Bleeding Dry
(Fair warning: it is not my intention to offend anyone’s sincerely held beliefs but I read the news today and just wanted to poke a little fun at the extremes on each side. They deserve it.)
DEAD BLEEDER DRAWS BIG CROWDS.
Rotondo Farm threw open its gates today as animals from all over the country came to pay their respects to the exhumed body of Padre Pig. Spokesman for the Rotondo Farmyard Church, Padre Creduloso, marked the gate-throwing with Mass and, in an hour long address to the crowd, hailed Padre Pig as “an important figure on Rotondo Farm and indeed the world.”
When asked why, 40 years after his death, the Rotondo Farmyard clerics had decided to dig Padre Pig up and put him on display, Padre Creduloso winked and rubbed his thumb and fore-finger together, adding “‘Ere, this ain’t on the record, is it?”
Famous for his stigmata, (unexplained bleeding from Christ-like wounds) it is said that for 50 years Padre Pig lost a cup of blood a day from his front trotters yet never showed any signs of paleness.
“It was as if the Lord was protecting him and keeping him strong as he bled for us!” cooed Mrs. Dupabla Flowers, (pigeon, 42) a dry-cleaner from a neighbouring farm.
“I have his image hanging up in the back of the shop and from the blessed day he went up we’ve never had any problem getting blood or red-wine or felt-tip pen stains out of delicates. I don’t know what we’d do without him watching over our whites and Specialised Fabrics! And now… to get a chance to see his real-live dead body? Well, we couldn’t miss it. ” she beamed. “We’re all here, the chicks too and I’ve an egg on the way in the car. Wouldn’t it just be the most blessed thing ever if it hatched today, with padre Pig’s sacred corpse only tens of metres away?”
The scene in the farmyard was a busy one with animals of all sorts clucking, squeaking, miaowing, mooing and jostling to catch a glimpse of Padre Pig lying in his bulletproof glass and 24-carat gold coffin, said to have cost 9 million pounds.
“He looks as if he’s merely sleeping” said one shiny-eyed ewe.
The throng were ably sold to by church-approved vendors offering such items as Padre Pig ashtrays and bobble-head Capuchin monks. New for this year, was a novelty Padre Pig ketchup-dispenser which oozes the sauce from its cloven-hoofs when the Padre’s snout is pressed.
“They’re sellin’ better than me ‘ot Padre Pig pies” grinned stall-’older Ivor Beenhad, the official prophet-monger for the Rotondo religious community. “Much better than them 73-virgin themed wrench-sets I couldn’t shift for love nor money last month at Sunnifest.”
TESTIMONY
Many pilgrims present testified to some of the miraculous close-shaves Padre Pig had got them through “by the hair on his chinny chin-chin” in the words of devout hen, Sister Mary-Maria, bearing witness on a small apple-crate to her own unsightly-facial-hair problem spontaneously disappearing the day she was rained on by a Padre Pig shaped cloud.
Driving instructor Mr. Nye Eaves (sheep, 38), told us “I have been in 33 near fatal crashes since I’ve hung Padre Pig’s image in my rear-view mirror. 33! God keep me but I could feel his bloody hands cocooning me accident after accident as my young student-drivers had their brains bashed out on the windscreen. Without the Padre (may the Lord bless his bleeding self!) protecting me, I’d have been mutton a long time ago. Plus 33 is the age at which Our Saviour died so that must mean I’ve reached another level of protection now – like in Quake. I think my car insurance premium decreases anyway.”
PROTEST
Also present on the fringes of the crowd were a small group of protesters. Professor Richard Scoffly-Squawkins (goose, 65) led a peaceful but vocal demonstration of around 100 animals.
“It can be scientifically proven that the cause of Padre Pig’s so-called stigmata was really just a bad prickle embedding in his hoof-cleft” Prof. Scoffly-Squawkins told me. “Initially at least. Then with the secret help of the Pigeon Nuns of The Sacred Heart Of The Blessed Bawling Virgin Convent And Dispensing Chemist, he administered a daily solution of carbolic acid to induce all consequent bleeding from the wounds. Once again, the Church tries to dupe its credulous flock with egregious chicanery of this sort. Well that’s all very well for the poor and stupid but when educated people like you and I hahaha believe in this sort of thing then there won’t be anyone left to listen to me! That’s why we’re protesting today.”
