Bishop Oloroso, heavy under the weight of his loneliness and excesses, lowered himself on the prie-dieu in his bedroom antechamber for his nightly prayers. He flinched as his swollen knees touched the faded, threadbare blue brocade and disintegrating padding of the kneeler. He raised his head, smiled, and winked at the tall silver crucifix standing on the pristine lace tablecloth of his private altar. As if he were making an offering, his unsteady hand placed a bottle of Port on the altar, and he said, “I’ll order opulent red velvet upholstery for my prie-dieu, inspired by my new ecclesiastical ring.” He spread his fingers, stared at the back of his hand, and admired his new, thirty-two carat, oval Burmese ruby set in yellow gold, “Beauty!” He kissed his ring. Bishop Oloroso did not dwell on his knees or his ring for long. He put a protective hand over his stomach. He unbuttoned the top of his trousers and felt minor relief. He groaned and burped loudly, “Pardon me, Lord.” In the last hours, Bishop Oloroso’s belly had become a great orb, distended by painful, ever-increasing amounts of gas.
“If the Good Lord allows me to live through this, I promise I’ll never, ever eat mince pies again. Oh Lord, I will resist temptation. Probly.” He listened for an answer, but there was none, so he found an indigestion tablet in his pocket, placed it in his mouth, chewed it, and poured some Port in the silver communion chalice. He washed down the tablet, and said, “Port’s good for nausea. Good for everything.” He stared at the crucifix. “Now, Lord put yourself in my place. I wait all year to attend the British ambassador’s Christmas get-together. OK, I’m not part of the champagne and foie gras crowd, that’s for the Papal Nuncio. I’m a very dedicated, lowly VIP who lurches among indigestion tablets, cups of eggnog, and trays of mince pies made by the ambassador’s cook, according to an old family recipe. Or so they say. By the way, can’t you get me a promotion?
“Oh, Lord, this year it was chocolate eggnog! With Jamaican rum! Nutmeg! Dark, fluffy, creamy… as alluring as a woman’s silken lips redolent of mysterious spices…” As Bishop Oloroso felt the beginning of another punishing abdominal cramp, he stroked his stomach in the hope of easing the discomfort. “Oh, please… I must be allergic to nutmeg. No! Nutmeg and Port don’t go together.” His face contorted in pain. He fumbled with his collar but did not manage to unbutton his shirt, “Hot, isn’t it.”
Another spasm came and went, and the thick walls of his antechamber muffled his rapid-fire flatulence. He drained the Port from the chalice. “Tonight, the ambassadress, as You know, that glamourous, skinny woman who probly never ate a pie in her life, looked into my eyes like an old knowing lover. She’d be more of a temptress if she ate more pies. Yes, You know I appreciate a fleshy presence. Anyway, we can talk like this, can’t we, You and I are old… well, if not friends, perhaps comrades? Allies? OK, I’m Your minnow. See? I’m humble, very humble. And modest, very modest. I’ve confessed my long list of sins to You. I don’t deny any of it. Blessed be the meek, for they shall inherit all the pies. Et cœtera.
“I was about to toss another indigestion tablet in my mouth when I saw the skinny ambassadress walking in my direction, so I quickly hid my tablets in my pocket and refilled my eggnog cup. You see, I was never far from the huge eggnog bowl. She arrived and took a step too close to me. Her perfume almost knocked me out. Some jasmine yuck. I put up with it because of what she was carrying. She tried to give me a large, lust-red box tied with a golden bow. ‘Merry Christmas, Bishop. I hope you enjoy these mince pies with your guests on Christmas Day.’ I drained my eggnog cup while I tried to decide if there was a hint of sour irony in her voice, like her pies have a hint of lemon. She knew, didn’t she, that my weakness for mince pies rivalled my penchant for ecclesiastical rings. Once a year for five years, as I’m about to leave her official residence, she gives me a box of those pastries and her eyes follow my shiny rings and my avid tongue licking my lips. Her generosity and her box have grown, like a long-suffering suitor increases rewards to attain consent from his beloved.”
Bishop Oloroso dug in his elbows on the upper part of his prie-dieu. “Nah, nah, don’t get me wrong. She and I couldn’t have crossed boundaries, besides she’s Anglican, I’m Catholic. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, I tend not to mix.” He removed a crumpled handkerchief from his trousers’ pocket and dried the rivulets of sweat on his face. A grumble rose from his belly. He hiccupped, let out a long staccato belch, and simpered, “Pardon me. Anyway, maybe You invented sex, but I, ah, been there and done that! You know how it goes. This is not blasphemy, is it? Hum, perhaps I should have made more of an effort with the ambassadress. But me, being the humble person that I am, I just said to her, ‘I’m humbled by your infinite generosity.’” He tried to refill the communion chalice with Port, but missed. The chalice got knocked down and rolled to the floor, and the wine splattered over the lace tablecloth. Bishop Oloroso took several swigs from the bottle.
