Author Richard Cahill's Website--Living By Our Motto:"There Are No Stupid Questions, Just Stupid People Asking Questions Everybody else already knows the answer to."

While scrolling through Facebook the other day, I came across a meme by D R (not Dr.) Harper, in which Harper, “in humility and love,” suggests that listening to Taylor Swift is to invite the imps of Hell into your home, where they will leave cloven-hoofed muddy footprints in your hall and eat Flaming Hot Doritos in your bed.
 
Or something like that. Honestly, I’ve said enough about Taylor Swift and her hatred by the Biblical set here, and was about to scroll on by, when I found a link to Harper’s sermons and was immediately drawn to the first one, captioned, “Your First Night in Hell.” Without a trace of irony, the video was presented by a ministry called the Voice of Hope.
 
I expected sort of a guidebook, anything from where you could stack the handbasket you arrived in to how much to tip the Maître Demon. You know, useful information for people getting ready for their rookie season in Hell.
 
It wasn’t that. Really, Harper believes that your first day in Hell is going to be like all of your other days in Hell, full of fire, brimstone and darkness. You get there by not sucking up to Jesus sufficiently. Really, that’s the only sin that you need to get in. All that other lying, murder and adultery you’ve been engaged in, hoping to qualify for the Abode of Darkness, is strictly unnecessary. Just turn your back on Jesus for one minute, like you do when you catch the fourth quarter of a tight game or watch a pantyhose commercial, and you’re in.
 
I thought I probably shouldn’t just take the Rev’s word for it, and decided to consult other sources. I logged into Microsoft Teams (Hell has become an all-Microsoft workplace, because that makes it a little more Hellish) and drew a pentagram on the screen. Almost immediately, Lucifer appeared.
 
“What now?” he said, in the dull voice of a satanic being who was really getting fed up with eternity. Not the frightening tones you’d expect from the Lord of All Evil, but more like a tired middle manager who knows his work will never, ever, stop or get more interesting.
 
I described the minister’s description of a soul’s first day in Hell to the Prince of Darkness.
 
“Really? He said that? Has he been here?”
 
I think you would know that better than me.
 
“It’s tough to keep track. He does sound like he’s on his way, though. We’ll try and live up to his expectations when he gets here, though I can’t promise him anything for sure.”
 
What’s it like for the average condemned soul when they step through the Gates of Perdition, then?
 
“Depends on how busy it is. Couple of wars going on now, so it’s humming. Just check in at the front desk…”
 
Hell has a front desk?
 
“Of course we do, although some of the younger eternally damned think we ought to have an app for checking in so they don’t have to deal with the fallen angels at the front desk. Millennials! Not that many of them here yet, so we don’t feel much pressure to update. If you have a major credit card, we’ll take that for room service…”
 
Hell has room service?
 
“Naturally. Of course, it’s not really great room service. In fact, the only thing we serve is cups of ice chips. They’re surprisingly popular.”
 
I can see why.
 
“Then, just wait around for your turn to get tormented.”
 
You have to wait to be tormented? That doesn’t sound like eternal suffering to me.
 
“Surprisingly, we do get a few complaints regarding that, from the damned who long to be eviscerated, but most lost souls don’t bitch about it. My demons have been slicing, stabbing and roasting people since the beginning. If they want to take a few hours off to sit by the Lake of Burning Lava, relaxing on the Sulfur Sands with a juicy novel on their Kindles once in a while, I can’t blame them, and most of my denizens don’t miss their scheduled hot pitchfork in the liver too much if we have to skip it.”
 
So that’s it? Just sit around in an overheated room for all eternity, occasionally getting stabbed in the guts by a bored bureaucrat? What about people who really deserve Hell? Trump? Putin?  That bald guy on Pawn Shop?
 
"When a special case arrives, it’s all hands on deck. My really creative demons start brainstorming, and all leaves are cancelled.”
 
What about Taylor Swift’s first night here?
 
“Oh, that’s sold out.”

As a nonbeliever, I feel confident that there will be no pain for me in the afterlife. In several columns here, I have expressed novel beliefs about eternal life for atheists, such as All Atheists Go to Heaven and Why God Loves Atheists. But, like all theologians, I make up divine principles right in my head, according to what I find convenient to believe. Research has nothing to do with it.
 
