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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"Four score, and seven years ago these fuckers couldn't even get a date."

There's a famous quote by Mark Twain that I've never heard before. It goes, "When I die, I want it to be in Kentucky. Because everything happens ten years later there." So my first idea was I wanted to go there and see if I could catch that last episode of Murphy Brown I never saw.

Don't bother going, that's all I'm saying. It's all some sort of joke because Kentucky is in the same time zone, as far as I could tell, and the newspaper there has the same date. And the grass isn't blue there, either. It's mostly brown, at least in that cow field I checked out. "State of Big Fat Liars," that's what the licensed plate should say.

It would be great if license plates said real stuff about the state. Texas would be like "We grow assholes daily!" and Florida would be "Most likely to secede!" Rhode Island's could be "Who?" You could give them all new nicknames, too. What's with Missouri being the "Show Me State"? Last time I was in East St. Louis there was only one guy to show me something and it wasn't enough to make me want to go back to St. Louis again, I'll tell you that. New York could be called the World's Biggest Target State. Wyoming could be called the Sounds of Silence State. Minnesota, the Amazing Shrinking Frosty Scrotum State, if that will all fit on one license plate, and Montana could be the FBI Standoff Capitol State.

It's amazing, I can just ring those off one after the other. I would do all the states but I'm not going to take up the whole column naming six more states. Not when there's more important things that are easier to remember.

I've been to almost every state on the continent, though I can't say with certainty if there's any I haven't been to. Keep in mind as part of my job I get knocked out or drugged and dragged across state lines a lot. So I wouldn't rule out the possibility I've been to Hawaii, Alaska, or even some of the U.S. territories like Puerto Rico and Canada. There are some times I'm pretty sure the engine is a plane and it turns out to be a diesel truck or something, so I'm sure I could have made the mistake in reverse a few dozen times.

If I had to pick one state to be abducted and taken to, forced to dig your own grave and then piss yourself scared before they tell you it's all a call-in radio show prank in, I would say Pennsylvania is the best yet. Now keep in mind I haven't seen more than a few other countries, so this is just amongst states, but these guys are, at least in my experience, extremely friendly to victims of call-in radio shows. If you get struck from behind in an abandoned parking garage and wake up to find yourself tied with guns trained on you, and you suspect it will all be a joke, try to remember to request Pennsylvania. Especially if you think you'll be forced to find your own transportation out. They're nice as hell to hitchhikers.

I liked it so much I'm going back next Thursday. But don't tell the guys at WROK, I want them to think it's a real surprise.

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In all the other hubbub since the year began, I may have forgotten to mention my old bassist roommate Lee returned. He arrived shortly after Christmas, when his plan to storm Tokyo with techno rock failed miserably. It's okay, though, because he has started a Christian rock band. It makes sense, if you think about it, since he believed he died in the car accident years ago and is now reincarnated as a street preacher.

Surely you don't expect me to mention every minute detail that happens in my life, so sorry if some of this stuff comes as a surprise. I had originally planned this column, in fact, to be an update of how the X-M radio purchase was going when Camembert suggested I write about Lee to my "loyal reader." Camembert thinks that's funny. Ever since he started dating Girl Elvis he thinks he's a hoot, there's no other word for it.

Back to the Lee story, good people. Lee is back, yes, and he believes he's a street preacher, out to promote the gospel, yes, all this is true. And as I said, he's started a Christian rock band which operates out of my basement. I'm obviously too busy trying to make my A.M. radio station profitable to consider all of this too seriously, but apparently it makes Lee happy.

I wish I could say Lee has been easier to live with since coming back, but it's not the case. You may recall old Lee was something of a pain in the posterior, constantly making fun of me, never paying his portion of the rent, and spending most of the day high. It's more of the same now, except he has sworn off drugs, he's too polite for everybody's taste, and he's convinced we're all damned to hell for our behavior. Same ol' Lee, except for he's mostly different.

It may hardly be worth mentioning, I can no longer tell, but Lee has developed an unhealthy fascination with TV's Scott Baio as well. Ever since finding out he was a kind gentlemen with conservative politics, Lee has thought him quite a role model to adopt. And of course, for Lee, that kind of thing naturally leads to obsession and death threats, the usual circumstance in life where you become convinced you're the celebrity and the celebrity himself is an impostor taking your place—we've all been there, I tell Lee, but just because Carroll O'Connor won't take your calls doesn't mean it's your mission mandated by God to kill him. Lighten up, fella, I tell him.

In one ear and out the other, with new Lee. Old Lee at least would have lit himself some doobage and "chilled" for a while, realized he was perhaps getting ramped up about something silly. But new Lee wants to move forward with the "kill Chachi" plan immediately. Honestly, Lee, nobody has time for all this nonsense. I've got X-M radio options to consider, those take up more than half my week alone. Then there's running the radio station, not to mention the five minutes it takes me to write my commune columns for the next two months. If you're jumping out of the closet and dry-clicking your gun every ten minutes, shouting, "Now who's in charge, Charles?" a man will never get anything done.

My first instinct is to ask Lee to move out, but you know as well as I do, I'm not capable of that kind of cruelty. Except for to Camembert. Maybe Girl Elvis can be persuaded to do it for us, she's never thought much of him, I can tell that much. She's already threatened to call the police on him, but I tell her his band's cover of "In the Ghetto" may be bad, but it's hardly illegal. Heck, kids, at this point I might even kill Scott Baio myself just to get on with the world. I don't have time for another caper at this point, I'm stretched way too thin.

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