Hello,
I was in Starbucks in Welling the other day, enjoying my Deluxe Grande Mucho Mocha when I had a funny feeling in me innards. Naturally I retired to the smallest room to do me business, which due my high fiber diet was remarkably succesful, solid and without the usual sulphurous odour. But the funny feeling in my innards remained.
Then there was a flash of light and lo! A man in a frock sporting a bad perm, wings and a harp apparitioned in front of me and said, “Alright Bob, thou art to be the next Pope. Don’t forget to flush.” POUF! the permed messenger from the heavens was gone. I looked down and my rash (or stigmata as I now call it) was shaped just like the Popemobile.
“Verily ’tis a miracle,” I told my lovely wife Shirley when she came back to our seats after enjoying a ciggie outside.
“Twat,” she replied in that loving way of hers, “You’ve about as much chance of becoming Pope as I have of dating George Clooney.”
She’s seeing George. After Bingo.
Pope Bob has a certain ring to it don’t you think? And I already know what they will carry me around in!
Laters my children
Bobus Pottus
