My Aunt Ruth Explains the Papal Conclave

Once again, when matters in current events become complicated, we turn to my Aunt Ruth to explain things. Take it away, Auntie Ruth:

Oh my sweet Bubula. now you know I'm a woman of science, but that doesn't mean I've turned my back on the God I expect to keep my swimmin' in pearls for eternity, you know what I mean? Of course you do, you're such a sweet child. 

The first thing you gotta understand about the pope, is that choosin' a new one, Oye Vey, you'd think it was me deciding on another husband. [She snorts in uproarious laughter.] That's just a little joke sweetheart. We like to have fun here. 

Did I evah tell you about my book club? Y'see the gals and I, you know, the gals from the neighborhood, there's Jeanie Ireland whose new knee is working great, and Sally Carmichael whose son is now the CEO of one of those tech companies, isn't that nice? I could put in a call for you, get you a nice position, maybe introduce you to...

Okay, okay, jeez, you don't have to go wakin' the dead with yer yellin'.  Your Auntie Ruth just wants to see you happy and maybe give your momma some grandbabies. By your age, I was already considered a spinster for not having three babies. Little did they know the God those popes pray to saw fit to make your Auntie Ruth's uterus more uninhabitable than Chernobyl. Not that anyone's been clamoring to put life in there since Kennedy was assassinated if you know what I'm sayin'. Unfit for humans is what the doctors tell me my uterus is, can you believe it?

Apparently this is not dissimilar to an x-ray of my Aunt's long ago dried out uterus. Thought you could use the graphic depiction. You're welcome. Image source. 

Anywhoodles, my book group had the same president for almost two decades, Peggy Lucastina. Well, god rest her soul, she died on September 11. Oh, no, this was 2008. Just an unfortunate coincidence that date. So we have a vote, right, and we elect this Beatrice Schulze. I knew something wasn't right about her. 

Well, let me tell you, things did not go well from the start. Beatrice starts bringing in these racy books with all sorts of smut in them. Books that have all sorts of [whispers] pornographic [she looks around then talks back in her normal voice]  material. Then she says no more members. Won't let in Eleanor Burton! Can you believe that? Eleanor who makes the best quiche and this old German wench won't let her in. And pardon my French, but she brings it out of me. 

This is kind of what Beatrice looked like, but according to
Aunt Ruth, "Beatrice has a bigger schwanz than this guy"
(who is Karl Lagerfeld, a fashion designer for Chanel). Source

Needless to say, the group almost disbanded but what else am I going to do, join Esther's pinochle group? I'd rather learn how to Harlem Shake...What? I have the internet. Then came the rumors Beatrice is flirting with Vivian's son. He's barely 40 and she's more than twice his age. That's just too much for our group to bear. You can come in drunk, like Rose always does, but when you go about robbing our own cradles, we have to take action, don't you know. So we have no choice. We have Rose do the talkin' since she's high on some booze and accidentally taking two days of meds at once. Beatrice acts all offended. She wraps her goofy lookin' doily thing around her neck like a cape and saunters off. We said she could stay in the group, but she takes her rich bitch ass off to the men's book group, shakin' her old knee-slappers for that group of cooked noodles.

We elect Penelope, one of the new girls who we asked to be in our group because we saw her reading smart stuff like on one of those computers without the keyboards, those e-reader thingies. We needed a younger lady who's in touch with the new world. Something refreshing.

And that's what those College of Cardinal boys need to do with their flamboyant robes--so much for humble am I right? Get rid of all this old nonsense, with the smoke and whatnot. Don't they know we have the global climate change? They could get the same effect with the twatting on the face-doodad or whatever it is you kids do. 

You want a butterscotch treat, Bubula?