No hi ha al món re més repugnant que un botifler

Tant d’èxit (milers de valtres vantant-me’n la tria), tant d’èxit ha tingut el bocinet de capítol de la novel·la d’en Tim Catalonian afegit ací l’altre jorn que hi he anat cercant com un beneit (al tom magnífic del seu darrer títol, benauradament eixit enguany) i al capdavall, entre tant de bo, he trobat aquest altre bocí que també s’escau d’allò pus a la situació. Confiem que us faci tanta de peça si més no.

An excerpt from Tim Catalonian’s The Great Unamerican Activity (2005.) From chapter two (Pontiffs Galore) of the first book, page 58.

The Lolita Pope

Cardinal Puça had missed being elected pontiff just by that little bit of nothing — bastards, a couple of votes and he was definitely in. But now his chances were shot. For a few days he’d been so confident he was going to be the choice that he had grown careless, he’d acted sinuous and screwbally in front of the home press, showing off and so on, goofy, cranky, scabrous, climatic, in spite of his advanced age: ninety-two sharp.

And then, in retaliation, a couple of younger fellows in their eighties, much the worst for wear, failed him. He was sure they were in his camp, but, umbrageously, in a huff, in the last moment had jauntily defected — a couple of shitheaded Eyetalians. Rangy geezers even pretended, as a lame excuse, to remember the last time another Catalonian pope had been in the throne — the fucking Borgia, such a criminal ghoul of a guy.

—Truly, Puça wryly asked of his too-pious, holier-than-shit slaughterers, but are all Catalonians ugly and unrepaying and sons-of-whores and so on just because the fucking Borgia was one…? Let’s not derail here. By the same token, are for that matter all Peruvians downtrodden creeps only because cardinal Pelé is a cretinous Injun, and all Bulgarians phony because cardinal Stojkoff is a smirking monkey, and all Canadians drunkards because cardinal Laphooey spends his sorry life in a padded hutch so that he can indulge himself banging away in his bouts with tremendous delirium…?

Now Puça was miffed. He said, “If not me, nobody, by golly!”

So he started plotting like a rabid dog, wheezing up and down the cloistral passages and musty, murky, dark underwater and subterranean jails, where the heretics still rotted away, in their shrines of torture, badly stitched where the cleansing operations had taken place on the stigmatized patchwork of their bodies; worse, more grievously still, branded and stenciled with the most recent, abstruse, cryptic dogmas, so that they should never forget, as the butchers themselves would without that touchy sensible remainder in front of their bloodthirsty eyes.

Upstairs, in a gossipy, old-womanish bunch, the council of barren, cadaverous, unbearably stenchful, moldering pelts, still enveloped by their worm-eaten crimson shrouds, was deadlocked.

After much circumfluent sense of dire bereavement for the wits of the inspired and the graced, now seemingly jilted by the powers of the olympian heights, in fact after more base, wily maneuvering, in the upshot the rumors reached Puça that the loose ends were getting miraculously tied by that mystic disembodiment of a seamstress, the hideous, pig-faced Virgin Maryann, tutelary fairy for the Injun idiots, and that in consequence a spic from Southamerica was liable to be chosen, faute-de-mieux.

Shit, then, how Puça hurriedly ran up. He, an anti-spic racist, as most Catalonians, couldn’t stomach the deadly punch. In a rush, he stormed the council: “What the fuck…?” he started.

Then he sat down, to recover his breath. The warren stank, as it couldn’t but do. Claustrophobic, Puça nonetheless sneered for once at his own fear of infectious miasmas and deeply inhaled. The instant was crucial, and thus demanded even this ultimate sacrifice of his otherwise up-till-now fairly coddled lungs. Restored, he asked to be heard. Limber enough, he got up. Lapidary, to-the-point, invoking the powers ludicrously depicted on the far, gaudy ceilings, he waved as a demonic flag the torn and faded cape he wore, and resonantly spoke.

“Brethren, let’s not wrestle with the malign anymore. Let’s not succumb to his bellicose mania and always propitiate him like he’s another fucking god. He wants war, we want peace. He’s always putting all this interdictions on our way to be skirted as well as we are able to — alas, never too excellently, isn’t that a fact…? We are full of guilt, irked by our constant failures, never succeeding on licking him; on the contrary, fetching a severe hiding every time we engage in battle against so many dreary obstacles the malign situates on our path to fulfillment. Why the fuck so many strictures…? I say, dear compeers, why is our race to salvation plagued with so many arbitrary, gratuitous, trashy impediments…? Who the fuck is putting them there if not the malign par excellence…? How does it all jive with our thirst for simplicity…? Let’s stop such losing streak, let’s not skid any longer down the abyss to the ridiculous overdoing of the difficulties, ok…? Indeed, let’s do away with all the silly commandments that impinge on our clear path to all-dominance…? Let’s appoint I say somebody that shall engage the whole world in following our drift in order to float up this negligent sphere over to the realms of placid felicitous paradisiacal outrageousness! Here’s is a girl! Let us appoint her for the job!”

