a little fond memory in there of becoming nauseous during some particularly long sermon and puking in the toilet down the hall from the gym. (The church made me sick quite regularly-generally it just involved fainting spells, but occasionally, there was puking as well.)

But anyways, that there’s the truth. Oh, and why I wasn’t picked to be Pope, although I had Ratzinger beat on cuteness by a mile.