n the wake of the pope’s alleged death last week, the Vatican has released John Paul II’s will and personal diary to the media. Among the juicy tidbits revealed with the publication of the papal diary was the 84-year-old man’s dying wish that the bloodthirsty media would please, please, please keep their grubby mitts off his motherloving diary.

Published in newspapers, and on websites and Happy Meal boxes around the globe in over 90 languages, Catholics and heathens alike thrilled to the pope’s private inner thoughts and the great man’s eloquent musings this week, drinking in the pope’s thoughts on the nature of privacy and his joy at having this one small respite from a life lived on such a public stage.

Hounded all his life by an overzealous media desperate to know what made the pope tick, John Paul II poured his thoughts into the small, leather-bound volume in a scrawl that some have called “Pope-script.” Among the nuggets revealed with the diary’s publication are the details of the pope’s third-grade crush on Margo Holzarian from the Ukraine, and his strange, life-long fascination with American actress Mariel Hemmingway.

“Thank God no one is ever going to read this diary,” the Pope wrote in one of his last entries, dated March 2005. “It is only through this precious cove of privacy that I cling to my very humanity.” According to various sources, the pope misspelled “humanity” in the original text, but newspaper editors have universally agreed that it is highly unlikely the pope was clinging to a humanatee.

Many readers have been especially touched by the earliest entries in the diary, which date back to the pope’s youth.

“Dear diary: Man, being the pope is hard. I miss my mom and dad, and sometimes I just want to go home. Everybody says I’ll get over it though, once I make some new friends. Well, gotta go. Love, The Pope.”

Some less-scholarly Catholics have been equally surprised to learn that John Paul II was referred to as “the pope” even as a small boy, which made for several humorous anecdotes about grade school roll-call.

Garnering somewhat less attention has been the publication of John Paul II’s last will and testament, which some Catholics awaited with great suspense over who would inherit the pope’s collection of pointy hats. In the end, however, it turned out that the pope’s will was written in Polish, so the Vatican instead handed out his belongings on a “first come, first serve” basis to the assembled masses.

“This is fucking awesome,” raved German tourist Himmel Blaus. “I got the pope’s toenail clippers and a pair of boxers with the dude’s initials on them!”

“I got the pope’s soap! The pope’s soap on a rope is dope!” shouted another ecstatic inheritor, dashing out of the room, apparently in a hurry to bathe.

Publishers worldwide are currently in negotiations for the hardcover publishing rights to the pope’s diary, though as of yet, none have thought to tap the gold mine that is the commune’s recent “Pope’s Diary Mad Libs” feature.

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Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful princess named Esmerelda and she lived in a beautiful castle high above the kingdom, Buhtkrack, where her father was a sovereign and noble man. How she longed to be married to the stable boy, Noal, for he was a handsome young man, despite his occasional habit of blowing his nose on the heads of old ladies. But her father would not think of his daughter marrying someone so common. She was to be married to the son of King Goanadd, a harsh man who was known about the countryside for beating his horse for no good reason and leaving the seat up, and never, ever, ever, ever washing his own clothes but instead piling them on the floor in apparent hopes they would be miraculously zapped clean by the laundry fairy, and forcing total strangers to for some reason call him "Earl, Conqueror of the Fish." Esmerelda desired Noal more than anyone else in the world, and King Buhtkrack knew of her love for this man, so, despite his gracious nature, he sent for the boy.

"I have a grave and perilous task for you," the king told him. "In the far reaches of the kingdom, there lives a dragon that has slain a great many of our sheep, stolen many of our most beautiful women, and run up Visa card charges in my name. You can choose to go and slay this dragon, bestowing upon you the gratitude of many gorgeous and attractive single women and bringing nobility to your family name and honor to you and your blood line. Or you can instead clean the disease-ridden, filth-encrusted mortar of the royal bathrooms. I leave you with these choices."

A week later, Noal returned to the king and said, "I have cleaned the bathrooms as you requested my Lord. Now how may I be of service to you?"

So King Buhtkrack once again offered for him to rid the land of the dragon adding that since the last time, the dragon had been making long-distance calls when the rates are really bad and talking for hours and the royal phone service may get cut off. He then offered Noal the options of slaying the dragon or cleaning the stables of every last speck of dung using only his own toothbrush.

A week later, Noal returned yet again, saying to the king, "Pardon my breath, your highness, but I have cleaned the stables using only my toothbrush. Now how may I be of service to you?"

The king became furious and said, "Just go slay the freaking dragon and get the heck out of my life you worthless coward!"

So Noal went forth, and traveled through the dark night on his noble steed, riding fast into the forest in which lived the dragon. He passed through a tiny village mere miles from the dragon's lair when he met a great carriage pulled by magnificent horses. It stopped for him and out stepped Prince Goanadd.

"Hail Prince Goanadd!" Noal said as he fell to his knees in reverence.

"You shall call me, Earl, Conqueror of Fish!" snapped the Prince, as was his way.

"Hail Earl, Conqueror of Fish!" Noal said, still on his knees.

"You have come to slay the dragon, have you not?" the Pri- er, I mean, Earl said.