The virginal vestal was produced under a fanfare of fifes. She was Lucretia, a daughter of his (obtained with the dumb collaboration of a laundress of his, a Neapolitan with no brains but plenty of ass and tits,) a gorgeous girl barely fourteen years old, and a saucy, winky beauty to boot.

Puça went on with his fiery discourse: “With such chaste, unripe, though clandestinely lecherous, womanhood, jiving perfectly with the sacred, archetypal remembrance of the White Goddess, mother of all (of us,) and of all (that is,) who is gonna be the sorrowful fucker not following us now, eh…? Plus don’t lose sight that priests in general are supposed to go with their tongue hanging after little boys (in bulk, as I say, and truly enough, as we all well know,) priests of all hues are supposed to have it in for boys and their shorty peepees and funky sacra and assholes and thrilling pope’s noses and such, and barely if at all for tiny twats…, hey, and wouldn’t you have guessed it, all that (such flagrant unnaturalness!) has lately put many people off, and off the church plates, which is much worst. With a naughty girly at the top we subvert all those injurious tendencies… And we cause the joy to return to the temples, and the hope to the world… Plus, the malign, no longer engaged in trumped-up battles, goes a-mourning to a corner in a black hole for another eternity; no more battles for us, all rigged in his favor, for at last humans got wise. Humans came into their own and recognized that all those stumbling blocks put by themselves in front of their liberating paths were self-generated by the inspiration of the malignant force, and, once removed, as if by magic, Beulah’s (where we tarry till summoned to the celestial locale,) gets perennially installed — perennially, or at least during the lustrous time where earth’s allowed to rotate in the terrifying emptiness of the outsides.”

By no means everyone endorsed this eminently healthy revolution. Popess Joan, best pontiff in history, also a martyr to driveling male numbskullery, was beseeched for numinous aid… Stated Puça, most forbiddingly: “Who but an awfully misguided devil worshipper would place more weight in a runty stunted appendix than in a bole of utter, most generous plenty…? It ain’t the same the mighty tree and the worthless sucker at its side — any mother could smash her helpless baby — who is already so ungratefully senile he forgets it…? Indeed, who, but the by the malign most misled, adjudges to a couple of paltry piffly little testicles more importance than to the ponderous magnificence of a couple of big mammalian worlds…? And what about glutei…? Incomparably favorable to women! Let’s not quibble any longer about stupidities; brethren, let’s be done with ‘em already — shit, enough, I say!”

A few of the most reluctant old-fashioners, otherwise too-stiff to bend and be shafted by other means, were surreptitiously dispatched, in the hoary, revered style of the pontificate wars — they were mostly poisoned, with poison mushrooms, with poisoned pricks, with poisoned barbs — the vatican doctors are well versed in those techniques, centuries of practice, never worry for a trifle like this.

Later, in a word, the scrumptious Lucretia Puça became pope. Joan-Lucretia the First.

With such an enchanting lolita, the church was a cabaret. In addition to what, this fact only (her sanctity the popess, the alluring novelty, with all the immense propaganda accrued to the event — such a yummy figure to show, and constantly, in all the covers) soon accounted for the ecumenical preeminence of the erstwhile so uncouth catholic cult.

Beatus Puça, the happy dad, was in heaven; moneys started again rolling in. The pews were always crammed. With women at last (at last! — oh, yes, at last! — marvelous vindication — justice re-established) saying (as it always ought to have happened, always were they bound to do from the dawn of creation on, for, you tell me, for what else, if not that, were they designed to be, with tits proudly a-breast and rear cheeks in jellying jollity to the fore by the grace of god the good one, and the one with the good ones (not the other, the cruel, false creepy one, of course)…?) chanting the women the merry masses, and in such scant, tantalizing raiments and attires, and with the adjoining and subsequent bacchanals taking place in the different chapels and cathedral partitions, where each accepted perversion was duly consecrated, hey, everybody wanted to put his naked popo on the pitch pine of the benches, and paying each according to his possibilities, the funds never a problem, the cushions for the knees going at extortionate prices, the pursuance of happiness finally blessed, Puça an instantaneous saint and so on… Everyone worshipping according to his lights, to all according to their needs, from all according to their means, the better proportioned taking care of the least endowed, verily, verily, true charity at last, not the shitty, despicable farce of before, to wit, before the sacred Puça reform, no, you bet, not any longer, not on your life, oyez, oyez, no!

______________________________________________

Xufla, això és escriure! Qui en fos capaç! L’envegeta, minyons!