Jeffrey Mirus is Unwell

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WARNING: FOUL LANGUAGE.

SOHO — I’ve tried ignoring this Pope but the bastard won’t go away. He's not good for my income stream. Yes, I’m going to have a right old moan today — and this month we hit only 17% of our fundraising goal. Pope of Mercy? You must be joking. Tell that to my broker. But at least I had a booze blowout with a few fellow Neo-Caths to sanitize our sorrows. Last night I poured gin into my computer keyboard and it nearly blew up. There aren’t any prizes for shills but that's just what I am. If I don't play ball regarding Frankie, I get kicked in the balls. Which reminds me, I’m somewhat choked at not having been invited for a drink by the Patheos Women’s Guild. I have been invited to take a drink with Mark Shea though. Bollocks the thought. But [redacted], who betrayed his college for 30 silvers, went berserk in TGI Fridays yesterday and bought me two drinks. He asked me for a loan and I pretended he was joking. Could this be some sort of honey trap?

Anyway, I think I may have cracked it this year. The website spend account is sending me to Cuba where I shall be once again lying about Frankie. This could lead to suicide, I fear, if the self-pity and sentiment sets in and I really don’t want to be found dead wearing a "who am I to judge?" button. It looks quite silly enough as it is. Incidentally, do you think I can trot out my "Pope thinking outside the box" argument again? I've already used it fifty-nine fucking times. When they get wise to it, I'll try something different. What?

But by far the worst thing about the shilling, apart from the suicidal tendencies, is the business of acting the clown. This is what my doctorate was for? Snowing the donors. But who else will Help Keep Jeff Out of the Nick.

Now if Bergo could read, I’d sit right down and write him a letter. Dear Super Pope, it would start too. He likes a little sycophancy, as we all know, as do all idols, gods, features editors, publicans, bank managers and anybody else in the nursing business. For one thing I’d ask for a German Cardinal to drop in twice a week and pass me an envelope. Secondly I’d like a return ticket to Disney for the rest of the Papal Mystery Tour plus a one-way ticket out of Londonistan to anywhere. Then I’d like an introduction to one of those extraordinary Irish women who’ve been brought up to tolerate the most appalling five-thousand word blog posts on Vatican II and even come back for more.

So, over there, Simon Bolivar's birthday is coming up, which I hear is sort of like Christmas but for Masons. That puts me in the mood. If you should be Catholic enough — sorry rich enough — to think that it’s better to give than to receive, then I suppose we must consider the wonderful blog readers who’ve put up with a lot from me this past year. I’d very much like to take all the female staff on this web rag out to lunch. Not that I have any. But still. I’d like to buy Crabby Trad a colour telly and then make her watch it and I’d like to get Snotty Trad a dictionary of slang so as to enrich his abuse of me. I’d love to give Ignatius Press the book they commissioned me to write in 1897 and I’d like to give my landlord April's rent. As it is, I’m afraid that all I’ll be giving this year is a hard time to my barman. At least I can tell him my true feelings about Frankie. Not that he cares. He's a Low Anglican. I shall also bung my doorman who amazingly deludes himself that I’m a professor and a gentleman. The poor fool probably thinks I’m Cardinal Newman too.