When I asked Mr. Scoffly-Squawkins about his detractors charging him with arrogance, disdain for, and a lack of any understanding of real animal’s real lives outwith the confines of pure ivory-tower academia, he said “Well, have they written best-selling books in another discipline entirely from the subject at hand? Are they professors living lives largely separate from the common experience? No. I didn’t think so. Clearly I’m much cleverer than they are and they should all be listening to me, shower of feeble-minded, crutch-leaning, dim-wits. Look, here’s a free copy of my latest book. Pre-signed. Now would you mind very much buggering off? I want to look at the stiff’s hands before they wheel him away for the night.”
Later, I caught the distinguished professor again and asked him whether or not the strategy of showing contempt for perfectly decent lay-animals and their beliefs thus leading them to harden their attitudes in self-defense, becoming, in fact, less and not more open to his ideas, wasn’t a bit, um, stupid.
“I mean for a clever man such as yourself, doesn’t it betray a real lack of understanding about your fellow creatures and the enormous mental leaps that individuals have to make to reassess their whole lives if they are born and raised in strongly religious circumstances?” I elaborated.
“No,” spluttered the eminent scholar, best-selling author and believer that “anything but cool-headed rationalism at all times is weak and, ugh, human.”
“You may well be right in your theories, Professor Squawkins,” said a bold and handsome stallion, appearing suddenly from the crowd. “But you cannot make people reexamine their beliefs by shouting at them and telling them they don’t understand. In order to carry that off you have to get at them when they’re born. That’s the Church’s advantage.
“Couldn’t it instead be said that man makes his own meaning in life? There might well be a God in His heaven but he demonstrably doesn’t seem that bothered about enormous human suffering when it happens, so he doesn’t seem to be the personal God preached by the major religions. Couldn’t that mean therefore, that the best way to understand truths about ourselves and the world we live in is through literature, which after all is just the art and science of ourselves trying to explain ourselves to ourselves in all our moods and madnesses?”
At that point unfortunately the photographer died and it started to rain and, urm, what else, oh yes, I fainted with desire and then remembered I’d left the oven on and had to leave immediately, with the stallion who happened to be going my way anyway. Reports of our being spotted at a quiet and intimate hayery 20 minutes later are exaggerated. It was 40 if it was a minute. Unfortunately, however, the coverage of Padre Pig’s corpse exhumation was cut short at that time.
Tomorrow, what new scarf trend has the Park Lane puddleducks all of a gaggle? Plus an in-depth feature on how to tell the children daddy’s been eaten, but not in the OK way they eat Jesus on a Sunday.
Report filed by Sam Problemdonkey.
Techie Update: My apologies to those new commenters who’ve been languishing unseen in my moderation queue. Wordpress has decided it can no longer alert me of new callers and it no longer tells me who’s linking to me either. Tomorrow I back up and upgrade see if that’ll sort it out. Sorry!
April 26th, 2008 at 3:11 am
I really like this Padre Pig fellow, Sam. I wish I’d known him when he was alive. Perhaps he has a sniffy brother called Padre Prig. What a fool Orwell was not to mention them in Animal Farm. Are you aware that the horse addressed Scoffly-Sqawkins as ‘Dawkins’? You can’t fool a horse with a rhyming pseudonym.
April 26th, 2008 at 4:25 am
Yes, I foresee cross-over movie potential here… “Grave Attraction”
It’s Planet of the Apes meets Boystown with a hint of Stephen King. We’ll cast a troupe of Capuchin Monkeys in the leading roles, for ‘authenticity’ like, and we’ll get right to work on a musical version for Broadway for the 2012 season. We could call it “Oh Sole Pio”, whatcha think?
April 26th, 2008 at 5:43 am
George Orwell called. He said, “Well done. Wish I’d thought of it.”
Cheers.
