End of the Rainbow Manor, Blarney Stone Rd., Ireland
Dear Fightin’ Foockin’ Irish,
You’ve really stuck your dicks in it this time, and I don’t mean that just in a fucking-young-boys way. I mean you have really screwed the alter boy on this one. You have committed and/or condoned the worst sin imaginable. Every time I pick up a newspaper in an airport or turn on the TV in the seat in front of Me I see all this hoopla about how you did this, that and the other thing to some juvies in your care. Do you have any idea what you’ve caused? The harm you’ve done? The anguish that flows directly from your actions?
Because of you, people have cut back, or worse, stopped altogether paying into My vacation fund!
Oh… I feel sick. Just this morning, as I was ordering up a wild Osprey egg omelette with a side of Lop Pig bacon, for a fleeting millisecond the thought ran through My head that maybe I’d better order something cheaper. Do you know how that makes Me feel? Violated. That’s how.
Thank Me that My old pal, Bill Donohue, is working on damage control. He points out, quite rightly, that kissing and fondling young boys doesn’t constitute rape, like all of these hysterical “commissions” and so-called “experts” are saying. It’s more of a minor peccadillo, if anything.
But he can’t do it on his own. You’ve got to get out there and make things right. You owe it to the ones you’ve hurt the most; namely, Me and My boys.
So I expect every Catholic priest, from Father Ted to Pope Ratz, to take a pay cut in order to make up My shortfall. That means less KY jelly, fewer pairs of Prada shoes and making do with semi-precious stones in your formal mitre. It’s the only way to expunge this heinous crime you’ve commited.
I’d like to rake you over the coals more right now, but they’re calling My flight. Needless to say, those of you also vacationing on Fire Island this weekend had better stay out of My way if you don’t want a good dressing down.
Wish You Were here,