Pope Benedict XVI’s Ghost Haunts My Bathroom
When You’re Done With Communion, Could You Pass the Shampoo?
I was freshly 18. I had spent my whole life in Nebraska and I decided I needed a change. I took all the money I had in my piggy bank and bought a bus ticket to the city that never sleeps. That’s right, Chicago, Illinois. When I got there, the first thing I had to do was find an apartment. After a couple days of sleeping in 24/7 sandwich shops, I stumbled upon this beautiful apartment in Lincoln Park, it was dirt cheap too. I signed the lease that day without asking any questions. I thought I had been blessed to find such a cheap pad. Turns out I was cursed. And also blessed, but in a different sense.
I was only there about a week before I noticed something was wrong. As I was brushing my teeth before bed, I felt a cold shiver down my spine and a deep desire to condemn homosexuality. At first, I thought I might have had a bit too much to drink that night and I was having one of those moments where I’m not really sure if I’m straight, but I only had 3 Miller Lites and that doesn’t usually start till at least 5. Then, I got an urge to write a 6000 word letter blaming sexual abuse in the catholic church on moral erosion caused by the sex positivity movements of the 1960s. I was scared, but I brushed it off as being homesick and went to bed.
The following night I was taking a shower when all of a sudden I heard the faint sounds of Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto. “It’s probably just the neighbors having a party” I told myself. Then, as my strawberry shampoo rushed off my banana hair and down my vanilla chest, it all came together. Condemning homosexuality, 6000 word letters about moral erosion, Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto, it all led to just one thing. The ghost of Pope Benedict XVI was living in my 28 square foot Chicago apartment bathroom.
Right as I put it all together, he appeared in front of me. I have to admit, I was scared more than I ever had been in my life and a little bit of poop came out of my butt. I’m not sure if it was because he was a ghost or because he was the Pope, but he was able to make the poop disappear just as quickly as it had shot out of my butt.
“What do you want from me?” I asked the spirit. “Why are you haunting my 28 square foot Chicago apartment bathroom?”
“Because” he began, with his iconic and recognizable Bavarian accent “zis is mine curse! Due to mine resignahtion from ze papazy, I have been condemned to un life of eternal limbo. Gregory ze seventh vas in un New York studio apartment for 600 years before ze economic collapse of two thousand aught eight forced him to be, how you say, evicted.”
All of my toiletries began to float as he continued. “It is mine duty to impose ze vill of ze church upon ze resident of zis here apartment building. Keep un eye out for mine presence.” And as mysteriously as he arrived, he had evaporated.
So far, his time in my bathroom has been unbearable. A few nights ago, I had brought a girl home, a coworker from my new job as a Segway tour guide. After a few episodes of Seinfeld on my 300 dollar Ikea couch, we went to my bedroom. As I pulled a condom out from my 30 dollar Ikea bedside table drawer, the bellowing Bavarian voice of Pope Benedict XVI rang through my bedroom.
“STOP! Zis is unacceptable!” The ghost cried.
“Oh come on Pope Benedict” I began, to the confusion and dismay of my guest, “it’s 2023, who cares about premarital sex?”
“NO ONE! I’m talking about zat horrid, sinful, evil piece of rubber in your hands!”
“The condom?”
“AH! Do not even say zat word in front of his former holiness!”
At that point, my date had left with no intention of coming back. I can only imagine what is to come in this new life I’ve found living with a holy ghost. I suppose my only option is to adapt and find a way to come to terms with this spirit in my abode. I mean, there won’t be another apartment in Lincoln Park for 400 dollars a month till Henry Kissinger bites it.
