Recently the world’s one billion-plus Catholics were stunned by the news that, for the first time in almost 600 years, a living Pope has decided to step down. The 85-year-old Pope Benedict XVI recently announced his plans to resign on February 28, citing poor health and depression over scores of snarky comments his Facebook page has received lately about his red leather Prada shoes (most critics sniping that he should have gone with Gucci, an Italian brand).
Rumors are swirling about who will be selected as the next Pope. Las Vegas odds makers say the three front runners are:
Cardinal Peter Kodwo Appiah Tukson of Ghana
French Canadian Cardinal Marc Ouellet and
Cardinal Oscar Andres Rodriguez Maradiaga of Honduras.
Most of the mainstream press has completely overlooked a rather unexpected name which is being floated for consideration: Mine. Okay, so most of those rumors have been floated by yours truly. But even a cursory review of my qualifications makes me the obvious choice as God’s representative on Earth.
First of all, my name, Tim Jones, is much easier to pronounce than any of those other candidates I just listed. But that’s not all. Check out my impeccable credentials:
Every year it seems like thousands of people come to me for advice on how to improve their love life. Most people call me the Love Doctor (except for my wife, who usually calls me by her pet name, “you bastard”).
For years people the world over have sought my advice as a foremost authority on matters of the heart. Perhaps it’s because I’m half-German. Or maybe because I got an A- in French in high school –the language of love. I don’t actually have any formalized training in this arena. And I still don’t quite understand position #27 of the Kama Sutra.
My love advice credentials stem from a series of devastating, soul-crushing, failed romances in my formative youth, all of which ended catastrophically. (To this day, I still can’t look at a wrist corsage without suffering traumatic flashbacks.)
February 14th is Valentine’s Day, officially recognized by Hallmark as the one day each year men are expected to demonstrate their love for their wife by buying a sappy card with flowers and chirping birds, inside of which is written a banal poem with hackneyed rhymes like “you’re my wife” and “rest of my life”. Oh, and don’t forget the heart-shaped box of chocolates. Here’s a useful tip: Make sure you leave at least 5 chocolates for your wife – I’d suggest the caramel-centered ones. You know how much she loves caramel. The other 364 days you guys can go back to not showering and channel-surfing between ESPN 1 and ESPN 2. Your job is done.
Every year since this blog began during the Nixon Administration, I have made bold predictions about the year ahead – in politics, world affairs, pop culture and advances in cutlery. I possess an uncanny ability to peer into the future and predict fascinating events no other prognosticators are able to see. The fact that my predictions historically have had about as much chance of coming true as Lady Gaga has of becoming the next Pope is the only small blemish tarnishing my otherwise stellar reputation.
To show you what I mean, here are a few notable predictions from previous years which would have been newsworthy except for the minor inconvenience that they failed to materialize:
2002: A resoundingly brisk victory will be won in the war in Afghanistan after just 11 months, and a flourishing democracy will spread throughout this previously troubled region. Afghani women will be elected to several prominent political posts, as Pakistan and the USA become bosom buddies.
Sunday, February 3rd is the biggest single day of the year in sports: No, I’m not talking about the Fresno Kennel Club Annual Dog Show taking place this coming Sunday – although granted, that is a very big sporting event. No, I’m talking about the Super Bowl between the New England Patriots and the Los Angeles Rams. I believe it’s Super Bowl MCLXXXXVIIIVX, but I could be off by a couple of V’s.
This week I am donning my wife’s BBQ apron to share my secrets to throwing a winning Super Bowl party. A Super Bowl party is a great opportunity for men to bond with their buddies over the world’s greatest spectator sport (after female mud wrestling) and for the ladies to bond with other wives in the kitchen while checking on the status of our Meat Lovers’ pizza and replenishing our salsa dip – I noticed it’s getting a bit low, honey.
Fellows, when hosting a Super Bowl party, there are three parts to consider: preparations BEFOREHAND, what to do DURING the party, and finally, clean-up activities AFTER the party. Of course, most of you guys can skip Parts I and III, as those parts can easily be handled by your wife. Just put her in charge of the food and stay out of her way. She loves being in charge of something.
[Tim Jones, noted humor writer and the driving force behind the humor blog View from the Bleachers, in a shocking press conference, admits to using banned performance-enhancing substances to help him write his column. Below are excerpts from that press conference.]
“This is not easy for me to admit. But the time has come for me to finally come clean. Rumors have been swirling about my behavior in recent months. And I simply could not live a lie any longer. For the first time anywhere, I need to make a public confession to all eleven of my readers:
For years I have been using banned performance-enhancing substances to help me produce my blog. And in the process, I’ve repeatedly lied to my readers, friends and family.
About the time people started wondering about Lance Armstrong, insiders started suspecting that I too might be using performance-enhancing substances to give me a competitive edge. They started noticing that my blog posts were getting increasingly unhinged. When I claimed in one post that I was a direct descendant of Jesus, it raised a lot of eyebrows. When I later wrote that I was contemplating switching my vote to Romney, my close friends and family members became deeply concerned about my mental state. But it was when I finally presented in one recent post my solution to America’s gun problem – arming every American with bullet-proof vests – that authorities could tell I had gone completely off the rails.
Recently the world’s one billion-plus Catholics were stunned by the news that, for the first time in almost 600 years, a living Pope has decided to step down. The 85-year-old Pope Benedict XVI recently announced his plans to resign on February 28, citing poor health and depression over scores of snarky comments his Facebook page has received lately about his red leather Prada shoes (most critics sniping that he should have gone with Gucci, an Italian brand). 
