The Pope and The Saint

It was Kismet. Fate. The goodest of Luck. It was a red-velvet day. A banner day. A what-are-the-chances day. It was Sunday last when the Pope and me were out early at the market, shopping for flowers and cheese and a can of spam, when what to our wondering eyes did appear... But Saint Nicholas and his lovely bride, buying carrots for the reindeer.

Pope Innocent was so out-of-this-world excited to see his favorite Saint, he fainted and fell into our handbasket, right on top of the stinky-foot cheese. Luckily, the offensive odor revived him immediately. He stood up on the spam and began shouting, "Nicky, Nicky, over here. It's me, Inny!!" Right there, among the fruits and the nuts, the Pope and the Saint had a glorious reunion.

We snapped a quick photo with Nick and the Mrs, and the Pope gave his rather lengthy list of must-haves for Christmas. At one point, in the seemingly endless list, that jolly old elf blushed like a school boy. I was instantly worried Innocent was not living up to his name in his requests, and I turned to apologize to the Mrs for possible transgressions into the sex-toy department. It turns out, Mrs. Claus is hipper than we all knew. She winked at me and said, "Who do you think puts the tingle in Santa's jingle?" Well, now.

I finally had to wrestle Innocent off Nick's lap and let the couple finish their shopping in peace. When asked what my Christmas wish was, I hemmed and hawed and thought to ask for world peace. But instead, I was honest and said, "Viggo Mortensen, dressed in paint-splattered jeans and nothin' else". Mrs. Claus gave me a high five.

I hope there'll be room under the Christmas tree for the Pope's mother-lode. He won't even give me a hint as to what he asked for. As for me, I'm putting a tree on my nightstand, mistletoe on my headboard and a brick of Danish cheese under my pillow.