Dope on a Pope

Yesterday, as my skinny white legs emerged from the first short pants of the warm seasons, white smoke emerged at the Vatican to announce the election of a new pope.

He's Benedict XVI and he's delightfully tasty in hollandaise sauce or something.

Yeah, I'm miffed. I wanted to be pope. I'm happ'nin' in satin.

Sure, I withdrew my name from consideration, but that doesn't mean they couldn't have twisted my arm to do the job. Anyone who knows me is well aware I've long coveted becoming Pope Shemp I.

Or Eminence for short. (There goes my hip hop career.)

Once again, I must wait. For now, I am simply Mike Durrett, creator of The Shemptown Sound.

My brother, Bob, sent along a note about my list of "reasons for not becoming pope." He says: "You forgot the apparent part about the necessity to have bad teeth."

Thanks. I hadn't noticed the hallowed tradition of mangled pope choppers. I tend to relate bad teeth to our Wal-Mart. I think of the Wal-Mart as being a religious place. It's as big as the Vatican, has Golden Arches, and I look at the slugs in there and say, "Holy crap!"

I've heard it revealed the new pope was a member of The Hitler Youth. He shall not be judged by me. I have my skeletons, too, for -- forgive me, O Lord -- I was Benny the Ball in The Top Cat Club.

Being in a club based on Hanna-Barbera cartoon characters still shames me. I spent my tenure forced into limited animation. No one was allowed to see my often remarked upon skinny white legs move.

The Bible teaches us that we should not carry a grudge or a party assortment of love jellies. So, alas, I'll get over the papal snub.

This time.

It's just that I've always wanted a pinkie ring the size of a chariot.

For while God is my co-pilot, bling bling is my co-Pilate.