Blowing Smoke
Reporting live from inside the conclave.
If you haven’t seen me around the past week, it’s because I’ve been at the Vatican reporting on the conclave.
First, you should know that no one here calls it the conclave. That’s the quickest way to identify yourself as a Vatican noob. Here we just call it ‘the clave.’
Of the 252 cardinals (or Cardi-Bs) worldwide, 133 have flown to Rome to vote on the new pope. Those over the age of 80 are ineligible to participate. Only the young guns have a chance to become pope and get to see me prancing around the Vatican in my skimpy outfits.
The cardinals are secluded under strict oaths of secrecy and obedience, with no access to the news or social media (as if their For You Pages were news and politics, and not Benson Boone shirtless backflip compilations).
Every day, these holy leaders gather in the Sistine Chapel to vote, writing their candidate of choice on paper ballots. If a cardinal receives two-thirds of the votes, he becomes the new pope. And if a cardinal receives no votes at all, then he is whacked in the nuts with the censor and shoved in the confessional. There, another more popular cardinal waits with his ass pressed against the latticed partition known as the grille or screen, farting mercilessly until the other cardinal takes the Lord’s name in vain.
If no cardinal receives a two-thirds majority, they must reconvene, up to four times a day, until a pope is chosen. After each vote, the ballots are burned in a special stove and the fire is chemically treated to release either black smoke (no pope has been chosen) or white smoke (a pope has been chosen).
We’re currently ripping black smoke, and I am so bored I could crucify myself. I thought it would be cool to see in person, especially after seeing Conclave the movie, but Holy Lord Jesus, it is not.
In between votes today, I snuck out to get gelato. I was annoyed that I didn’t understand any of the Latin and a little insecure that everyone else was wearing robes and I was in a mesh tube top and Daisy Dukes. While housing a double scooper of pistachio and something called stracciatella (a Dalmatian-esque fusion of vanilla and chocolate), I saw another puff of black smoke.
“Good,” I thought. I didn’t miss anything.” But then I realized I had three more hours to kill before the next puff of smoke. Ugh. If you’ve ever done a juice cleanse, you know what I’m talking about. You wake up starving for something to eat. Then you drink your stupid juice, and wow, you’re just as starving as you were before, and all you can do now is count the hours to the next ineffective, anticlimactic, facial butt-chug of some sour, mealy juice. In this metaphor, picking the Pope is the juice.
I admit, I have a horrible attitude about this whole thing, and the fact that I get to be here is totally lost on me. Besides the record number of cardinals here for the conclave this year, the only other people allowed on the premises are:
1) The Secretary of the College of Cardinals
2) The Master of Liturgical Celebrations
3) The Masters of Ceremonies
4) Two priests acting as confessors
5) Me
I think it’s just understood that God works in mysterious ways. And sometimes He sends His least competent reporter to cover His most important moments. So, clad in my sheer negligee, G-string, and roller skates, I just sort of ‘gratzi’ and ‘prego’ my way through security and flounce around the Domus Sanctae Marthae in my little outfits, which get skimpier every day. Perhaps that’s why the cardinals are in no rush to reach a consensus.
Until they do, there’s not much to report on:
Yes, you can bet on who the next pope is using event-trading sites like Kalshi.
Yes, there’s a cardinal named Pierbattista Pizzaballa #PizzaBaller.
No, the lire is no longer the currency of Italy; they switched to the Euro in 2002.
Yes, once a pope is elected as the Supreme Pontiff, he gets to choose his own papal name and appear on the balcony of St. Peter’s Basilica in white papal robes. #RobeGoat
Voting resumes in 15 minutes, at 10:30 AM local time, and the boyz and I are ready–waxed, bleached, and glittered to the gills for another marathon day at the conclave. Hopefully, the 70-year-old celibate, religious white guy we end up with is super chill.