Historians, theologians, and weed smokers are united in intrigue today, after a collection of Pope Bob Dillinger III’s recovered notes have been said to strongly suggest that the man was completely off his swede on ganja drug.
The main finds in the historical haul were a handwritten book, a four track tape cassette demo of some out of tune and badly realised reggae, and a collage picture album showing a teenage and topless pope on a bingey camping trip to the Lakes District with his buds. The book seems to have been started as a potential third section to the Bible that he had intended on calling, ‘The Cool Testament,’ but ended up being a weird and incoherent account of the fellow’s hallucinations and petty drug deals, so essentially like an analogue version of a Tumblr blog. The theory is that the pontiff started out by drawing all of the illustrations, and then became cannabis-confused when it was time to write the words and thought that what he was looking at were things that he was actually experiencing in real time.
We’ve managed to obtain some top notch scans of the hand drawn images anyway, and have included the scarce and befuddled text that occurs in between for your perusal:
That’s me, the pope, yo.
Oh, but last night we got blazed, man. It was just me, that flying baby, hawk-rooster, severed hand Pete, and the top of a pineapple.
Terry wanted KFC later on, so I killed a dove with my cockerel attracting trident.
He said that weren’t right tho, so I skewered some eagle with an iron railing.
God be tripping about all them dead birds tho, so he sent a seagull with a halo to tell me what’s what, but I just dropped my magic star triangle on it till it was dead and shit.
I offered wingless manticore my crown, but he said he already gots a crown, yo.
No need to stick crucifixes in my head with his wizard skills I thought, but hey ho, each to his own.
And you know the ladies be digging them moonwalking horses.
The coy dwarf gets pickled onions from his grateful slave every time in my experience.
Hey, these guys aint too bad. You want some pickled onions, leftie? You want some of this grass shit, rightie?
Later she was like, “you be their baby daddy, big P,” and I be all like, “nope.”
God damn weasel horse, I’ll god damn stab you weasel horse!
Oh, that’s better.
Billy, you know you owe me £1.50 on that £8.50 bag I sold you, so I got my uncles down.
Aww, player, you I know I just be playing.
That’s a fine ass dog tho.
Severed hand Pete showed me that sick, Jedi hypnosis shit.
That’s how I gots me this sweet dragon.
Later tho, I was all like, “whoa,” and my dragon, she be like, “whoa,” but then thems god damn skeevy pigeons be like, “I’m gonna eat me that stoned dragon, bro.”
Sometimes I like to imagine that the numbers on a clock are replaced with some weird ass shit, so instead of saying it’s a quarter to five, you be all like, it’s cow jerking off snake to ugly, trident vomiting lion who’s butt-poking some pretty lion o clock.
Oh, shit! I can’t feel my leg!
Or my hands!
She gave me a big ass hat, and I was all like, “you ain’t gonna friendzone me, are ya ho?”
She said that she wouldn’t tho because she wouldn’t be friends with anyone who used the term ‘friendzone,’ so I gave the hat to some dog sheeps.
Christ but don’t that hit the spot.
Oh shit, I think I fucked up.