St. Jimbo, Patron Saint of the Retarded

nachosbox“You say he was what?” The cardinal said, staring into the casket at the bare-chested, cut-off jean-shorted corpse with the vile moustache.
“Eating a nachos supreme grande platter,” said the priest.
“That’s not so—”
“While driving.”
“Even then—”
“A motorcycle.”
“Oh,” said the cardinal, taking pause to examine the bodies matching denim vest, “and he wasn’t wearing a shirt when he—”
The priest nodded, “went off the bridge? No. just the vest. And the one cowboy boot.”
The cardinal looked up, “just one?”
“Apparently. The rescue team found no trace of a cowboy boot anywhere, but they did find a flip-flop a little ways down river from where he went in so—”
“Why would he be wearing a cowboy boot and a flip-flop?” The cardinal asked.
“Because,” the priest said, “he was an dummkopf with the brains of potato. He made a conscious decision to have that moustache.”
The cardinal nodded, his soul reaching out and up to heaven, to the Lord, seeking verification. But, was this man truly worthy?
“Still, the bridge was under construction, anyone might have befallen the same calamity. So he can hardly be blamed for—” the cardinal said.
“There were signs and warnings stating that it was out for miles before the canyon. And the barricades that had closed the road proper were hardly trivial. You would have to choose to avoid them.”
“Hmm. Yes. I see.”
“And let’s not forget his apartment.”
The cardinal raised his eyebrows, “apartment?”
“The one he burnt down. Trying to make popcorn. On a barbecue. In the bathroom.”
The cardinal stared at the priest. Then at the body. Then back at the priest, “who barbecues in the bathroom?”
The priest shrugged and indicated the deadman, “the question really is who cooks anything anyhow in the bathroom?”
“God only knows.”
“Does he?”
The cardinal regarded the priest, and again let his soul lift itself up to query their benevolent father. Silence. Stone cold silence.
“I don’t believe even he does, actually.”
The priest nodded, and picked up the corpse’s arm. He indicated a patch of dark splotchiness, and said, “see here.”
The cardinal looked closer.
“A tattoo?” He asked, “is that a phantom or worms or—”
“Read the inscription over it.”
The cardinal peered harder. The writing was, as far as he had experienced, the worst penmanship he had ever seen, reading not quite plainly: I LOV BURGY SO MUCK!
“It’s a hamburger,” the priest said, “he did it himself.”
“How do you know?”
“He signed it. By Jimbo,” he said pointing at a tangle of chicken scratch beneath it.
“Exactly,” said the priest, “and we could go on like this all day. His pets. His teeth. Don’t get me started on his work history. But needless to say, I think you see why I called you here.”
The cardinal nodded. He looked long and hard at the man in the casket. He finally broke from his reverie and looked at the priest. Gazing deeply into his eyes, he said, “I’ll talk with the pontiff directly. We’ll have him canonized by next week.”
The priest closed his eyes, took a satisfied breath, and kissed the cardinals ring, “thank you, your eminence, finally the idiots have one to call their own.”
The cardinal patted Jimbo of the cheek, “The Lord knows they need him.”


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