So, I could be wrong. I could end up in Hell, for the sin of finding blasphemy extremely amusing. This is not among the listed sins, at least in any list I’ve read, but I’ve been assured by religious people that it is, and I’m going to Hell for it. There have been a couple of other sins I’ve committed along the way, too.
 
I’ve always assumed I would end up in the nice Catholic Hell that was promised me by the nuns that slapped me around in grammar school. The best feature of Catholic Hell was ease of entrance. Chewing gum before taking Communion was a one-way ticket there, and skipping Mass on one of the Church’s innumerable Holy Days of Obligation got you a front-row seat, too.
 
So, there you would be, Mr. Little Gum Chewer, right where you belonged, getting tortured eternally with all the liars, cheats, serial rapists and mass murderers. Even before you learned to masturbate, which assured you of your place in the Fiery Pit, you could get what you deserved, suffering without end.
 
The nuns were not specific about the torments of Hell per se. It was hot, of course, and random slashings by Satan’s imps were common.
 
As a Catholic, you could always luck out and go to Purgatory. Purgatory was hard to get into, as the category of sin, venial, that put you there was pretty mild. Lying to your mom about having made your bed could put you in Purgatory, for example. The place had all the torture features of Hell, but your sentence there was only temporary. The best thing about Purgatory was that your mom was probably going to end up there, too, and you could get the bed-making thing straightened out with her between scaldings by hot lava.
 
But what if Mohammed really was God’s messenger, instead of just a horny bastard who hated booze and wanted a batch of teenage wives? I could end up in Muslim Hell. Muslim Hell has seven layers, kind of like a burrito offering by Taco Bell, and there’s plenty of El Scorcho Sauce in every one. The only redeeming feature of Muslim Hell is that you are surrounded by bad Muslims, which is way more fun than being surrounded by good Muslims. Ask anybody in Kabul, if you don’t believe me.
​
Jews are kind of half-assed about Hell. You don’t have to believe in eternal life or eternal torture to call yourself a Jew. You can believe in Hell if you want to, but it is a merely a Hell of teeth-gritting inconveniences, like being seated at a table by the kitchen in a restaurant. Instead of a menu, you have a list of all the shitty things you did in life that you ought to be ashamed of. You have to read it, over and over. The good news is that Hell for Jews is only temporary. Eventually they are released and go to Jewish Heaven, which they call “the world to come.”
 
My girl and her daughter, who are both Jewish, were discussing the World to Come the other day and, me being in the room, the subject of whether atheists would be admitted there came up, and her daughter had a swift answer.
 
“Of course,” she said. “Because, as soon as they get there, they’re no longer atheists.”
 
Works for me.

It’s been a while since I checked in on Satan, although it hasn’t been one of those “Not today, Satan” things. I’ve been busy and, you know, the pandemic.
 
The Prince of Darkness is one of my sources, though, and I needed an update on Hell. I only summon Satan on Zoom. You have merely to draw a pentagram on your computer screen and place a couple clip-art candles on the corners. It’s much easier and less messy than using human ashes and the blood of unbaptized virgins to make a pentagram IRL.
 
“Are you still using Paint to draw that pentagram?” the Unholy One said when he appeared. “About time you got yourself a decent graphics program.”
 
Right. You seem a little testy today.
 
“I’m feeling a little pressure,” Lucifer admitted. “Limbaugh showed up yesterday, and me and my imps always want to put on the best show we can on for someone who really, really, really deserves to be here. Of course, everybody gets the traditional welcome from Hell’s marching band, which consists only of bagpipes and kazoos…”
 
Sounds awful.
 
“Oh, you can look forward to it. Then the imps pile on for that first ritual pitchforking. After that, some special touches for Rush. You remember his ‘AIDS Update’ segment where he played “Looking for Love in All the Wrong Places,’ while reading off the names of gay guys who had died of AIDS? Fucking classic Rush. Really hateful and maximumly insensitive. I nearly wept when I first tuned it in. I knew right then that some day I'd be shaking Limbaugh's hand down here. And then chopping it off at the wrist with a red-hot broadsword, of course.

"Well, some of those gay guys ended up here, natch, and they’re going to take Rush skinny-dipping in the Lake of Molten Iron right after lunch. You can’t take your Congressional Medal of Freedom to Hell with you, of course, which disappointed Rush, but we have the Doing Satan’s Work medal here. It weighs about sixty pounds because it’s made of pure uranium, and we keep it heated up to about the same temp as the inside of a nuclear reactor. And we plan to slap it on Rush’s bare chest every day, because nobody deserves it more!
 
