[ WP ] As it turns out , the Pope has been an atheist all along with the goal of infiltrating the Church and destroying it from the inside . He calls a televised press conference to reveal the truth .

`` Your Holiness. Ten minutes till you go on the air.'' 
 
 `` Excellent. Most excellent, indeed. Now leave me, Francisco. I need to pray.'' 
 
 The door shuts, leaving Pope Michael Moore alone in the hotel suite. The scattered remains of Hot Pockets and Mountain Dew litter the floor, creating a sticky, gooey minefield of caloric pleasures. The smell is... salty, unwashed -- almost like a teenager's basement hideaway. No amount of Axe could mask this pungent cologne. 
 
 `` Those silly sheeple. What idiots to believe in a make-believe all-seeing all-powerful flying spaghetti monster.'' The Pope waddles over to his Pope-chair, brushing aside glistening cheeseburger wrappers before oozing into his seat. 
 
 `` It is difficult being this enlightened. At one point in my life, cheeseburger, I felt euphoria wash over me at the promise of denying Christ. But now, at the precipice of this new era, I only feel fatigue. This ache must be what Christ felt before he was n't crucified.'' 
 
 The Pope coughs heavily, clutching his chest tightly with each effort to regain his breath. `` Oh, Richard Dawkins. If only you were here, if only I could taste your sweet atheistic seed once more.'' 
 
 `` Sigh.'' 
 
 `` I suppose I should get ready. First, I must do away with these un-Gaben-ly Pope robes and Pope hat. Even these Pope shoes reek of faith.'' The Pope strips slowly. With each piece of clothing removed, his body morphs back into its natural, un-godly shape. 
 
 He stares at himself in the mirror. `` This body. This body is what nature intended. All those religious paintings depicting ripped bodies and busty maidens. No -- science intended the opposite. Ripped women and busty men. It was a lie perpetrated by the Church. And I shall bring this house of lies tumbling down today! Tumbling like me when I tripped chasing that ice cream truck last summer...'' 
 
 The Pope steps towards his suitcase, a suitcase that had n't left his sight since his first day studying to become a Priest. His fingers melt over the handle and he struggles to maintain his grip. `` Too many Hot Pockets and not enough napkins,'' he says, huffing. 
 
 Zip. Zip. 
 
 The bag falls open revealing what he had been hiding and planning for all these years: black combat boots ( two sizes too big and not actual combat boots, but rather the kind with the chrome buckles that reflect light at 1000m ); blue, deep dark blue jeans ( never washed, extra stiff, extra circular legs -- nothing streamlined about them except for the elastic in the waistband ); a white tshirt featuring a picture of Charles Darwin ( slightly pit-stained with a bold caption: `` Anti-Creation'' ); a black trenchcoat ( for storing extra supplies -- it's not for flashing! it's for supplies! and it's good in the rain! ); and the crowning piece, the accessory that will send the peasant Church-goers reeling from the sheer rationality of it all: a fedora. Not a stupid trilby. Trilbys are for posers and wanna-bes. A true man's hat: a pin-striped fedora. Bogart would be proud. 
 
 One last look in the mirror. One last stroke of his neck. Beard. `` I'm ready to enlighten the masses. They will know no salvation, only euphoria.'' 
 
 He opens the suite door. 
 
 `` Francisco, I'm ready for m'close-up.''
