A Farewell Letter From Pope Benedict XVI
Dear Flock of Sheep,
On this day, the 11th of February, 2013, I hereby declare that I resign my position as Bishop of Rome, Sovereign of Vatican City and God’s direct messenger to his chosen people — jihadists, homosexuals and women obviously excluded. My tenure as Pope has been a short one; I would like it to be longer, but Federico Lombardo, bastard son of a whore and gnat in my ear —also the spokesman for the Church — tells me that my reign must come to a close because I am demented.
I personally think he is an idiot — while I was studying the holy scriptures of God, he was undergoing training to become the Holy See of the Press Office. While I was locked in my study, pouring over the word of God, he was receiving training on how to apply his own make-up for television appearances. While I was writing the doctrine for the 21st century church, he was editing 300 word press releases. While I was Tweeting the messages of our Lord Jesus Christ in seven languages, he was struggling to translate Italian Facebook posts into simple English. “How do you say ‘vafanculo’ in English?” he said to me the last time I told him to go whip himself in his cell for being disobedient. I tried to slap him in the mouth but oh, my Lord, my arms are so weak, and my muscles have begun to atrophy under the weight of my gold threaded vestments.
I worked many years kissing John Paul II smug little arsch to get to my position. “Ratzinger, one day you will inherit the earth,” he would say to me as I sat at his feet, and purred while he stroked my hair, thin and soft like a rabbit. “But only if you promise to me that you will not punish those initiates who may or may not have been molesting children, but nevertheless, were fun times in the seminary. Do you remember, my lamb?”
When he died, I gave gifts aplenty to the College of Cardinals. Tapestries woven with precious medals. Titians to hang above their horsehair matresses. “I’m not saying you should vote for me,” I told them. “But J. Paul II did leave me the key to his private vestibule, and all the rumors you’ve heard about the treasures it contains are absolutely true.”
When I was elected, it was a triumph for the German people. I was the first of my kind to be elevated to the papacy in over 500 years — or so my Wikipedia page says. What those idiots forget is that the Germany has only been an official country since 1871.
There are some things I’m not proud of. For instance, my membership in the Hitler Youth. But oh, my people, I swear to you that I did not hate those dirty Jews. There was just a blue-eyed boy named Franz who took me under his wing, and promised me fraternity. That, and at the Saturday meetings, they served Schwarzwälder Kirschtorte, which is my absolute favorite. Or was, before I was diagnosed with diabetes. (Even still, the cook sneaks me little bites in my bedchamber — I leave him my wardrobe!) But I do believe the Holocaust is at least 25% as bad as they say it was, and for that, I atone.
Lombardo, this salt in my wound, is reading over my shoulder, and he says that I should also note that I’m not proud of losing control of my bowels at Midnight Mass this past Christmas. To which I say, “Is it my fault you stole my diapers, woven from the finest Alpalca, and stitched to my body by the loving fingers of my initiates, in order to make yourself a fine traveling cape?” “Wrap it up,” Lombardo tells me, in his peasant tongue. “Anderson Cooper awaits me for an interview.”
My people, please do not forget me. Remember me in the same way that you remember Gregory XII, who was the last Pope to resign from office in 1415. He did so to resolve the schism in the Church. I do so because sometimes I forget the Lord’s Prayer in the middle of Mass. “Sometimes,” Lombardo just snorted. “How about last week when you asked for a moment of silence for the refugees in Syria, and then wandered off to the catacombs, looking for lunch?”
What he forgets is that during moments when my mind is lost, God disguises my tongue—a sign, surely, that I am the chosen one. Miraculously, the last time I forgot where I was, and started reciting love poems in German to the deceased Heinrich, the delightful young man with whom I shared a rectory in the 1950s, everyone thought that I was just barking at a bunch of pigeons in the courtyard.
Lombardo, the weasel, is trying to rip the pen from my hands. Before I go, I leave my golden chalice and my ermines to Martin, the bastard son of my sister Maria, who is the only soul who ever truly loved me. As my successor I choose Herman, the monk whom I locked up in the vaults of the Vatican in 1972. He has proven to be quite obedient, after all of these years in captivity; he speaks in tongues, and surely, given his tenacity for survival, will save the Church from ruin. To Lombardo, I leave nothing, not even this note. If you would like to burn him, feel free; it has been done in the Church many times before.
Buona note, my sheep, auf wiedersehen. I will love you to the death; please, I beg of you, canonize me only after Lombardo has been burned. Otherwise, he will use his influence and his considerably charming smile to block the process, and I will be forgotten until the next Pop resigns in the year 3012.
Your Pope,
Benedict XVI
This is clearly not written by the Pope, and my Catholic guilt screams at me for writing it. I’m actually a little sad to see the old man go. But a little humor never hurt anyone; especially not one as close to God as the pope.