April 26th, 2008 at 5:49 am
I luvs sheeps Sam (and no, not in the turned down welly way), I luvs them so much I live my life sheepishly. It’s soft and gentle. I look down and eat, and up ahead it’s soft and white. Sometimes I get nudged from the right or the left, but mostly I follow the curly soft white. The girls say there’s an “in front”, but that it’s cold, and also that there’s a very bold sheep called Judas up there too. I love the white. Once I looked up and hurt my neck.
I sent your posting to my pal and he said,
“The human mind and nature of the human ? it can be so wonderful and powerful and humble and has the potential to make a real positive difference to lives and our fragile world.
It can also be arrogant and ignorant.”
He ain’t half clever, my pal.
April 26th, 2008 at 7:48 am
ditto what r. sherman said, sugar! just what i was thinking. you talented little minx!
xoxo
have a great weekend cali weekend!
April 26th, 2008 at 9:23 am
Nanas, you can bring a horse to a pseudonym but you can’t make him drink it.
Conan, I’m thinking Babe would work as Padre Pig, what do you think? It’s hard for a child star to get work after an early success, he’d probably do it for peanuts. What do you think? I’m digging O Sole Pio.
Rand, I bet what George Orwell really said was “Be more subtle, PCB”
Sniffle, “I live my life sheepishly. It?s soft and gentle. I look down and eat, and up ahead it?s soft and white.” But what happens at the fank – it’s like forced baptism and anointing with weatherproof paint so your master knows whose flock you belong to. Receiving mass is just a tube of drench down your throat. Not unlike communion wine.
Savannah, are you suggesting that what occurred above isn’t a true and factual account of my yesterday’s activities? It’s true! There is a Padre Pig and he bled for you and for me so that we might believe and go skint believing!
April 26th, 2008 at 5:41 pm
Fucking brilliant, Sam
Ketchup dispenser!
This is one of your best posts EVAH!
Did they test Pio’s hands for residue of the acids that the poor woman brought to him?
I think not.
April 27th, 2008 at 1:34 am
As for the ketchup dispenser – I’m pathetically grateful that it gushes from the hoofs – or is it hooves.
Such a lot to ponder on – Camelia , camellia; I’ve convinced myself the latter is the correct spelling but can’t bring myself to pronounce it.
April 27th, 2008 at 5:18 pm
You are utterly certifiable.
And I mean that in the best way.
April 27th, 2008 at 6:06 pm
medbh, thanks!! I bet not either. The whole thing is ghoulish. Apparantly, his “knee-caps were in good condition” but they had to put a latex mask over his decomposing skull. The guy was a snake-oil salesman, no question, but there is such a thing as the dignity of the dead. This is just freaky. And probably a right little earner too.
Pat, oooh! I love to make people pathetically grateful! I pondered hoofs or hooves too. Still not sure. I was taught hooves as a nipper but I’ve seen hoofs around a lot.
SeaDreams, don’t even joke about it, baby! Thank-ee for meaning it in the best way, though – thank-ee kindly.
April 27th, 2008 at 6:26 pm
Nay, Nay. Not joking at all. There is an active Padre Pig Pod in my pitiful part of New Jersey and they need to see Sam’s spin on the scam.
*Lays head on keyboard-realizes that this is NOT the way to make friends and influence people.
*Can’t help herself, must alliterate.
*Will try to do better in next life.
April 28th, 2008 at 12:34 am
Just as well your living in this time, for a few years earlier, one lot would have placed the faggots, later the other lot.
April 28th, 2008 at 11:59 pm
O.Fr, usage of the word. But why on earth, I must be more PC than I thought.
April 29th, 2008 at 2:55 am
Sam: is it just me? Should my best friend tell me something or is it universally deadly quiet on the western front?
April 29th, 2008 at 9:18 am
Sam, I reckon we need a word for real-live, or is there one already? Then again I love context. And when I say love you need to understand that Sister Context always had doubts about her faith.
April 29th, 2008 at 9:56 am
Neglected to mention that your post was so wonderfully funny but was also hurty thought provoking and caused ripples in the ether, so much so, that yesterday when Munster beat Saracens in a very close match (you mean you didn?t know!) , I received a text message from sage Bock exclaiming that ? he knew Padre Pio wouldn?t let us down ?
