From “The Private Diary of Bishop F. Atticus McButterpants” – 3-10-25 – Smoke alarm

Dear Diary,

Fr. Tommy’s still in Rome on his sabbatical. He’s probably visiting those ancient churches, and eating gelato. Unjust world. Without him, the place feels hollow. Already did when he went to the parish. The rest of us are here fighting the good fight against diocesan paperwork and Chester. He’d probably be running the place if he had opposable thumbs.

Fr. Gilbert. He’s trying, I’ll give him that, but he’s no Tommy. He got the kind of perky optimism that could make a tax audit seem like a birthday party. He helped me sort through correspondence until he got distracted by the smell of something burning. Turned out it was my toaster oven warming lunch. Smoke alarm shrieking, towels flapping, the works. Chester dodged under the sink. I’d swear the look in his eyes meant he’d found a way to turn up the temp. Anyway, we ordered out from that shop over the way that has the huge subs.

I had a call from Dozer. He wanted to “compare notes on vocations,” which I think was code for bragging that he’s finally got more than one.

Now I’m thinking about gelato. There’s some of that green chocolate mint left in the freezer. Should I go to Rome for little bit?