ScotchSquatch

Ah, the papal conclave—a time-honored tradition where 135 crimson-clad cardinals gather in the Sistine Chapel to elect the next supreme ruler of the church. It’s like Survivor: Vatican Edition, but with worse smells, cuter sandals, and way more gay dudes.

As the College of Cardinals prepares to cast their votes on scrolls, let’s meet the frontrunners vying for the pointiest white hat without eye holes.

Let’s start with my least favorite candidate. Yes, I have favorites.

Cardinal Raymond Burke, this Wisconsin-born church dork’s claim to fame has been bashing the LGBT community and criticizing Pope Francis for being too kind and understanding. He’s been quoted as saying, “Mercy is fine in moderation. Like wine or female opinions.” And he used to call Pope Francis, “Pope F-Word”. I’d type it out, but I’m already so close to being cancelled. Cardinal Ray Ray also believes the Vatican should be able to declare war, claiming, “It’s called the Vatican, not the Vatican’t.”

Next up at bat is Cardinal Robert Sarah. Sarah is the torchbearer for traditionalists, advocating for a return to all Latin Mass, Gregorian chants, and public stonings. He believes the Church’s decline began when pews got cushions and people started eating shrimp. What’s funny about him is that he has a ton of traditionalist beliefs, which means conservative Christians should love him, but he’s a black dude, so they probably won’t.

Now for my second favorite, Cardinal Pierbattista Pizzaballa, the holy stromboli himself, vows to replace the traditional Jesus cracker, or Jeez-It, with something a little tastier, like a garlic-rosemary focaccia. He also vows to make the Vatican more accessible to everyone, claiming, “When you’re here, you’re family!” Look at him, talking with his hands. We can’t have a pope who gives sermons like he’s ordering gabbaghoul at the deli.

Now for my heavy favorite…

Me, the Scotchsquatch! I think it’s a no-brainer to make me the next pope. First of all, in a battle of brains, I’m coming out on top. I’ve read a ton of books, not the same three books over and over again. Secondly, if the pope needs to fight someone, these three dorks are going to get their old bird bones broken. Whereas if I’m the pope, and any of these Cardinals (the person- not the bird) step to me and challenge my authority, I’d beat the ever-living shit out of them. No mercy, old-testament style.

Also, take a good, long look at the people who want to be pope. All these out-of-touch, loose-skinned, Werthers Originals sucking, unattractive old men look like the human equivalent of an 88 Buick Riviera. And then there is me, the Scotchsquatch. Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Looking like a world-class cutie pie.

So, as the Sistine smoke gets ready to drift skyward and the cardinals clutch their rosaries and pray to a God they swear they talk to, let us reflect on what truly matters in this sacred moment: tradition, holiness, and raw, unfiltered dominance in both mental and physical combat.

Will the church choose another relic of repression? A Gregorian gatekeeper? The focaccia messiah?

Or will they finally evolve and crown the only candidate with the holy trinity of brains, brawn, and cuteness? That’s right—me, the Scotchsquatch. First of his name. Breaker of doctrines. Slayer of outdated dogma. Dominator of brunch.

So until the smoke turns white or the papal throne becomes a boxing ring, remember this: If the kingdom of God is within you, and if you’re reading this I’m sure it is, I suggest you start being nicer to me, as I’m about to have the authority to strike people dead and flood the earth.

The reckoning is on its way, and it’s stopping for cocktails.