WHAT HAS GONE BEFORE: The omnipotent being with a warped sense of humour known only as The Moderator has been meddling in the reality the Pope and co live in, causing such unpleasant shifts as the Libertines not dying horribly, but instead engaging in acts of rampantly homosexual buggery. Can the holy power vested in the Pope by the Vatican Council prevail against this unpredictable menace? Will the homicidally insane Kommander von Schnügenstein succeed in his aim of killing everyone in the world? Does anyone read these fucking things anyway? None of these questions will be answered as you read
A FINE DAY TO EDIT PEOPLE'S POSTS UNNECESSARILY; OR, I'M REALLY STARTING TO SCRAPE THE BARREL NOW AREN'T I?
"Listen, chaps!" the Pope screamed. "Forget hurricanes, terrorism, or Iraq; this is some fucked-up shit we've got here! The Moderator's been fucking reality up like mad and everyone's blaming us for it!"
"Calm down, now, your holiness," Father Pete O'Phile reasoned. "Just do what we always do: tell people not to wear condoms and change the subject whenever someone mentions child abuse."
"Sorry, Pete, but I informed the Daily Mail about you - the lynch mob should be arriving about now."
Pete screamed in terror as the mob dragged him off to be crucified.
"That's enough of him then. Oh Christ it's happening again!"
Out of nowhere materialised two weird men from some band or other. "omg omg FUCK ME!! U R SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO FIT!!!"
"Arrrgh! Look at that grammatical nightmare! You can barely understand what they're fucking saying! This has got to stop!"
"What shall we do?" Barry screamed.
"Back to the catacomb - I've got a plan..."
Anál nathrach, orth' bháis's bethad, do chél dénmha...
"Oh gawd I don't like this…" Barry muttered.
"SUMMONED SPIRIT," bellowed His Holiness in an extremely occult manner, "REVEAL THYSELF'S TRUE FORM TO US, HERE, SO WE MAY SEE WHAT THOU ART, AND NOT THAT... UH... YEAH."
"Hullo, 's me again."
Skub-Nazarthotep stepped out of the circle.
"Oh bloody hell, not you again."
"Oh that's what they all say. No-one wants to know poor old Skubby, noo, they all want Belial, or Astaroth, or Choronzon, just give me a proper demon they say. Nope. Nobody wants my talents. I am, for example, an excellent singer. Did you ever take the time to find that out? Eh? No you didn't. You see my short stature and wispy beard and assume I'm some form of abyssal loser. I've got news for you old pal. This little manifestation's got a gig at the Garage in Islington next month! How'd ya like that?!"
"I think I'm going to shoot myself."
"Ah, well, I know an estate agent down in Gehenna who can introduce you to some lovely properties in the Forest of Suicide area."
"AHEM, can I just cut in here," interrupted Cardinal Brian Blessed. "The reason we called you was because we need to what The Moderator is and how to stop it from turning the whole universe into some gay slashfic."
"The thing you haven't realised is that this universe isn't the same one as the one before The Moderator entered it and started the warp - the warp created a different timestream which broke off from the Primary Timestream. All you can do is either somehow attempt to collapse this universe, or actually travel to The Moderator's own reality and try and convince it to put things back to normal. How you do that, however, is beyond me."
"Of course!" the Pope exclaimed. "All we need to do find a telephone box, put some cool looking stuff in it, and then we can go anywhere we like."
"Right. Can I go now? I have to rehearse with my band, the Shits. Tickets cost 10 pounds at the door, by the way."
"Fine. Just sod off okay?"
...TO BE CONTINUED