“Dedicated to all popes who have played popes, to men who act and become popes, to all the people who want to be popes and to my holy ma, the one true pope.”
I tell ma karma is a bitch. Ma calls me a bitch and says there is nothing wrong with the car. I tell my the idea behind karma and she tells me I have too many ideas in my head. Just get in the car, she says. I stand there thinking just to piss off ma and she yells at me like I’m some kind of zoo elephant. Thinking too much, ma says, is a life not worth living. Get in! As ma gets in the car, she loses her left high heel and breaks an acrylic nail. The shoes are from Payless, so it’s not worth a fortune, but it’s worth a fortune to ma because ma is under-employed as an underwear model and has no desire to work on the streets anymore.(It’s been awhile since I’ve written about my personal life on this imaginary blog about my imaginary life about my imaginary ma. If you’re not up-to-date, which has nothing to do with the dating scene, my ma is nuts.) As we speed away in the car, ma takes off her papal crown and fastens her seat belt. Ma is sweating Maybelline and because of her makeup she looks like what a melting raccoon face would look life if we (or the raccoon) were on acid. I guess they won’t let us back at that church again, ma says. Dressing as the pope in drag and going to church, I tell her, is bad karma. Sharon-Needles-to-say, we didn’t get free coffee or doughnuts after the service. Shit, we weren’t even allowed to stay for the service even though ma offered to bless the congregation with a special papal prayer. Karma is bitch, I tell ma, and sometimes the car is too. Especially when it runs out of gas in the church parking lot.