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.

Two, your butt crack is more than the place where your legs begin. If it shows when you come down to the altar for Holy Communion, I'm going to have to add some time to your sentence in Purgatory. Put your finger on a hot toaster oven for a second, then imagine holding it there for, oh, say two thousand years. Get the picture?

Finally, no cargo shorts on the men!

If I want to see hairy legs, I can look at my own! Which are tanning quite nicely, if I do say so myself.