“But look at me. Oh, I capitulate! To this tornado in my gut! To this impenetrable shroud on my head. To the many indigestion tablets that aren’t working! I’ll suffer from constipation for a week! Worth it? Oh, yes. The ambassadress. I’m sure my face showed my delight at her present, frankly, not many women give me any attention these days. As You know. Not like You, You have all the company in the world, or shall I say heaven, you have those few who’ve never sinned, do they really exist, and lots of errant saints, sexless angels and archangels, maybe even a couple of popes.” Bishop Oloroso let out several long belches. “You must be bored. Mind you, if You’re bored, there’s no hope for us mere mortals. So, viva pie! Viva Port!” He raised the bottle and slurped the last of the contents.
“Oh Lord, I don’t even remember if I said my thank-yous and goodbyes tonight, I was so excited with the largest lust-box ever! Ah, You saw what happened. After I told her about her generosity, she took another step closer to me. Despite her perfume, our eyes locked into each other’s. Her hand slid back from the box and covered my hand! I cannot tell you what her leg was doing pressed against mine. But my cassock was between us. Her finger stopped over my large ruby. She caressed it. Several times. Oh, we understood each other. Huh-huh. Probly. For a fraction of a moment, we were accomplices, man and woman sharing pies and rubies, indulging in infinite desires and pleasures.
“But infinite has an expiration date. While she shares her pies, I do not share mine. Or my rubies. Sapphires. Tourmalines. Amethysts. All big, big, big. And modest. They could be bigger. Oh Lord, that skeletal woman, unpadded just like my prie-dieu, damn well tried to pull my ring out of my finger! A common thief! No, worry not, this info will never cross these walls. But rejoice! I emerged victorious in my humble victory, with ring and pies in hand, my cassock unsullied.” Bishop Oloroso’s head moved uncertainly, and he rolled his eyes, as if searching for God in the ceiling. ”I confess, I humbly ate my pies.” His finger scratched the end of his nose, itchy with drops of sweat. He closed his eyes.
He talked as if in a trance, “Mince pies, eh? Those supernatural entities make you forget the simplest rules of courtesy and embark on an uncivilized rampage of the senses. The glittering sugar. The sweet crunchy pastry, the sharpness of the fruity, squishy filling. Clove, cinnamon. Ah, the consequences. But why, oh why? That bony woman said to me, with a twinkle in her eyes, mind you, I’m sure Mary’s eyes never twinkled like that when she looked at Joseph, that they’d been posted back to London. Did You plan it? Oh, do something, my belly’s about to explode! Pardon me! Oh my, that was like a trumpet from the depths of hell.” Bishop Oloroso put the handkerchief to his nose. “I’m glad You can’t smell all this. Or I think You can’t. You can move mountains, so you can easily move this foul cloud.
“So, You know I’m making an empty promise to give up pies. Do You hear this prodigious rumble? Is it because I had too many pies or is it an advanced complaint because there won’t be any pies in here next year? Fine, here I go: Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa. Isn’t that enough for You to cure my problems? It’s enough for me to pardon, in Your name, many of my parishioners of much worse sins.”
Bishop Oloroso held his head in his hands. He cried out, “Let it pass quickly, I beseech You!” His face rested in the crook of his elbow, and he seemed to have fallen asleep. But he shook his head and started, “Oh, You talk to me finally!” He hunched his shoulders and put his hands together. “Yes, I know, I’m not flavour of the month with the Cardinal. But it was only Ruby Port, to go with my ring. Two bottles? Maybe three. I don’t know. Some more to help with the pills. Now, You tell me! You’re that omni thing, omni-omniscientist, how else are the mince pies going down? Port turns the crunchiness of the pastry into silk, transmutes the richness of the filling into treasures worthy of the Three Kings. It’s like unbridled sex without the messiness and the threat of babies and STD’s. If only You could try it, You’d become a fan, too. Oh, You know all about it. Say, You invented mince pies, too?”
He caressed his belly, the palm of his hand making circular movements around his stretched belly button. “No, Lord, please, don’t say that. I’ll give up the pies. Had enough for today, all of them when I got home. I even licked the crumbs in the lust-box. But please, the Port cases stacked in my cellar. I just have to drink the stuff. Huh? Are You serious? Where am I going? No, I won’t leave the Port to my successor! There’s nothing so vile as wishing him, it’s gotta be a him, to spend his lonely nights drenched in Port. Hm. Like I do. Wouldn’t wish it on the Devil himself.”
Bishop Oloroso hugged his paunch and bent forward. He sighed, “Oh Lord, please make the Pope transfer me to the land of mince pies…”
His head swayed, and he realized that his trousers had slid to his knees. As he reached to pull them up, he lost his balance and slipped from his prie-dieu. He flailed his arms as he tried to stay upright and slapped the crucifix. It toppled and he stretched his hand to prevent it hitting the floor, but his head and the crucifix hit the floor at the same time.
Bishop Oloroso belched and screamed in agony as his body crumpled in the fetal position. When his pain subsided, he kissed his ruby ring repeatedly. Tuba-like noises burst out of his lower belly and he sucked the ruby like a pacifier, “Pardon me, Lord… send me to the land of pies…pies are mine. So, so humbly.”
Regina's Rants 