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If a Priest Had Diddled Me, I Could've Met the Pope

Guest editorial by Paul Myler,
un-molested Catholic

I was reading today where Pope Benedict XVI met with a bunch of people who were sexually abused by priests, and I have to say that some people have all the damned luck. Too bad for me: my childhood never featured some raving pedophile priest trying to trick me into the sacristy and ramming me hard up the poop chute.

If a only a Catholic priest had diddled me, I could've met the freaking Pope.

But no - all the priests in my grade school and at Blessed Sacrament parish were all your normal, boring, Three-Hail-Marys-and-a-Rosary types. Not once did a priest try to convince me that Jesus wanted me to let Father suck on my prepubescent schlong, nor did a priest ever try to climb in my sleeping bag on a campout and try to shove his quivering, gristly knob up my unsuspecting asshole.

Not me. No sir: I never had a priest dress up as a naughty nun and have me give him a reacharound while I pounded his greased bunghole with my adolescent boner as he sang "Ave Maria" in a lusty falsetto. And I never had a priest take one of the Fun-O-Rama petting donkeys and make me give the beast a blowjob, while he jerked off his throbbing purple-headed chode behind a stack of musty hay bales.

Nope. Now my only chance is to travel to the Vatican and wait in line with a million other losers hoping I win the papal lottery for a 10-second blessing. Christ, if I had known that getting a withered priest-cock shoved down my gagging throat was a ticket to glory, I would've been chasing those befrocked fuckers into the confession booth myself.

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