“Then we take him to his cell…”
 
Cell--wait—people get to sleep in Hell?
 
“I said he gets a cell. I didn’t say he was going to get to sleep. We show him the bunk bed and let him know that his cellmate is going to be either Bill Cosby or OJ, whichever of them shows up first, and while he may be on the top bunk, he won’t be a top in any other sense here in Hell. That’s going to be part of Limbaugh’s eternal torment. That, and the fact that we’re going to give him the impression that he’s the only hetero white guy in Hell. He sees nothing but black, Mexican and gay souls alongside him when he’s going through his daily routine of burnings and eviscerations.”
 
Really fiendish.
 
“Thank you.”
 
But how long can you keep that up?
 
“At least until Trump gets here is what I figure.”

Religious swindler and Trump spiritual advisor Paula White has comforting words for those who fear death from the coronavirus.

In an interview on “The Jim Bakker Show,” White claimed that she had been taken to heaven where God showed her new construction to cope with the recent surge of souls. 

“God has commissioned builder angels to expand the size of heaven. He will make sure there is plenty of room for the new admissions.” says Paula.

In this ugly new world of fear, quarantine and plague, we are so lucky to have Paula directing our thoughts Heavenward, although apparently, she’s the only one who gets to go there and come back, like some divine commuter in Jesus's HOV lane. So, for those believers gasping their last on a respirator, there is the comfort of knowing that they are not going to be stuffed into tents or crammed into cages like common refugees when they reach the Pearlies. Right now, even as their blood oxygen is dropping to zero, hardhat angels are banging together Heavenly condos for them in a blizzard of lumber and drywall, barely pausing for a manna break.
 
Those of us who have been assured that our final destination is the fiery pit have cause to worry, though. Is Satan making his imps do the same? We can only hope so. Nobody wants to be crammed into Hell, which already has a bad reputation for creature comforts, without having an adequate opportunity to socially distance.
 
In the meantime, here on Earth, fossil fundamentalist Pat Robertson has had a revelation that the coronavirus is caused by oral sex, and not just any oral sex. According to Pat:
 
“Some of these young uns are doing all kinds of unnatural things with their sex organs,” said Robertson. “When people do that, they transfer all kinds of chemicals from ladies’ private parts and that’s where I think the virus came from. We never had this kind of thing when I was coming up. But no one was committing oral sex back then.”
 
Yeah, Pat, they were. You just missed out on it. But your revelation is a huge theological advance anyway. All of your fellow fundies are still blaming the virus on the usual suspects—God punishing us for gay marriage, fornication, transgender bathrooms, porn and masturbation.  But you have put the sin spotlight on the one sex act that is commonly performed, with varying degrees of skill, by heterosexual men, who are generally the heroes in the Bible. And the virus is transmitted by lady chemicals, which is Robertson’s delicate description for vaginal secretions. If you want to be even less delicate, and we are capable of that here, cooze juice is full of corona.
 
Fortunately for guys, virus transmission is a one-way street. We’re not going to have to give up donating our man chemicals orally to the girls to stop the spread of the virus, so the men of Alabama and any other place where they take Robertson seriously can keep on begging for oral sex just like they always have.
 
Unfortunately for us hetero peeps, this is one logical explanation for men dying of the beer bug more than women. Lesbians ought to be taking a big hit, too. Has anybody checked on them?
 
So that’s it. The cure for coronavirus is cutting out the cunnilingus. No more slurping the clam, or nibbling the fur burger, or licking the carpet, or gobbling the snatch, or eating hair pie. Dining at the Y is out, as is munching muffin, chowing box, tonguing the beaver or mopping out the boner garage.
 
So that’s it, girls. We’ve got to keep our faces out of your naughty bits. Pat Robertson has spoken.
 
You’d better just hope nobody tells him about eating ass. 

It’s been a week since the entire nation was condemned to an eternity of fiery suffering as the result of watching the Super Bowl halftime show, and I, for one, feel pretty good about it. Of course, I was going to Hell already, so watching the halftime booty-fest put on by Shakira, J.Lo and their host of back-up dancers did not affect my eternal fate. Well, maybe a little, because I was putting the finishing touches on a couple of roasted chickens during most of the halftime show and had to deliberately make a speed-date with sin by watching it later on YouTube, so I might eventually end up in a lower circle of Hell because of that. Or not; I could always plead I don't deserve a hotter spot because I can't name a single song by either performer off the top of my head. 
 
