People often ask me: "Oh Your Holiness, why do you condemn suicide bombs in London but not in Israel?" (see 'The Guardian' of London, 30th July 2005)

The answer, of course, is that there's no point condemning people for blowing up Jews - they are just doing the work of the Catholic Church, as directed by God Himself.

As for Londonistan, we now have final proof that the Jews are to blame.

Take a look at this map of the London Tube system.

And here's a list of the sites targetted by suicide bombers:

1. Edgware Road
2. Aldgate
3. Tavistock Square
4. Oval
5. Stockwell
6. Shepherd's Bush

Take a look at the map when you join those sites together!!

Anything look familiar?

Then, add other sites associated with the "suicide bombers" and what do you see?

This pretty much proves my point.

To comfort you in your hour of need, here is the next chapter of DaVatican Code and the Dead Brazilian: a dramatic, gentle, subtle ... yet filthilly erotically anally tinglingly labially eroginous tale of forbidden Bible texts.

Yours - still angry at those damn Jews,

Ratzy
XXXX

DaVatican Code and the Dead Brazilian

CHAPTER SIX - Poker is for Pussies

In the Yasser Arafat Memorial Suite (YAMS) of the Knesset, the air above the table was tense ... smoke-filled ... pregnant with anticipation. The temperature swelled and rose precipitously as it had for the last half hour since Global Warming suddenly hit town and the air-conditioning had been turned off for the Sabbath. A single light bulb (operated by a token Christian) etched a tight circle on the green baize surface.

"Raise you 500 shekels."

"I'll see that and raise you 2000 rials."

"I'll see that and raise you 400 dollars."

Muffy shifted uncomfortably in her seat, squirming in the damp sweat that pumped from her pubic pores and pockmarked the patterned polyester panties parked in her pert pudenda – a small silver capsule lay tucked behind her left labia. It was her Ace in the hole.

There was nothing for it, she must do it, raise the stakes again. She had no choice. But first, she used her Ace from HIS hole. She slapped what looked like a halal cocktail gherkin (mottled green, spotted, bent) but was, actually, the (formerly) throbbing love-wand of Prince Ibn N’Gecko with a small silver capsule pushed inside it (see previous Chapters).

Paddy O’Finnegan stared at her despite the fact staring was definitely not Kosher on Friday evenings. The atmosphere was both electric and eclectic ... what would von Bulow do?

The Vice President deposited his gigantically hot wad next to the “salami” (i.e. his wad of El-Watusi shares, see previous Chapters and try to keep up).

The opponent to his left was sceptical ... "El Watusi shares!! Worthless!!" he exclaimed vociferously loudly and reached into his Princely anus from which he pulled a cigar tube (he had seen this feat on “Papillon” the highly regarded movie thriller of the 1970s starring Steve McQueen about a man sent to Devil’s Island who had to keep the documents proving his innocence in a cigar tube – or similar – up his bum otherwise the evil French guards would find them and burn them and then he’d never get off the island but anyway he did get off eventually – though not with any of the other hot n' horny semi-naked prisoners much to the disappointment of my friend Luigi who was hoping for a nice long and successful wank in the cinema away from his parents who were always walking in on him in his bedroom – and prove he wasn’t a traitor after all – though who wouldn’t be a traitor to France – no French soldier ever got shot in the front my Grandfather used to say – of course he escaped – the guy on Devil’s Island, not my grandfather – come to think of it my grandfather also escaped but that’s another story – but I’m pretty sure his one and only friend on the island – was it Dustin Hoffman or somebody else – got killed. Or was it Dustin Hoffman who had the cigar tube up his arse and got killed and Steve McQueen who didn’t and got away? – I really can’t remember, I’ll Google it later. Which reminds me did your know that papillon means butterfly and in Spanish it’s mariposa but in German it’s schmetterlink which just goes to prove what an ugly, guttural language German is. Was it not the Emperor of Prussia who said “I speak French to my mistress, English to my butler and German to my horse” except he probably said it in German anyway and it might have been the Emperor of Austria who was probably also speaking in German) out of which plopped a shrivelled, detumescent one-eyed trouser snake.

Muffy and von Bulow both immediately recognised the pink circumcised appendage from the smell and the tattoo – “Prop. VP USA.” She remembered yearning that, once the wrinkled old man was aroused, the tattoo would read “Property of Klaude von Bulow, Vice President of the United States of America.”

But it didn’t.

She cast her pretty, feminine little mind back to that aridly humid night in the shimmering tent surrounded by sand when he had come to her second hole. (Her tent was pitched in a bunker at the Dubai International Golf Course ready for the annual Lipstick Lesbian vs. Bahrain Bull-Dykes grudge match. What a disappointment! – both the Vice President and the match. Who would have thought that an Arab country would be so hostile to rampant lesbianism? Over 600 Sapphists were pushed into the red sea that day – Muffy really should have warned them she was on her period – but hey! When do you see so much pussy in one place? The answer would be the Penthouse of Pussy (see previous Chapters.)

Paddy leapt to his feet. "Not so fast Prince!!"

"Where did you get that?" The Vice President was interrupted by loud pops of automatic gunfire.

... TO BE CONTINUED