Seems like every three-to-five years or so, new scandals rock the Vatican with shocking minutia regarding priests exploits, generally with naive pre-pubescent bell-ringers.
Color me unshocked. The delicatessen at the corner also occasionally slaughters veal inhumanely. Fortunately, veal is delicious regardless of how it comes to be. Mass is somewhat (read: entirely) less delectable, by contrast. I have a solution, and it doesn’t involve letting the baby cows getting fucked to grow up to be full adult jerseys.
Papa, get rid of the damn vow of celibacy. You, Benedict XVI (I hate sequels, and this is a franchise that stopped being original around the Crusades), you need to open your mind from under that albatross of an erect stocking-cap and just let the priests loosen the white around their collar once in a while.
You ever gone a few weeks without exercising the ol’ libido? It’s torturous and mind-altering. It’s like crashing after a ketamine bender. You get all jittery, you stop noticing the sun, you misplace your ambition to live magnamimously. In other words, it’s like moving to Cheyenne. Frustration sets in, and just once you wished there was a fucking independent record shop you could scrounge for vinyl in. Or, fuck somebody. Anybody.
Imagine going 10-15 years without the pleasure of someone else’s intimate association. You can’t. The human mind isn’t trained to accept that kind of physical restraint. After all, as biological beings, we have two innate drives: 1.) To Eat. 2.) To Sex. Priests generally aren’t allowed to do the latter, and I’ll bet a steady diet of hosts and church wine one Sunday out of the week puts the former into the realm of questionability.
So, since we all know God is a human-construct designed to put a face to things previously unexplained because they hadn’t yet invented ‘science’, maybe we could construct a fair re-representation of the deity and turn him into an encouraging ‘go out there and get yourself laid’ kind of heavenly father, rather than the type who forces you to live in his basement till you’re 38 because he doesn’t believe you’re capable of backing the car out of the driveway without running over the neighbor’s cat. Maybe the priests would be more energetic during their Sunday sermons. Maybe some lucky ladies (or men, judging by their track record) would like to join the “Confessional Club.”
Spirituality is a powerful aphrodisiac. So is command of a room. A young, charismatic priest could become a hot commodity. Maybe more Catholics would enter the service. Fuck, I’d come out of retirement from that. It’d be like endorsing Coke even though I don’t drink soda. You’re paying me in cash, girls and a get-out-of-hell free card? Throw a cross on my back, boys.
At the very least we’ll have weeded out the dyspeptic psychosis resulting in 11 year-old lil’ Joey getting a tire change and a lube job from the mechanics at God’s Garage.
And I think everyone from the pope to the peasants would be pleased as punch about that.