So I’m sleeping, and I left the TV on. I wake up, and this is the first thing I hear.
“More news on the Pope. We take you now to a press conference at the hospital.”
A translator is feverishly spitting out the English equivalent to what some Italian guy is saying. What he’s apparently saying is that the Pope is breathing on his own and had a good night’s sleep, and the tracheotomy was an elective surgery, why anyone would elect to do that I don’t understand, but anyway that’s not the point. He said that he was breathing easier and for more information, see the statement going to be released at noon. Then people started asking questions. “What is the condition of the Pope’s lungs?” “Will he be at the blessing on Sunday?” And this one fucking drove me over the edge. “What did the Pope eat for breakfast this morning?”
I’m serious, this is what the translator translated. “He had a latte, that’s a coffee with milk, um, uh, a yogurt, and 10 biscuits, they were small biscuits. And he ate it all.”
Woe papa. I care so far as he’s sick. But he does not need a god damn fucking press conference, hourly updates and people asking what the hell he had for breakfast. That’s insane. He’s 84. Do you think maybe it’s his time? If he gets better, cool. If not, he’s eighty-fucking-four. Maybe God has a better place for him. Move on! I’ve seen enough Pope shit to last me a lifetime. It is not the end of the world if the Pope crokes, or judging by what he sounds like, stops croking. Commence flaming.