It all seems ironic, because almost everyone in the country was just about in heaven about the Supe because there was no possibility the New England Patriots were going to win it. By halftime, it was still obvious that the Patriots were not going to be the eventual champions, so ultra-Christian Ohio resident Dave Daubenmire should have been as happy as the rest of us when Shakira, J. Lo and company went onstage to shake it like a Polaroid picture. He, however, was not. From his Christian podcast:
 
“I think we ought to sue,” (said Daubenmire). “Would that halftime show, would that have been rated PG? Were there any warnings that your 12-year-old son—whose hormones are just starting to operate – was there any warning that what he was going to see might cause him to get sexually excited?”

“Could I go into a courtroom and say, ‘Viewing what you put on that screen put me in danger of hellfire’?”

Now, no one could blame Dave for seething with angst while watching the Super Bowl, because no Ohio team has ever won one. But he had to go and bring sex and Jesus into it. Let's face it, Dave is about as much fun as hitting your shin on a trailer hitch.
 
He mentions suing Pepsi, which sponsored Shakira’s vibrating buns and J. Lo’s sensational splits, for an amount of 867 trillion dollars, which, at 37 times the national debt, seems a tad overmuch, until you consider that 867 trillion divided by an eternity in Hell is still effectively zero.
 
It might be a tough lawsuit to win. If I were one of Pepsi’s defense lawyers, I’d point out that many other female pop stars have danced nearly in the raw at previous Super Bowls, and Dave did not see fit to sue over them. Katie Perry had a Left Shark drooling over her (a Shark that is for sure destined for eternal perdition), Lady Gaga scampered skimpily, Fergie sang about her luscious lady lumps, and Beyoncé even cat-walked across the Super Stage through a special effect calculated to mimic the flames of Hell. Yet Dave did not raise one litigating finger. It took the sultry Latina duo to give Dave a sinful bulge in his trousers, a bump he fears will eighty-six him from the Pearlies and get him a box seat at the Stadium of Eternal Suffering.
 
Yeah, 867 trillion might be a little low, especially if he splits it with that twelve-year-old kid. If he wins, though, you can comfort yourself with the thought that every time you pour yourself a Pepsi at your local taco shop (because no taco shop on the planet ever serves Coke) you’re doing more than preparing to douse the fire of its habanero sauce.
 
You’re helping keep Dave out of Hell.

Numbers in the rationalist community are reportedly dwindling, as heretofore firm atheists and previously logical agnostics are returning to church in droves, just so they can fantasize about Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell roasting in Hell.
 
“I know there’s no real chance that the Hell of orthodox Christian theology exists, or that any of us are going there,” said one former atheist, who was willing to be interviewed anonymously. “Still, when I sit in church and fantasize about McConnell getting all of his chins ripped off every day for all eternity by the teeth one of Satan’s imps, I am overcome by a feeling of numinousness.  
 
“The thought of McConnell getting stabbed repeatedly by pitchforks, or having his testicles smashed continuously by a brimstone brick glowing red-hot with the fires of Hades, just brings me closer to God. Ever prayer I say, and every hymn I sing, makes me firmer in my belief that someday that frog-eyed sack of lying crap will get what he deserves forever.
 
“I mean, people say that McConnell’s got his head up Trump’s butthole now, but that’s just a figure of speech. In Hell, Satan could actually make it happen, and keep McConnell’s silly-putty looking features wedged up that canyon of hemorrhoids with a spring-loaded slave collar the temperature of molten lead, maximizing the never-ending pain for both of them. Sweet Jesus! I can almost hear the angels sing when I visualize it.
 
“I know when I go to church I could be surrounded by Republicans, and they could be praying to keep McConnell out of Hell. I’m there to balance that out, by asking God to not only send him there, but to stick a spear the size of a regulation NFL goal post up McConnell’s ass, and shake him around on it like an inflatable tube man at a used car lot for centuries at a time.
 
“I pity my former fellow nonbelievers, who think that McConnell will just cease to be a point of consciousness when he dies. They are limited to wishing him the most painful death possible, maybe by being stabbed to death slowly with dull Swiss Army knives by a combined mob of illegal aliens, Muslims and transgenders. Or accidentally ingesting some radioactive polonium that Putin was trying to slip to Chuck Schumer.
 