"Yes, your majesty."

"Know that you will be devoured by its mighty jaws unless you plunge your sword deep into the soft flesh of its belly and kill its evil heart."

"That is disgusting,your Highness!"

"I have told you to call me Earl, Conqueror of the Fish! How hard is it to remember that?! Sheesh! You common people suck!"

"Forgive me Earl," Noal said.

And so Earl rode away and Noal continued his quest. He rode through the night, stopping only once at South of the Border for some playing cards with nude women on them and a picture of himself riding a giant cactus. At long last, he found the opening of the dragon's lair. It was a dark cave, littered with bones of many a maiden.

Fear began to fill Noal, for he knew if the dragon could easily kill an unarmed maiden who had never fought a day in her life and was dainty and petite to a fault, it surely could kill a strong and limber man armed with a large sword and several years of training in hand-to-hand combat. He slowly crept down the dark passage and into the main cavern, where the beast's enormous girth filled the room. It lay, sleeping, its heavy breath shaking the ground. First, Noal went to the maidens, and freed each of them from the heavy ropes the dragon had somehow tied them up with which Noal thought was considerably strange considering this dragon had no real hands or fingers.

"Perhaps he has a maid who ties maidens up for him. I imagine she gets good money for doing that sort of thing. Probably a nice package with EOE certified training and a dental plan and decent bonuses and a 401k. Heck, I might even get into the maiden tying business if the money's right," he said to no one in particular. No one, that is, except the sleeping dragon who awoke to hear some strange man muttering about job benefits.

The dragon reared back its ugly head, and spat fire at Noal who leaped to the safety of a nearby cave that happened to be lined in asbestos. Then, the dragon stood on its hind legs, outstretched its impressive wings, and bellowed forth a frightening shriek unlike anything Noal had ever heard, give for the time he went backstage and heard Black Sabbath tuning their guitars. But then, Noal spied the soft part of the dragon's belly, and quickly he ran forward and jabbed his sword into it.

The dragon said, "Ouch!" and fell over dead.

Noal returned to the kingdom, triumphant and happy that he had finally brought pride to his family name, and a great many beautiful maidens desired to have carnal relations with him. But he choked to death on a poorly chewed piece of meat at the great banquet and the Princess married Prince Goanadd anyway and he turned out to be an all right guy so everyone lived happily ever after.

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The tale of how I escaped the angry mobs of Haitian dissidents is the most chilling, exciting, and inspiring story that has ever happened to me. Consequently, I sold the rights to it so it could be made into a Hallmark movie (look for it on CBS this Fall, with James Woods as the handsome Rok Finger-type character). This means I can't tell you about it, but don't worry, I have a number of stories almost as amazing. Have I told you how I started the Atkins diet this week?

It's part of my effort to rebuild my life now that I'm back on steady shore and have forsaken my pirate ways. No doubt anyone would miss the charming shanty of the sea, but I believe I'm better off—some are meant to sail the sea and poach whales or whatever else there is to do out there, while others of us are landlubbers. And I lub land. I was meant to wear stifling three-piece suits, grease my hair with my own homemade pomade, and live in tract housing. No sense in defying your true calling.

It's been a difficult transition, no doubt, but made easier by the boost from the friendly Hallmark people. I've bought my own home in the West Hills neighborhood of New Jersey, not more than a stone's throw from the commune offices—in fact, this morning I hit Raoul Dunkin from my bathroom window. It's a lovely neighborhood, full of friendly and successful people, the kind of neighborhood that usually gathers together to sign a petition keeping me out. But in this case they were slow and I benefit from it.

Back to the old routine, the kind of life Rok Finger was meant to live. I get up, eat breakfast, read the morning paper, make tomorrow's breakfast, and drive to work to get a full day's job done making up column ideas. It's such a natural fit I don't even know why I ever left. Which is not an exaggeration, I have completely blanked on the original reason I left the country. I'm not even sure where I went—Angola? They had accents but spoke English. I seem to remember having a wife, but the specifics escape me.

Don't worry about my companionship, though—as always, in tow with me is good friend Camembert. But he's only towing me until my sprained ankle heals. Those violent political revolutions can be hell on the joints. It's just as well I need his assistance, because now I'm in a position to finally pay back all the friendship Camembert has shown me over the years, allowing him a room in my new house. He repeatedly told me he was content to return to his old apartment, but since the mob torched it in our absence, it's not quite as nice as it once was. It's all for the better—two better roommates you could never find! Camembert and I have never even had an argument. I tell him what to do and he does it, no argument.

Not that we don't have some minor problems. He complains the house is not handicapped accessible, but I say as long as you have a window the house is accessible. Camembert's requested I put in a ramp somewhere, either that or move his bedroom down to the first floor, and I suppose I might throw him a bone on one of those requests. A ramp would be a lot of fun to ride that chair down, if you put it at the right angle. I might even be able to put a loop in it, as the rollercoasters do, as a nice surprise.

Some might call this new old life of mine boring—well, I say shut-up. In a pleasant, smiling sort of way. I welcome the safe, the secure, the familiar. At least until something better than the dead-end suburban existence comes along.

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