Easter weekend, huh? The holiest of holies for the Jesus freaks, where the world’s 1.3 billion Catholics clap their hands and sing about their boy rising from the dead. Resurrection! Salvation! All that happy horseshit. And then—BAM!—Easter Monday rolls around, and the Big Man in the clouds decides to drop a cosmic joke that’d make even me choke on my whiskey. Pope Francis, the first Latin American to lead the Roman Catholic Church, kicks the bucket at 88, right after waving to the adoring masses in St. Peter’s Square. If that’s not divine irony, I don’t know what is.
I’m standing here in this shithole hotel, watching the newsfeeds explode with the Vatican’s announcement. The old git croaked at 7:35 a.m., just hours after his frail ass was paraded around in a popemobile, blessing the sheep who’d gathered to gawk at him on Easter Sunday. The Vatican’s in shock, they say, because the Pope had looked so “alive” the day before, rasping out a “Happy Easter” like it wasn’t his last encore. Cardinal Kevin Farrell, the Vatican’s camerlengo, delivered the news with all the sombreness of a funeral dirge: “With deep sorrow, I must announce the death of our Holy Father Francis.” Boo-fucking-hoo. The guy was 88 and had just survived double pneumonia—did they think he was gonna live forever?
And now, the world’s biggest hypocrites are crawling out of their gilded holes to fake-cry for the cameras. King Charles, Italy’s Giorgia Meloni, JD Vance—they’re all flooding the feeds with their crocodile tears, pretending they gave a shit about this guy while they were probably itching to get back to their own shitshows. Charles says he’s “deeply saddened,” Meloni calls him a “great spiritual leader,” and Vance, who met the Pope for a hot second on Sunday, is probably just glad he got a photo op before the old man keeled over. It’s a parade of sanctimonious bullshit, and it makes me wanna puke.
The worst part? The ass-kissing doesn’t stop with the big names. You’ve got clowns like Nigel Farage—yeah, that Nigel Farage—claiming he met the Pope and “liked him very much.” Newsflash, you lying sack of shit: you didn’t meet him, and no one believes your Reform UK sob letter, which reads like it was scribbled by a toddler with a crayon. “My sympathies go out to all in the Catholic Church following the death of Pope Francis. I met him and liked him very much.” What is this, a fucking kindergarten condolence card? It’s not Shakespeare, Nigel, and it’s not even a good lie. The fake mourning is enough to make your skin crawl—suddenly, everyone’s acting like they were best buddies with Francis, like they didn’t spend years bitching about his “radical” ideas on the poor and the environment.
So here we are, folks: the Catholic Church is headless, and the world’s a bigger mess than ever. Francis spent his last day railing against the “deplorable humanitarian situation” in Gaza, calling for a ceasefire while the bombs kept falling. Now he’s gone, and the Vatican’s scrambling to figure out what’s next—probably a funeral in St. Peter’s Square in a few days, followed by a conclave to pick the next poor bastard to wear the funny hat. Meanwhile, the faithful are left clutching their rosaries, wondering what fresh hell is coming.
I’ll tell you what’s coming: more chaos, more lies, more power plays. The Big Man upstairs might be laughing his ass off at this one, but down here, the shitshow’s just getting started. The Pope’s dead, the Church is rudderless, and I can’t look away. What’s next? Hell if I know, but I’ll be here, watching it all burn, with a cigarette in one hand and the truth in the other.
Spider Thompson, signing off—because I need to go scream into the void.
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