Death of a Pope

Pope John Paul II has gone on to his deserved greater glory.
Unlike most people ascending to Heaven who must wait to be judged by St. Peter and The Book before passing through those pearly gates, I suspect the Pope will be taking the express lane with valet parking directly to his room next to The Big Guy’s master suite.
Unlike the lawyer joke about naming all the passengers on the Titanic in order to gain admittance, John Paul’s only test question will be something like “did you bring your toothbrush?”
Of course, the tears haven’t dried on St. Peter’s Square yet and already the big question is which backup quarterback will be elevated to the starting Papal team.
The candidates stretch from Italy to India to Brazil.
Word has it that no Americans have made the short list, but we shouldn’t take it personally.
After all, it took nearly 2000 years to get a pope from Poland into the big chair, and they’ve been around a good bit longer than we have.
So the question of succession is at hand, along with all of the corollaries which will perplex scholars until the first puff of white smoke arises from the Vatican chimney.
Questions like:
Whose picture will Sinead O’Connor tear up every morning when she gets out of bed?
Whose face will be printed on the rifle targets at the Bulgarian Secret Service firing range?
Whose effigy will the pro-choice crowd set on fire to start their weekend rallies?
Who will the Jews, Muslims, Christians, and others with no breathing religious patriarch to petition, be jealous of now?
Who gets to ride around in the Vatican’s bulletproof vehicle for the next few weeks?
(My money is on Batman, since he already has a car that looks a lot like the Pope-mobile.)
Who gets to wear the big, funny hat in the Pope’s absence?
(I suspect the Pope and Minnie Pearl will have a lot to talk about in Heaven.)
Some folks may be offended at my levity in regard to the recently-departed papal icon, but I contend that Pope John Paul II had a sense of humor.
Besides, if he can forgive the guy who put holes in his best cassock with a pistol back in 1981, I’m sure he has some forgiveness in his heart for a wayward writer from Mesquite.
(Although Sinead O’Connor hasn’t had a hit since her Saturday Night Live debacle, so maybe there’s more to fear than I realize.)
The good news is that the Pope will be reunited with the eight feet of intestines that were removed following the 1981 attempt on his life.
The bad news is that Earth-bound humanity has lost a gentle friend.