rand spanking-new pope Benedict XVI has surprised traditionalists this week not only by having the traditional pope throne in the Vatican replaced with an overstuffed Lay-Z-Boy recliner, but more significantly by calling for "Santo Subito," or "Immediate Sainthood" for his predecessor, the reportedly-deceased John Paul II.

Such a move would be a radical break from the Vatican's traditional 5-year waiting period between a pope's death and first chance at beatification, which is not as painful as it sounds. The waiting period has traditionally served as a time for the deceased pope's life and accomplishments to be put in perspective, to prevent voters from being swayed by the media circus surrounding the pope's death and the emotions of guilty voters who owed the pope money.

"Your Holiness, though I respect your desire to honor—could someone kindly shake the pope awake, please?" argued Cardinal Vincenzo Palati to snores of disagreement from a reclined pope.

Pope John Paul II himself bent the rules by sponsoring Mother Teresa for sainthood a mere two years after her death, with the explanation that he was tired of waiting to get his hands on the collectable "Saint Mother Teresa" bobblehead doll.

Some have questioned Benedict's motives, pointing out the possibility that he hopes to accelerate the trend, eventually allowing the pope to declare himself a saint before he even dies, getting around the ever-present problem of being a saint but being too dead to enjoy it. Critics point out the many powerful incentives for pulling off such a coup, including the generous saint discount available at buffets worldwide, and the ability to commandeer civilian vehicles on demand for saintly business.

For John Paul II to be beatified, supporters will have to provide evidence of saint-like miracles performed by his former eminence during his popehood. So far, this looks to be a large hurdle.

"The pope made meatballs one time, using grade D beef," reminisced cardinal and pope friend Arturo Bennini. "It was a miracle they turned out so good."

"Well, the pope blew his nose on my shirt once," explained an awed Victor Minelli. "And the stain looked kind of like cookie monster. You know the cookie monster? So that was kind of weird. A weird miracle."

"That man was a saint," claimed a rambling Cardinal Eustace Beeter, in a 45-minute speech that none could claim had a definable point. "Just good people, that pope."

Catholic statisticians, however, question the logic behind John Paul II being inducted to the Pope Hall of Fame at all, citing the former pope's poor career stats. 4,000 conversions are traditionally considered to be the benchmark for sainthood, though John Paul II supporters argue that the former pope's 2,805 were an artificially suppressed number due to injuries and the years that the pope served in the army.

"The three most similar popes to John Paul II, according to their statistics, are Hermes the Mauve, Jonas Ricardo Popino, and 'Steamboat' McGill," explained pious nerd Walter Bumrose. "Not exactly a stellar assemblage of popehood, to be honest. Those are some real bummer popes, most of them from the dark period in the church's history when they had cash flow problems and would let anyone be pope for a day as long as they kicked in enough cash and brought their own hat."

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A Note From Emil: For all you true commune addicts out there like me, I discovered something fantastic! As you probably know, columnist Rok Finger has had a long and storied career in publishing even before he became a commune staple—so I was delighted to find a stack of old Fingers in a collection of my neighbor’s old Wah Wah Adult Men’s Magazines. Apparently he wrote there for quite some time. So sit back and satisfy yourself with old Finger. I can’t wait to read it myself… it looked surprisingly current, but I’m saving it to read once it’s in print.

Good gentlemen and ladies who read Wah Wah, I’d like you to take a break from your intense visual arousal long enough to talk politics, specifically, the Middle East. You may think everything in the Middle East is terrorists and jihads at this point, but I’d like to assure you we’re in good hands: The hands of a young man named Osama Ben Laden.

Who? You may not know that name, but you certainly should. While other young Muslims are running around strapping bombs to themselves and charging as much as $10 a barrel for oil, Osama Ben Laden and men like him are making the Middle East safe for democracy.

For ten years, Ben, as I like to call him, and other faithful Muslims have been fighting against the deadliest threat ever known to America: the communist Soviet Union. Their good soldiering and guerilla tactics have made Afghanistan a most unwelcome home for the Russkies, and finally, in February 1989, week-kneed smilin’ Red Mikhail Gorbachev pulled the last one of this commies from Afghanistan. Lesson learned: It may take you a long time, but the most earnest and well-trained army can bring down the biggest enemy!
We Americans should be extra proud, because thanks to Presidents Reagan and Carter, Operation: Cyclone helped train these proud sons of the Arab world. That’s our tax dollars bringing us safety in the Middle East for generations to come. It would have been easy to finance the less extremist groups, or even send our own troops in to stand up for our interests, but as the old adage goes, do you want it done right or do you want it done quickly? As Americans know, there’s only one answer to that.

I met up with Ben and some of his buddies after a late-night meeting of their elite gentlemen’s club, and I found him quite a surprise, even for a Middle Eastern commie-killer. For one thing, he’s not like any Joe Muhammad off the street—he’s not even from Afghanistan, but from Riyadh, Saudi Arabia. That makes no never mind to Ben: "You can’t sit back and watch an infidel disgrace a fellow Islamic stronghold. Do you mind getting your feet off my Quran?"

