“And he can pick the music,” Madonna offered. “I mean, Like a Virgin is obviously appropriate for him, but I’ve danced to that before, surrounded by hunky gay men, so it wouldn’t be fair to him. When he wants to be surrounded by gay men, he has to call up the College of Cardinals, and they can’t dance worth squat. But I mean really dance, though—not hum along to some Gregorian chant.
“He can also pick the outfits as well, although I reserve the right to wear fishnets underneath whatever dress he selects. I propose a maximum size for crucifixes as well—you can’t really hoof it with a gigantic cross hanging from your neck, although, frankly, he has a slight advantage in his collection of crucifixes. Mine will be swinging in front of my still-tempting breasts, though, and he’d be wise to keep his old gray man-boobs underneath his cassock. And if he wants to twerk, I'm down with that.
“St. Peter’s Square is the obvious venue for the Pope and I to cut the rug competitively, but if he wants a more intimate venue, I know any number of clubs that would kill to host it. A Vegas residency isn’t out of the question. Eurovision, anyone? I don’t expect Jesus to return to judge it, but wouldn’t that be a show-stopper? And for Him, great practice for the Apocalypse.
“Afterwards, when I’ve danced him into the dirt, Pope Francis will admit that abortion is cool with God, especially in cases of rape, incest and when the baby-daddy situation is complicated. He’ll join me for a rousing finale—oh, yeah, for sure it’s gonna be Papa Don’t Preach—and I’ll be back on top of the pop music, and also Catholic worlds.
“And that bitch Gaga can kiss my ass.”