“But I’ve moved beyond that. I see McConnell gasping for breath while boiled in a vat of his own bullshit for time without end, and it brings me bliss unimaginable.
 
“You can laugh if you want to, but I never knew what religious ecstasy was, before now.”

In news from the religious fringe this week, noted charismatic Jennifer LeClair predicted that the Prince of Darkness had it in for recently Christianized pop singer Kanye West, while Paula White, newly hired advisor to the White House, prayed aloud that Trump would be kept safe from demons although she did imply that most of those demons were on the House Intelligence Committee.
 
Paula preaches the Prosperity Gospel, which holds that you will get rich if you send her all your money, thus surpassing the original Christian concept that strained credibility the most, the Virgin Birth. Kudos to Paula for that, and congratulations on getting the White House job.
 
Jennifer, who still works in the private sector, and has previously held forth on the Seven Signs Witches Are Attacking You (they include excessive dandruff and tinnitus) fears that Satan will murder Kanye West, despite the Evil One’s reputation for not doing humankind any favors.
 
Not willing to get my news secondhand, I drew a pentangle on the floor of the garage and placed a candle at each point. I didn’t have any blood of an unbaptized male child handy—the girl threw it out, thinking it was a bottle of spoiled ketchup—so I put a box of Cheez-its at the center of the pentangle, knowing that Satan loves Cheez-its.
 
He immediately appeared in a cloud of ash, which coated the garage thoroughly. Next time Skype, I thought to myself.
 
“Hell, no,” he said sincerely, in between mouthfuls of snack food. “Got a glass of ice water? Just leave the pitcher by me. I don’t want to kill anybody. Killing people was His idea in the first place, remember? The whole everybody’s-got-to-buy-the-farm concept was alright at first—there weren’t that many people and slashing at their departed souls with pitchforks gave my imps work.
 
“Then came the USA, God’s favorite nation. You know why that is? Because almost no Americans go to Heaven. He’s got to let Jimmy Carter in, but anyone can see He’s even putting that off. The rest of you are addicted to either Internet porn or opioids, or both. Every time one of you people dies, you add to the line to get into the Pits of Perdition. It’s starting to be the DMV of all eternity. Inside, it’s just too crowded. We’ve had to buy space heaters for some of the far corners just to keep them respectably warm.
 
“Of course, Trump and Kanye are going to Hell—why should they be any different? But I’m putting it off for as long as possible. I do send demons after Trump, but that’s only so they can insert Satan’s Stents into his arteries while he sleeps off his latest cheeseburger binge. Otherwise his heart would have stopped in Stormy Daniel’s arms. And now that Kanye’s formed an attachment to Jesus, I want him to live as long as possible. Christ just texted me the other day about it--Dear Me, he is just so icky. I’d rather be hugged by a fetus—which amuses me to no end. So, I don’t want to see Kanye here anytime soon. And neither does Biggie or Tupac.
 
“What Hell’s scientists are really working on is the live-forever pill. Yeah, I put them in the lowest circle after they invented the boner pill—didn’t that backfire spectacularly? I promised each one of them an afternoon at a Tastee-Freeze, though, if they can come up with a live-forever treatment.
 
“That would solve all my problems.”

I mean, really ready? The bet here is not. Sure, you talk a big game, saying things, “I first news I want to hear when I flick on the TV is that Trump has croaked,” and “The day Trumps kicks the breathing habit will be the happiest day of my life,” but have you really made plans?
 
No. You haven’t bought a single cherry bomb, polished your cymbals, practiced even one dance step or memorized the lyrics to “Ding, Dong the Witch is Dead.” You are in serious danger of being caught flat-footed if Trump finally has that coronary infarction he’s been begging for.
 
He’s a fat guy who lives on cheeseburgers, hopefully triple bacon cheeseburgers, and the only exercise he gets is flicking the “on” switch on his golf cart and flying to Mar al Lago so he can watch porn. Like everybody else who gives him advice, his personal physician knows better than to give him bad news. Unlike our doctors, who are regularly telling us to stop smoking, drinking, being fat or having intestinal polyps, the White House physician tells Trump he's a "vibrant young man," even as he prescribes Trump's daily dose of  Lipitor, Adderal and boner pills. 

