Religious Semantics / Sermontics

I wasn't on a mission from God, I was on a mission from the Pope.

In recent years, thy religious master hadn't many servants to call upon as, despite Jon Bon Jovi's call to "keep the faith", people hadn't. At best, they'd misplaced it.

Like a popular gay cowboy in the 30's through to the 60's, the numbers had been Wayne-ing.

Having heard of my altar boy prowess from whence I was 12 (coincidentally, my alter-ego is 'Altar Boy' - can hold a candle, kneel, and bang a gong), the Pope called for me at once.

Cartoon: "Holy smokes, it's the Vat' symbol"
Cartoonists theorised that the Pope, from the Vatican, would
raise this symbol when divine intervention was required.

Then, at twice, he called again as I was previously engaged (we were much too young, it didn't work out).

I was summoned to the Vat' Cave - it was what the Pope had taken to calling the Vatican, in a futile attempt to appeal to the young. It hooked me! Though, I was neither 'young', nor 'the'.

Thy nerds did flock.

He greeted me with a sign of the holy smokes, before handing me a sealed envelope with the name of "Father Bob Macguire" written in BLOOD! 

Or, it could have been in crayon. I can't be sure.

He instructed me to deliver it to the Triple J studios before 9pm Sunday. And I was to guard it with my life.

He wished me luck, Godspeed and sent with me the Holy Spirit.

And the Holy Spirit proved to be nothing but a hindrance. Had to carry him with me. On my shoulders.

We set out on foot. The left one, followed in quick succession by the right one, and then back to the left again. Luckily the Pope Mobile pulled up in front, so we hopped in and grabbed a lift, avoiding a slow and agonising journey, as much as a slow and agonising paragraph. Or so we hoped.

We travelled wide and far. O'er many hills and through deep crevasses - one in particular comes to mind. It was the largest I had come across, and was hung around the neck of that guy-with-the-making-love-to-food-eyes from Masterchef Australia.

(Ed: That makes no sense, I think you mean 'cravat'.)
(Me: You say cravat, I say crevasse; tomaito, tomarto)

Our journey did see us traversing the Ganges, battling man-eating zebras in the Amazon (the online store), swimming the Nile (the Reverend), scaling Mount Everest, then skiing back down, finding our way through and back out of Tasmania, before hailing down a kangaroo and riding it to the Triple J studios.

I had completed my journey just moments before 9pm, as requested by the Pope (he wasn't to know how many Sundays had passed prior to this particular 9pm on a Sunday). Spotting Father Bob from across the road of the Triple J studios, I quickly grabbed myself a celebratory ice cream and handed him the letter. Mission complete.

Wiping off the blot of ice cream from the envelope, he opened it with a dagger that was strapped to his inner thigh. It was remarkable and, at the same time, unnerving to witness the skills it took for this frail holy man to do this. I couldn't help but marvel and ask why wouldn't he unstrap the dagger from his thigh before using it to open the letter?

It was not for me to question, nor would I (Ed, please remove the last sentence in the previous paragraph so as I don't look the fool and contradict myself).

He read the note with a concerned look on his face. His eyes were squinty (at least, the skin around his eyes) and darting from left to right (his actual eyes this time) in correct English-reading fashion.

His jaw dropped as he reached the end of the letter. I managed to catch it inches from the ground and returned it to its rightful place.

He furrowed his brow, and then an upward crease appeared from his left labial commissure, before his whole mouth (lips, labial commissure and all) opened up and spewed forth a loud, bellowing laugh.

He laughed for what seemed like an eternity (ie. 2 minutes of Sex In The City) before a little wee came out. From that the sleuth in me had deduced that whatever lie within the envelope was funny.

He dropped the letter to the ground and left the room still chuckling to himself. I picked the letter from up off the floor and it read (well, I read):
  
  Knock knock.
  Who's there?
  Jesus.
  Jesus who?
  Oh ye of little faith!! It's Jesus Christ the Messiah, of course!

This whole experience taught me a valuable lesson. Not only is it not funny to joke about religion, but you should never take a joke too far.

Cartoon: Christ was known for his corny sense of humour.
(note: it is not a bunch of rocks heckling cartoon Jesus, but some
poor cartooning skills of a crowd of people. Presumably, all bald.)

A lesson I wish I had learnt prior to typing up this article and before having these blasphemous cartoons drawn up. You live, you learn.

(Disclaimer: Apologies to anyone who finds any of the above offensive - whether you believe in Catholicism, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, Man-made Climate Change, the Easter Bunny or the Cronulla Sharks; my intention is not to offend nor judge. Simply, I am here so that I am not annoying my beautiful wife with this utter garble.)