A Little Vatican Humour

Got this in an email the other day. It made me laugh. I hope it makes you laugh, too.

Nananananananana Popemobile!

After getting all of Pope Benedict’s luggage loaded into the limo (and he doesn’t travel light), the driver notices the Pope is still standing on the curb.

“Excuse me, Your Holiness,” says the driver. “Would you please take your seat so we can leave?”

“Well, to tell you the truth,” says the Pope, “They never let me drive at the Vatican when I was a cardinal, and I’d really like to drive today.”

“I’m sorry, Your Holiness, but I cannot let you do that. I’d lose my job! What if something should happen?” protests the driver, wishing he had never gone to work that morning. ”Who’s going to tell?” says the Pope, with a smile.

Reluctantly, the driver gets in the back as the Pope climbs in behind the wheel. The driver quickly regrets his decision when, after exiting the airport, the Pontiff floors it, accelerating the limo to 205 km/h (remember, the Pope is German).

“Please slow down, Your Holiness!” pleads the worried driver, but the Pope keeps the pedal to the metal until they hear sirens. ”Oh, dear God, I’m going to lose my license – and my job!” he moans.

The Pope pulls over and rolls down the window as the cop approaches, but the cop takes one look at him, goes back to his motorcycle, and gets on the radio. ”I need to talk to the Chief,” he says to the dispatcher.

The Chief gets on the radio and the cop tells him that he’s stopped a limo going 205 km/h. “So bust him,” says the Chief. “I don’t think we want to do that. He’s really important,” says the cop. The Chief exclaims, “All the more reason!”

“No, I mean really important,” says the cop with a bit of persistence. The Chief asks, “Who do you have there, the mayor?”

Cop: “Bigger.”
Chief: “A senator?”
Cop: “Bigger.”
Chief: “The Prime Minister?”
Cop: “Bigger.”

“Well,” says the Chief, ‘Who is it?”

Cop: “I think it’s God!”

The Chief is even more puzzled and curious: “What makes you think it’s God?”

Cop: “His chauffeur is the Pope!”

Read This Before Tazing Yourself – Because Knowing is Half the Battle

I had this story “starred” in my Gmail mailbox from a while ago, and just read it again. The first time I read it, I laughed so hard, I nearly keeled over onto the floor in front of my desk.

For the record, I still think it’d be hella cool to taze myself.

“Last weekend, I saw something at Larry’s Pistol & Pawn Shop that sparked my interest. The occasion was our 15th anniversary, and I was looking for a little something extra for my wife, Julie. What I came across was a 100,000-volt, pocket/purse-sized taser. The effects of the taser were supposed to be short lived, with no long-term adverse affect on your assailant, allowing you adequate time to retreat to safety.

Way too cool. Long story short, I bought the device and brought it home. I loaded two AAA batteries in the darn thing, and pushed the button. Nothing!

I was disappointed. I learned, however, that if I pushed the button and pressed it against a metal surface at the same time, I’d get the blue arc of electricity darting back and forth between the prongs. Awesome! Unfortunately, I have yet to explain to Julie what that burn spot is on the face of her microwave.

So I was home alone with this new toy, thinking to myself, “It couldn’t be all that bad with only two AAA batteries, right?”

There I sat in my recliner, my cat Gracie looking on intently (the trusting little soul), while I was reading the directions and thinking that I really needed to try this thing out on a flesh and blood moving target. I must admit, I thought about zapping Gracie, even if only for a fraction of a second, but thought better of it. She is such a sweet cat. But, if I was going to give this thing to my wife to protect herself against a mugger, I did want some assurance that it would work as advertised. Am I wrong?

So there I sat, in a pair of shorts and a tank top with my reading glasses perched delicately on the bridge of my nose, directions in one hand, taser in the other.

The directions said that a one-second burst would shock and disorient your assailant; a two-second burst was supposed to cause muscle spasms and a major loss of bodily control; a three-second burst would purportedly make your assailant flop on the ground like a fish out of water. Any burst longer than three seconds would be wasting the batteries. All the while, I’m looking at this little device measuring about 5 inches long, less than 3/4 inch in circumference, loaded with two itsy, bitsy AAA batteries, and thinking to myself, “No possible way!”

What happened next is almost beyond description.

I’m sitting there alone, Gracie looking on with her head cocked to one side as if to say, “Don’t do it, you idiot,” reasoning that a one-second burst from such a tiny little thing couldn’t hurt all that badly. I decided to give myself a one-second burst just for hell of it. I touched the prongs to my naked thigh, pushed the button, and…

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD WEAPONS OF MASS DESTRUCTION WHAT THE HELL!

I’m pretty sure Jessie Ventura ran in through the side door, picked me up in the recliner, then body slammed us both on the carpet, over and over, and over again. I vaguely recall waking up on my side in the fetal position, with tears in my eyes, my body soaking wet, both nipples on fire, testicles nowhere to be found, my left arm tucked under my body in the oddest position, and tingling in my legs.

The cat was making meowing sounds I had never heard before, clinging to a picture frame hanging above the fireplace, obviously in an attempt to avoid getting slammed by my body flopping all over the living room.

Please note: If you ever feel compelled to “mug” yourself with a taser, take caution: There is no such thing as a one-second burst when you zap yourself! You will not let go of that thing until it is dislodged from your hand by your violent thrashing about on the floor. A three-second burst would be considered conservative.

SON OF A BITCH, THAT HURT LIKE HELL!

A minute or so later (I can’t be sure, as time was a relative thing at that point), I collected my wits (what little I had left), sat up, and surveyed the landscape. My bent reading glasses were on the mantel of the fireplace. The recliner was upside down and about eight feet from where it originally was. My triceps, right thigh and both nipples were still twitching.

My face felt like it had been shot up with Novocain, and my bottom lip weighed 88 lbs. I had no control over the drooling. Apparently, I had shit myself, but was too numb to know for sure, and my sense of smell was gone. I saw a faint smoke cloud above my head which, I believe to have come from my hair.

I’m still looking for my testicles, and I’m offering a significant reward for their safe return!

P. S. My wife loved the gift, and now regularly threatens me with it!”

Story over. So what lesson can we take home from this? Always have a spotter ready before you taze yourself. You’re welcome.