Being the Pope is like being the CEO of a Fortune 500 corporation. Except that the secretaries aren't as good-looking at the Vatican.

We've got some people, they're real go-getters. Every day, they come in and crank out 50 Hail Marys, 200 gallons of Holy Water, whatever. They're heavy hitters.

Others--not so good. I walk by their workstations and they're playing "Hang the Protestant" or solitaire, or they're looking at nuns in plus-size habits on the Lane Bryant web site. They see me and they minimize the window, as if that's gonna fool a tech-savvy pontiff like myself. I know who these people are without looking at their computer screens. I can spot them across the room by their "Jesus is Coming--Look Busy!" coffee mugs.

You know, it's a little embarrassing when my PR firm has to issue a press release saying I do not wear Prada.

I am a simple and somber man who just happens to be the biggest clothes horse in the history of Christianity. I don't wear Prada, the devil wears Prada. And I'm not the devil, except to certain US Protestant sects. And Muslims. And Jews.

No, the shoes that people thought were Prada were actually just red Hush Puppies. Very comfortable, almost like bedroom slippers. And since most of my outfits can be worn either to work or to bed, they're perfectly appropriate whether I'm greeting a bunch of lepers (yuk!) or kicking back to watch late-night basketball highlights on ESPN del Sports.

Deep in the Vatican's basement media center, watching the E! Network. The Amy Winehouse Death Watch has begun! I have a personal stake in the outcome, and not just because I love "Fuck Me Pumps".

You see, the whole Pope-Vatican-Catholic "brand" has become a bit boring, like Dr. Pepper or Ivory Soap. We've got patron saints for cobblers, for barbers and for all I know tow-truck drivers and grease-trap cleaners. Not exactly hip, cutting edge stuff.

But when Amy goes, I'm planning to name her St. Amy, patron saint of white, British neo-soul singers! Don't get me wrong--I wouldn't skip the drama. We'd use a sort of American Idol-format, with Amy competing from beyond the grave against Joss Stone and Duffy. But for sheer martyrdom in the name of drug abuse and a fake Motown sound, Amy's a shoo-in.

I thought that once I got to be Pope, people would treat me with a little respect--but noooo.

I'm in my office the other day, Googling the Dalai Lama to see if he's still getting more coverage than me (yes--19 million to my 9 million!), when the girl from Human Resources knocks and says it's time for my physical. I erase my search history and follow her down the hall. I'm a good German--I don't ask questions, I just do what I'm told.

I walk into the Vatican Nurse's office, we say hello, and she says this will only take a minute, its a routine exam, lift up your vestments. I follow her instructions, figuring I'm too old for her to check me for an undescended testicle, when she sticks her hand between my legs!

I jumped like a freaking kangaroo, and not just because she'd been drinking a frozen latte when I came in. What the hell are you doing, I asked her, and she looked at me like I'm the crazy one!

Despite my previous post , people remain unconvinced about me disallowing the next Da Vinci Code movie to be filmed in the Vatican City. It's not the movie we have the issue with, but the actor Tom Hanks. Every movie he’s ever made has attacked the Church and attempted to undermine everything we believe in:

Splash: The mermaid is an abomination! A result of the unholy coupling of man and fish! And Tom Hanks spends the whole movie trying to have sex with it! Even though they’re not married! And if they wanted to get married, we’d be against that, too!

Big: Tom Hanks’s character is a small boy who looks like an adult, and then a woman wants to have sex with him. An adult attempting to have sex with a 12-year-old boy? I can’t even tell you how against that we are. 

When I took the job of being Pope, I was pretty excited. Full medical, full dental, three weeks paid vacation, generous clothing allowance, unlimited use of the Popemobile on weekends. Not a bad gig.

After I said yes, they gave me a bunch of forms to fill out. Just some stuff the guys in legal said you have to sign, they told me. Contact info including cell phone number and email, next of kin for the group life insurance, food allergies, etc.

I don't remember signing the Dignity in the Workplace pledge, but I guess I did. Apparently I agreed to refrain from offensive language, inappropriate touching at the Christmas party, and Priest-Rabbi-Lady Snake Charmer jokes. Didn't seem like a big deal at the time.

So once again, I am the bad guy. Just because I wouldn't let Ron Howard and Tom Hanks film the prequel to The Da Vinci Code in two beautiful Catholic churches in Rome. Nail me to the friggin' cross. Figuratively speaking, of course.

I don't know why I have to bend over for every film school hack who thinks he's some kind of auteur. And let me tell you Ronnie-boy, Jean-Luc Godard did not get his start playing "Opie" on the French equivalent of The Andy Griffith Show.

Look, I love Tom Hanks as much as anybody. I've seen Caddyshack probably a hundred times. "It's a Cinderella story"--"Ungalunga lunga" and all that. Oh--I forgot. That was Bill Murray, before Hanks copied his schtick.

It's summertime, and you know what that means: Pina Coladas out on the Vatican portico, grilling kielbasa on the Papal hibachi, late-nite hootenannies with Cardinal Francis Arinze trying to sing "Michael Row the Boat Ashore" while strumming his ukulele.

Oh, and one more thing. Church-goers walking into Mass dressed like they're on their way to a swap meet or maybe a demolition derby.

The women have on their "I'm With Stupid" t-shirts. The men are in blue jean cutoffs. Do you know what it sounds like when 30,000 sticky-faced toddlers walk into St. Peter's Square wearing flip-flops? Like a thousand Canadian geese farting.

Folks, you need to think of church as God's house. God is your ultimate judge. You wouldn't show up in court wearing a sleeveless undershirt, which I am told tasteful Protestants refer to as a "wife-beater". (Like Brooks Brothers underwear keeps you from slapping the old lady around when you've had one too many gin and tonics.)

So once again I need to remind everybody of a few ground rules when attending church:

Number one, no tube tops. God doesn't need to see your cleavage, and they make you look like a sausage trying to escape from its casing.

You know, it's one thing to be known as "God's Rottweiler", a nickname I'm proud of. It's something else entirely to be able to actually bite someone in the ass when you catch them breaking a commandment. For that, I've got the Swiss Guards.

Have you ever seen those guys? They wear costumes that look like something out of a community theatre production of H.M.S. Pinafore. They wouldn't scare a chihuahua off a doggie treat. I have a feeling that this whole coveting trend I've seen since the birth of humanity could be avoided if people had more fear instilled into them.

And as a big Star Wars fan, I have always admired the terror that Darth Vader was able to inspire with his Death Star. That planet-destroying space station comes on screen, the surround-sound fires up the bass notes and the jujubes literally start shaking in your candy box. It is freaking awesome.