It's official. I've been nominated for sainthood, or is the term "saintified?"
I know what you're thinking, "But, Kukka...don't you have to be dead before you can be canonized (officially recognized) by the Catholic Church?"
I got the call from Pope Benedict XVI (or "Benny, The Pope-inator," as he likes me to call him) on Saturday. After shooting the shit about holy communion, Paris Hilton's jail sentence and the molestation of young boys, he finally let it slip.
"Kukka," he whispered. "Kukka, I have something important to tell you, but you must tell no one else! I'm serious! If you do, I'll have a shitload of cardinals on my ass for leaking this delicate information to you!"
"Benny..." I cooed softly into the phone. "Who do you take me for? You know I can keep a secret! Who bought you that red cowboy hat and didn't let you know about it until your birthday 3 months later?"
"Then recite a few Our Fathers and hope for the best. Yes, it's a risk, but I just might surprise you and keep my lips closed."
"Empress," he whispered. "You are up for sainthood! We all got a bit drunk on communion wine and Monsignor Horowitz, the Jewish convert, nominated you as a joke. No one ever thought the nominations would go anywhere, but it totally has!"
I rolled around on the floor as I laughed and laughed. "NO WAY! We are totally punking Catholics everywhere!"
Pope Benedict suddenly got quiet. "That's not funny, Kukka," he mumbled. "I'm just keeeeeeeeeeeding! It's effing hilarious!"
"Are you drunk right now, Benny?"
"Nope," he slurred. "I did smoke a little weed, though." The last part was hard to make out amidst his loud giggling and audible snorts.
"What do I have to do now?" I abruptly asked, realizing how much responsibility goes with a title like Saint.
"Well, there will be a press junket, appearances on the talk-show circuit, "Kukka-Maria Miracle Tour 2007," and you'll need to pose for your Popeball Card," he explained.
"Popeball Card?" I asked, a bit confused.
"Yes," he laughed. "Assuming you can perform a miracle or two on demand, you will have your image pressed into gold amulets that people will wear around their necks as good luck charms. All the Patron Saints do it."
"What will I be the Patron Saint of?"
"Kukka-Maria, Patron Saint of Air Biscuits."
"Farts? Seriously? People will pray to me about farts?"
"Hey," he snapped. "Our people releasing foul farts has been a long-standing issue. You should feel lucky you will be interceding on behalf of gaseous Catholics everywhere!"
"Wait," I protested. "Aren't Popeball Cards a form of worshipping idols? And what about the Marys in bathtubs that people put in their yards?"
"Oh, snap!" Benny exclaimed with a laugh. "I guess that IS a form of idol worship! Well, it's not like there's going to be room for everyone in heaven anyway. Maybe this little oversight will thin the herd a bit."
"Hold up! How am I supposed to provide the church with my remains to be used as a holy relic? I'M NOT DEAD!" I hissed.
"Let me think...let me think..." mumbled The Pope.
"Would a litter-covered turd work?" I inquired with a grin.
"Beautiful!" laughed Pope Benedict. "If a converted Jew can be a Monsignor, a litter-covered turd can be a holy relic. Is there anything we're forgetting?"
"When I go on my Kukka-Maria Miracle Tour 2007, can I wear red, Prada shoes like you do?"
Pope Benedict XVI suddenly grew silent. "You take that back, you miserable little cat," he seethed. "The Prada shoes are MINE!"
"Fine," I rolled my eyes. "I'll stick with Manolo Blahniks. Don't get so fussy!"
After a few minutes of him sulking and me apologizing (not because I was sorry, but because I thought I might be relegated to hell if I didn't), he calmed down enough to congratulate me. "Siete una buona ragazza..."
"I'm a good girl? That's awfully sweet, Benny. Now go eat some host to soak up that booze in your gut. You're going to have a hell of a time tomorrow morning."
So, I'm going to be a saint. Who would have thunk it?