Before The Devil Knows

Ahhh, Bishop Jameson II. Born with a name more fitting than a pope could pick. With you gone, I imagine the stores of church wine will miraculously refill, as if we’d stuck Jesus down in the cellar, am I right?

We say farewell, but not for long, because we can find you at Barnaby’s most nights, red stole on the barstool, crook hanging off the bar giving confession to whatever poor sod is on shift, handing out homilies like tips.

Oh, excuse the tears, I just find this all so touching. Something you did plenty of here at old St. Lucia’s.

It really is one of God’s great mysteries that you’re walking out of this parish with your head held high, your collar starched, and not in handcuffs. But the papal court and dark web encryption work in mysterious ways. Reminds me, I’d love the number of your IT guy. I need to up my firewall protection.

Bishop Jameson II, I lift this glass in hopes you find God at the bottom of the next bottle since you seem to lose him up your parishioners’ skirts.

So, finally, I say fare thee well. Like our forebears say, may you reach heaven’s gate before the devil knows you’re dead, and the cops get a warrant.

Cheers!

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