Last week's newspaper delivered a comical cavalcade of delights. First, two former Popes' canonisations, this stuff always good for a laugh. Their justifications: a woman's "miraculous" tumour cure through praying to one of these Popes with a record as a priestly paedophile protector, and the other, another "miracle", this a nun's problem fixed by her gazing at that Pope's photo.
We should sack all doctors, close our hospitals and send the patients home with papal portraits forthwith. Had I known there would be a million Pope-worshipper present, I'd have flown someone to Rome to flog them my authentic handwritten and signed gloating postcard Moses sent to the Pharaoh after he'd rescued the Israelite slaves. The bidding would have been ferocious. But the splendid ironic cap on these primitive proceedings came when one of these saint's statues collapsed on a sky bayer and killed him.
God, it must be fun being God, relieving the tedium with these imaginative antics. Should he ever need a break from Godding, he can zap me up to carry on the good work. I'd be in heaven, both figuratively and literally, dealing out further humiliations to these praying imposters in drag.
Not to be outdone by his Roman rivals, the Archbishop of Canterbury then weighed in, confessing to his life-long practice of talking to bees. He'll get the same response from them as from praying. All of this medieval witch-doctory contrasted sharply against another news item, namely Nasa's space probe measuring a change of speed by one 20th of a million metres per second, when passing through the gravitation field of a Saturn moon, an astonishing scientific detection but alas, no sighting was reported of an old bearded bloke in a nightie wafting about.
I continued reading and was elated by the next item. This recounted 76-year-old Nevada rancher Clive Bundy, a role model for the rabid American right, with the wisdom of age, proposing the reintroduction of slavery. That's certainly worth considering.