The Confused Saint

OK, let me see if I understand this.

I’m not a real person. I’m actually an artistic representation of a medieval saint carved in marble and displayed at the foot of some stairs inside Saint Marks Cathedral in New York. Never mind what a York is, let alone a new one, I’ll just accept the fact that I’m in a really famous and holy church somewhere and leave it at that.

At least I’ve got steady employment.

So, I’m made of marble. And what does that mean to me? It means that I’ll never be able to move, not even a little bit, no matter how hard I try. In other words, I’ve been wasting my time for the last 100 frickin’ years trying to move my left hand so I could scratch my god damn nose. So, I’m going to have this annoying itch on the tip of my unmoving, marble nose for the rest of my frickin’ existence, right?

Damn.

So, if I’m a saint, tell me why I’m wearing this stupid sombrero. What? It’s not a sombrero? A halo? Really? Well slap my ass and steal my sandals! For the last 200 hundred years here I am thinking that I’m a Mexican with the ugliest poncho in existence when I’m actually not Mexican at all.

No wonder I can’t understand Spanish.

Hey! I bet the hotties really dig a guy with a halo. I mean, intellectually I know all about that whole celibacy thing, but that’s only when I’m on duty, right? When I punch out at five or whatever I can still go down to the local house of sin with my homeys and get jiggy with it, right? Right?

Crap.

And what’s up with my vice-like death grip on this humongous key? I haven’t been able to feel my fingers for the last 80 freaking years. Do you think I might be able to put it down, just for a minute? Come on, I’ve got a bad case of carpel tunnel syndrome in my right hand and that’s the hand I refer to as my ‘personal masseuse’, if you catch my drift. Honestly, just 30 seconds. Give a saint a break, will ya?

Bastard.

OK, ok. Fine. I can deal with all this. I’m made of marble, I’m a saint and I’ll never be able to know the pleasures of the flesh or even scratch my own damn nose. Great. Perfect. No problem.

But, before you go, could you please just answer one question for me?

If I’m such a holy person, and this is such a holy place, why the hell do those little carvings on my left look like erect and flaccid penis’? How’s a saint supposed to contemplate the meaning of life, the word of god and all that other holy crap while staring at male genitalia all day? I mean, honestly. Who am I? Saint Dick?

What? Son of a bitch!