If we follow our doctors' advice, we get to stay off that Slip ‘n Slide to eternity a little longer.
 
But Trump doesn’t even have that going for him. Judas, who has the same job in Hell that St. Peter has in Heaven,* is waiting on the shore of the Lake of Molten Brimstone, with a beach chair labeled “Trump” in his hand even as I write this, and he confidently expects to seat Trump's doomed orange soul in it soon.
 
So do your bit. Head to North Carolina, where they sell fireworks that are illegal in most other US states and all members of NATO, and stock up. If you can play a musical instrument, particularly of the noisy, party kind, or a tuba, or really, anything but a recorder or the bagpipes, keep your instrument polished and ready. If you aren’t musical, buy a metal washtub. You probably already own a hammer. Samba lessons? Hell, yeah. You want to be able to dance on your rooftop like a Muslim when Trump goes down.
 
If you actually want to attend Trump’s funeral, which will no doubt be held in the Rotunda of the Capitol, just like a better President’s, which are all of them, some measure of decorum will be expected of you, but don’t let that slow you down. Nobody can stop you from loudly farting when you pass Trump’s lifeless corpse, and many diners in DC serve a passable bowl of chili. Try to start a round of golf-clapping among your fellow mourners, or even the Wave.
 
So be in a constant state of readiness for Trump to gack out, just like you were waiting for the Rapture, except that Trump’s death will definitely someday happen.

Some pundits worry that we could have civil unrest even if Trump died naturally, what with FOX ghouls and Alex Jones seizing the chance to start yammering about Hillary, or the Deep State, or the ghost of Epstein mysteriously killing him, but I wouldn't worry about that. The only civil unrest predicted here is possible brawling between the factions at Trump's grave that want to dance on it, vs. the ones that want to urinate on it.

And if it doesn’t happen soon enough? Well, you’re all set for 11/03/2020.

*Not orthodox theology. I made that up.

​This burning theological question, raised by recent reports of at least 300 priests in Pennsylvania molesting at least a thousand kids, has not been answered by the Pope.
 
Those of you who think that the answer has to be a resounding “No!” need to remember that this is a Pope who is prone to letting people into Heaven. He has already admitted atheists, gays and Jews, which is bound to change the tenor of eternity, but the Pope has no regrets, at least not for now. When he arrives at the Pearlies himself, he may begin to wonder if overpopulating the place with non-Catholics has negatively impacted the value of eternal real estate, and whether manna-rationing will someday have to be enforced, but for now, he’s content to let almost everybody in.
 
But the Pope has kept his thoughts on eternally rewarding child-molesting members of the clergy to himself, even though they seem to be a significant segment of the priestly population. He is in Ireland as of this writing, and doing some heavy apologizing for child-abusing priests there, of which there were also a solid number. Ireland may well have been the birthplace of pedophile priests; in the Catholic traditions of that land, if one of your sons was prone to wearing dresses, he was bundled off to the priesthood, where he could wrap himself in robes full-time. If he also occasionally slipped a hand up an altar boy’s cassock, it was all part of God’s plan.
 
Don’t think the Pope hasn’t done anything about this. He has called on one of the Heavenly heavies, the Mother of God herself, to put an end to the scourge of pedophilia among priests. This is a Papal Tweet:
 
I ask our Blessed Mother to intercede for the healing of the survivors of abuse and to confirm every member of our Christian family in the resolve never again to permit these situations to occur.
 
That’s bringing out the big guns as far as Catholics are concerned. The rest of us might point out that it’s comparable to the “thoughts and prayers” offered by the NRA and the politicians they own every time some young white guy shoots up a school. You can’t really count on the BVM to do anything but show up randomly to a bunch of kids occasionally somewhere, at Fatima, at Guadalupe, or in Ireland, at Knock. That’s it—she is the Bill Murray of the Heavenly Hosts.
 
The Pope doesn’t really have to answer the question in the headline, though—it has already been answered by Catholic doctrine, which this column had a heavy dose of in its childhood. Any sin can be forgiven, as long as it is confessed to a priest.
 
There’s no rule forbidding one pedophile priest confessing to another pedophile priest and in fact, it may occur quite frequently. These Fathers can employ the confessional booth to both smooth their way into eternal grace and also compare notes on which of the altar boys is already sprouting pubic hair.
 
Must seem like Heaven already.