BUMMER!

We are very disturbed since this consecration [Joey's] perpetuate[s] the cult-like and the sectarian attitude of Most Holy Trinity Seminary and the last-year newly founded priestly institute — Roman Catholic Institute — of Bishop Sanborn. Markus "The Ham Sandwich" Ramolla*

The Readers stood at the ready — fully loaded they were for bear.

It occurred early last Wednesday evening. The 4K UHD TV stretched across the west end of the well-appointed, custom-installed home theater. Latter-day amanuenses manned their MacBooks. In her tailored, designer jeans accented by Manolo peep-toe mules, our fragrant, dark-eyed techie was pertly stationed at the console, fetchingly poised to work her digital magic on state-of-the-art video software.

At her left, jauntily astride a high swivel chair, rockin' the Sennheisers, waited our play-by-play, color-commentary announcer, an occasional consultant who'd emceed two "episcopal consecrations." Close at hand lay a Pontificale Romanum along with a hand-annotated copy of Nabuco's Pontificalis Romani Expositio Iuridico-Practica. Splashed across the monitor to his left were side-by-side scanned images from Moretti and Martinucci.

In the deluxe Barcaloungers deployed before the gargantuan 65" screen sat the Reader-in-Chief flanked by top PL execs, notebooks in hand. Lining the paneled back wall were empty chairs for the next day's guests. Within the fridge cuddled bottles of bubbly for Sanguigno-blood-orange mimosas laced with Grand Marnier to wash down the Panera's brioche breakfast sandwiches and sweet rolls on order. **  Stored in the humidor next to the Breville cappuccino machine beckoned a fresh box of robustos (El Rey del Mundo Choix Supreme, to be specific); atop the immaculate white box awaited a half dozen Romeo y Julieta Julietas for the team's distaff side.

The mood was buoyant as staff braced for the test.  Before returning to their homes on Friday, the Readers knew they'd barely have 12-15 hours after the Sacrilege in the Swamp to draft copy for a special Saturday-morning post. There'd be no time for troubleshooting come Thursday A.M.!

At the press of the power button, the television chimed to life. Then the Internet connection was established. Laptops flickered as a dainty French-manicured manita clicked on the link to the YouTube channel promising to livestream the Bash in the Bog. But within microseconds, the distinguished assembly groaned in worldly-wise dismay as on the screen flashed this dark message.

Curses! Foiled again! The cult took down its own channel!

Making lemonade out of the disappointing lemon handed us, staff set to work. But first our host fixed mimosas as the Reader-in-Chief passed around the Cuban treasures. (It's never too late for mimosas.) After alerting contacts in the swamp and elsewhere, we hatched a plan for gathering all the intelligence available the next day.

By 1:00 P.M. on Thursday, the pix, scans, and hot tips started flooding in (including a droll social-media shot of the new "Bishop" as Sarong Boy).  It wasn't all we'd hoped for, but then again the cult prohibited snaps inside the Big Tent. The first visuals came from Scutty's candid shots of the Wednesday practice session, from which we learned Dubious Dan had been admitted as a co-consecrator. (Later stills from outside the pesthouse confirmed the foolish decision.)

Although on several occasions we had hedged our bet about Dannie's exclusion from the ceremony, we were still mildly surprised. Based on what we know about the Swamplanders' contempt for the Wee One, we surmised the Long-Island Jellyfish must have bailed out, thus forcing the élite to call up the over-eager but validity-challenged pinch hitter from the bench. Seeing it was necessary for the Kid to have the most over-the-top, three-"bishop" extravaganza Tradistan's ever seen, we concluded theatrical considerations had trumped prudence. (The Show is what Tradistan's all about anyway.)

Informants in Michigan earlier passed the word that another "priest" had filled in for Jelly on Sunday, February 18 (reportedly a Mexican national). Although other sources, which got their scoop directly, insisted that no Highlander had planned to attend the Display near the Bay, we still thought the Jellyfish would've surfaced in the peanut gallery for what was in reality a command to dance attendance on Junior. We honestly couldn't imagine Jelly the Nervous Nelly not jumping whenever Big Don nasally bellows, "Frog!" But apparently Its Gelatinacy was a no-show. Perhaps it couldn't abide its fellow scum buckets, so Its Invertebracy pulsed back to home waters to recover. (There have been recent sightings on Long Island.)

When you think about the Big Show dispassionately, apart from the grating presence of His Humpty-Dumptyship on stage before rancor-wracked Swampland culties who despise him, no harm was done to the Kid's validity. The participation of Geert Stuyver, whose priestly and episcopal "orders" come from the Thục-des Lauriers line directly through McKenna, surely counteracted the major threat from Dubious Dan and the far lesser, but still real, hazard of Big Don's Liénart liability. Junior and Jelly now constitute the only relatively certain "episcopal" lineages in Tradistan U.S.A. (Of course, outside that wasteland, there are dozens of valid "bishops" with multiple valid lineages.)

But moving to something more significant, the Readers are most puzzled by all the secrecy. Big Don promised to update us in January but didn't. We could never find the "special schedule" for the "consecration," which was supposed to follow the regular February schedule. Uncharacteristically, Dannie never once blabbed he was to be a co-consecrator, not even to taunt PL. During the three-ring circus itself, photos (you'll recall) were proscribed. And, as we noted above, at almost the last minute, the webcast was suppressed.

All this hush-hush hardly squares with the raucous fanfare that originally advertised the Blast in the Morass.  First there was the big announcement-cum-sheepish-justification in the November 2017 pesthouse newsletter, followed by a comically elaborate e-invitation on the website. Then, with the exception of Gabby Dannie's "Corner," we heard zilch until the February 2018 newsletter, which only gave us a snooty, looking-down-one's-nose clerical fashion review.

What happened? Why the blackout until Scutty's tweet about the practice?

There may be many answers to our questions, but one in particular argues for strong consideration:

  The cult masters were frightened of the scrutiny. 

Discretion, they must have reasoned, was better than worldwide praxis-shaming. Not without foundation would there be a fear that Europe, North America, and Latin America were watching closely for foul ups. Better to put out a heavily edited video later. Furthermore, had Dannie and Checkie's participation been made known too early, Big Don may have faced savage internal opposition from his cult benefactors with a mighty big bone to pick with the Cincy Gruesome Twosome.

The blackout, withal, wasn't disastrous. In the days and weeks to come, there'll be more reports and photos to help us piece together who attended and who didn't. (We may even get a good audience headcount: early dispatches assure us that far fewer than the anticipated 300 showed up.) Since social-media chatter leads us to believe the Swampland will produce a commemorative video, our experts may be able to tease out the liturgical snafus, despite the cult's best endeavors to erase them.  Our expectation is based on the supposition that if the Skipper — the "clerical" clown completer who once omitted the consecration at Mass — acted as the Assistant Priest, it's not unreasonable to infer that gross missteps occurred.

Let's all wait 'n' see.

* Transcribed from his allocution on the episcopal "consecration" of the new Boy "Bishop," the audio of which was made public on the Sammich's website. Click here to listen, but do it fast, for we don't think it will remain there for very long.

**To the extent that the work of Thursday was expected to extend into the wee hours of Friday morning, the younger Readers would've needed their sustenance early. They don't associate with any lawless "bishop," Tradistani or otherwise, who would dispense them from the Lenten fast.