He’s right, and I did. More than that, ol’ Ben is the son of a billionaire! That’s right, he comes from big oil money, and there’s few bigger than Mohammed Ben Laden where Ben comes from, the U.S.-friendly country of Saudi Arabia. His dad was worth $5 billion, at least before he died in 1967 in a plane piloted by an American. Just think about that: Here’s a guy who has every reason to hate Americans, but he’s fighting for our side. You gotta admire that.

Instead of wasting away his multi-million dollar inheritance on fast cars and publishing adult magazines, Ben put his talents to learning the art of justified war, and his money to training fellow soldiers. But never forget a lot more money comes from us, champs!

When I sat down to talk with Ben, he was a very imposing figure, standing at 6’4" (almost twice my height) and weighing in at a solid 102 lbs. You wouldn’t want to see that coming at you across a battlefield. He expressed his fondness for having several wives and Wah Wah magazine, particularly articles like "What Do You Get With Too Much Tit?" and their annual Vintage Anal issue.

Asked what he thinks of America, he smiled coyly. "How could you not like a country where everything is owned by the Jew and women in bikinis are made CEOs?" I couldn’t agree more. I’m not sure which Jew he’s talking about, I’ll have to ask my contact Saul Bergoweitz if he knows anything. I also wouldn’t mind finding out more about this bikini CEO.

So hear that, Saddam Hussein: Your invasion of Kuwait has no friend in Osama Ben Laden. Better watch your step, or you’ll find yourself on the wrong end of that Russian-made assault rifle.

I had to leave Ben, and thanked him for our interview with some backissues of Wah Wah and other dirty magazines I used purely for research purposes. I also helped feed his interest in American architecture by supplying the pictures he requested of the World Trade Center buildings. I was anxious to get back home to my longstanding wife, Arvelyn, and see what she looked like in a burqa.

But for those of you terrified of a war with Saddam Hussein’s boys, let me ease your minds: We have nothing to fear from Iraq as long as boys like Osama Ben Laden are in the Middle East.

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I think it's about time we found out just what's going on over in Tunisia. Things have been a little too quiet over there for a little too long, if you ask me. Which, fine, maybe you didn't, but it's only a matter of time before it would have woken you up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Some might argue, in their whiney little "hip-hugging jeans are out this year" voices, that we haven't heard much from Tunisia since nothing is going on over there, and besides it's a big freakin' desert with like ten people living there and even if something did happen nobody would be around to see it since they'd be huddled in their caves, avoiding the near-constant sand storms. To which I have to respond that Lil Duncan is most definitely on the rag this week.

And beyond that, isn't this just want the Tunisians want us to believe? That all's quiet on the Tunisian front, meanwhile they're building armies of giant baby-eating robots in the dead of night, planning a complete takeover of the Western world? And we're over here sleeping like a bunch of saps who don't know that the creaking, jittery Armageddon is fast approaching? Fuck that, I say! Fuck that right in the earlobe. Because Omar Bricks may not have any babies or anything edible like that to worry about should the invasion come, but I'm going to be goddamned if I let some shoddy Tunisian robots leave a trail of dirty diaper carnage across my lawn and I have to go out there in my bathrobe in the morning and hose-blast all of that shit into my neighbor's driveway. Fuck that right in the appendix.

Tunisia can take a flying leap at a short Pierre if it thinks Omar Bricks and other Omar Bricks-like Americans (you know who you are) are going to stand for that kind of sci-fi bullshit. Maybe back in the 50's, when the sight of a 40-foot-tall galvanized behemoth with an Osh-Kosh-clad leg dangling from its titanium jaws would have made for a charming anecdote at a Tupperware party, but not today. By now, Americans have put up with Vietnam, Watergate and Family Matters and we've got a seriously short fuse. The slings and arrows of everyday life have pushed us beyond common courtesies like signaling for lane changes or recognizing crosswalks, and you can forget about the quaint 50's concept of "warning shots." A truly large, mechanical fuck-up like a Tunisian Cannibot invasion would undoubtedly snap our pajama elastic for good and it wouldn't surprise me if you saw the American people banding together and forming into some giant anthropological Voltron figure that mercilessly beat the living shit out of everything in sight, including the entire Middle East and Robin Williams.

In short, I don't think Tunisia has any clue what kind of flaming shit bag it would be stomping on, should it go forward with this whole half-baked baby-eating robot plan. Sure, we can't "prove" that this is exactly what they have in the works, and little is known about Tunisian robot technology beyond Red Bagel's book on the subject. But we're writing one dangerous IOU if we don't send a diplomatic envoy over there to scope out the situation. Maybe they'll find nothing but a whole bunch of desert and some tan-assed turtles. But will this mean that there never was a Tunisian Baby-Eating Robot Project, or just that they got wise before they strapped on the parachutes and loaded them into the man-cannons?

Only the desert will know for sure. Bricks out.

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