The religion and God thing Sam, sorta like when Dougal admitted to Bishop Brennan when asked about religious doubts, ?that he didn?t get the heaven? thing. So now, my twin sentinels on religiosity are PCB comparing PP to a ketchup dispenser and Father Dougal not getting heaven.
Oh yeah, stay away from the fank or you’ll go blind.
April 29th, 2008 at 12:05 pm
wow, the reporter goes to see/write about a dead saint and ends up with a date and a roll in the proverbial and literal hay.
animals have much better lives than i do.
April 29th, 2008 at 12:58 pm
“Pigeon Nuns of The Sacred Heart Of The Blessed Bawling Virgin Convent And Dispensing Chemist”
Brilliant missus! I always thought they were penguins, maybe that was another order
April 29th, 2008 at 3:45 pm
badges on way………sorry for delay………….
April 29th, 2008 at 4:20 pm
SeaDreams, the bleeders are everywhere. Fatmammycat posted on an irish woman recently. Check out this
VincentH – faggots used to be kind of cheap meat dumplings when I grew up. The last place i ever saw them was in freezer in Iceland circa 1995.
Pat, ? I don’t get it.
Eolai, if Mother Teresa had doubts i’ll bet Sister Context has them too right enough. Sister Out Of Context must never have time for anything other than Hail Marys which often appear out of context themselves.
Sniffly – cool! Never been a sentinel before! Do I get a hat? I want a hat.
Kara, never miss an opportunity to chuck some gratuitous horse-sex into a post. I live by that.
Apprentice, There’s not much difference but the penguin order takes a vow to wear horse-hair undies in penance for their wicked thoughts about the charming Bishop-Who-Lives-On-The-Hill. That’s why they walk like penguins, even though technically they are really just pigeons. They’re C of E and dine on mince and slices of quince which the eat with a Runcie-able spoon.
Manuel – no worries!
April 29th, 2008 at 4:48 pm
Sam, I forgot to say that when I read the title I thought it was going to be a menses post.
Hee.
April 30th, 2008 at 2:59 am
Sam: just me moaning at my low stat count the last few days. Better now.
April 30th, 2008 at 8:17 am
As Sniffle says, I knew Pio would look after Munster. In fact, he’s been selected for the final and, although he won’t be in the starting fifteen (in deference to the fact that he’s dead), they might bring him on as an impact sub for the last ten minutes. He isn’t a great rugby player, but he is competent, and his ability to be in two places at once tends to unnerve the opposition.
I’ll never forget that game against Kilfeakle when he was playing for Clanwilliam. Padre Pio kicked the ball the length of the field, straight to his waiting self, carried it over the line for a try and simultaneously poked the Kilfeakle scrum-half in the eye with a bloodied mitten.
This Padre Pio fellow seems to be everywhere enthused the local paper.
May 1st, 2008 at 12:31 am
I’ve heard it said that Mr Pio had a great pair of hands.
May 2nd, 2008 at 1:31 am
They needed no team doctor or physio in those days. A broken leg wasn’t a problem. Pio would get you back on your feet in seconds with one wave of his bloodied mitten.
May 2nd, 2008 at 3:25 am
Padre of course was one of three Pio boys who played for Clanwilliam, aka The Bleeding Pios. Padre?s eldest brother Padraig had the bloodiest nose this side of the Galtees, and unlike his younger sibling didn’t hang around with nuns or do acid, but mammy Pio was always on his case for picking his nose. The youngest of the Pio boys, Gubnet Ebola Oliver being the fastest of the three (bleeding fleet footed) and played on the wing where, because of the forward domination of the Clanwilliam pack, he had oodles of time to change his oozing dressings. Clanwilliam, often bloody but unbowed, were always competitive in these blood and guts affairs.
Sam, are were there yet ?
May 2nd, 2008 at 5:44 am
You are fabulously talented. I laughed my way through this.
Oh please, don’t let your spam filter eat this! It isn’t you, though — it’s WordPress. Every time I try to post on a WordPress blog, my posts get eaten…