JD VANCE SEEKS FORGIVENESS AT THE VATICAN.
(SATIRE)
VATICAN CITY — In an incident that Vatican insiders are already calling "The Great Stain of St. Peter’s," Vice President JD Vance reportedly sought spiritual refuge behind the heavily perfumed walls of the Apostolic Palace this weekend, only to leave in tears, mascara, and what several witnesses described as "emotional upholstery damage."
JD Vance, the Mascara Mussolini of the Modern Age, may or may not have briefly met with Pope Francis. The Vatican won’t confirm it. JD’s office insists it was “private and deeply moving.” Our sources say the Pope requested a fumigation crew and two days of silence afterward.
But what is known is this: Vance entered a room. Vance wept. And the entire nation is still trying to figure out whether he was exorcised or just politely banned from all Vatican furniture.
THE FORGIVENESS TOUR (WITH FURNITURE RESTRICTIONS)
It began with trembling hands and smudged eyeliner. Vance, dressed in a suit tight enough to offend both modesty and circulation, walked into the Pope’s presence like a child approaching a belt. He carried a rosary, a half-read copy of City of God, and the lingering scent of regret mixed with Axe body spray and faint futon memory foam.
JD VANCE:
“Holy Father, thank you for seeing me. I... I come seeking forgiveness.”
POPE FRANCIS:
“For what? The fabricated claim about immigrants eating cats and dogs? Or the futon incident with the polar bear in Greenland?”
JD VANCE:
(visibly sweating, blinking like a nervous Muppet)
“You’ve heard about that?”
POPE FRANCIS:
“My son, I have heard things. The Vatican has ears. Also, Denmark filed a formal complaint.”
JD VANCE:
“It wasn’t what it looked like!”
POPE FRANCIS:
“What it looked like was a grown man trying to recreate The Revenant on a couch from IKEA.”
USHA, LONELINESS, AND THE BODY PILLOW OF SORROW
If that weren’t enough, Vance also brought with him a new cross to bear: the brutally honest words of his wife, Usha Vance, who recently confessed to the world:
“It can be a very lonely, lonely world not to share with someone.”
A sentence so cold and distant, it could be used to keep astronauts emotionally grounded on missions to Mars.
The Pope, sympathetic yet unamused, raised the topic:
POPE FRANCIS:
“Your wife says you lead a lonely life. Do you seek solace in scripture or sleeper sofas?”
JD VANCE:
(wiping a mascara drip)
“I just... I just needed something firm to hold me. The futon had lumbar support.”
POPE FRANCIS:
“So does the cross. But we don’t hump it.”
ORDO AMORIS AND OTHER LATIN YOU SHOULDN’T MISQUOTE WHILE TREMBLING
Vance attempted to shift the conversation to theology, offering his favorite misunderstood phrase: ordo amoris — the “order of love” — which he has invoked to justify everything from immigration bans to gluten-free communion.
JD VANCE:
“The hierarchy of love starts with family, then neighbors, then citizens, then maybe people from less... savory nations.”
POPE FRANCIS:
“That’s not ordo amoris, that’s just white nationalism in Latin.”
JD VANCE:
“But I’m a baby Catholic!”
POPE FRANCIS:
“Then stop teething on fascism.”
JD VANCE:
(sniffles)
“I’ve studied Augustine.”
POPE FRANCIS:
“No, you’ve skimmed a meme that quoted Augustine and shared it next to a photo of a crying bald eagle.”
THE BANISHMENT FROM ALL VATICAN FURNITURE
As the conversation reached its crescendo of ecclesiastical side-eye, the Pope laid down a decree:
POPE FRANCIS:
“From this day forth, you are not permitted to sit upon any chair, couch, bench, or ottoman within Vatican City. You may stand. You may kneel. But you shall not recline.”
JD VANCE:
“But what about bean bags?”
POPE FRANCIS:
“Especially not bean bags.”
REDEMPTION, MAYBELLINE, AND MIRACLES
Mascara now running in thick trails of humiliation, JD dropped to his knees and begged for one last thing:
JD VANCE:
“Please, Holy Father... will you bless me?”
POPE FRANCIS:
(sighing, reaching for his holy water spray bottle)
“No. But I will spritz you.”
Two quick puffs to the forehead.
JD flinched like he’d been hit with mace. Holy mace. Pope juice. It didn’t burn the flesh — just the ego.
And then he collapsed.
Not like a man redeemed. Like a fainting goat at a megachurch.
His knees buckled. His arms flailed. He landed on the cold marble with the squishy, unholy flop of a sinner who knew — knew — that the sins he carried couldn’t be washed off with a wet wipe and a round of Ave Marias.
JD VANCE:
(wailing)
“I’m sorry — I’m so sorry! I lied about immigrants! I said they ate cats and dogs! I don’t even believe that! I just... I thought it would play well in West Virginia!”
He was now sobbing into the Vatican floor like it was an emotional ShamWow.
JD VANCE:
(screaming)
“I fornicated with furniture, Holy Father! It wasn’t just the futon in Greenland! There was a pull-out in Peoria! A sectional in Savannah! I once... I once grazed thighs with a wingback in a Restoration Hardware and I didn’t move away!”
POPE FRANCIS:
(staring like he’d just heard someone insult Jesus in Pig Latin)
“My son. This is... this is deeply troubling. Even spiritually unsafe.”
JD VANCE:
“My wife won’t touch me! My party won’t look me in the eye! Peter Thiel revoked my Wi-Fi! I am alone, Holy Father! My last human connection was a Craigslist couch named ‘Muffin’ with a cigarette burn shaped like Ron DeSantis!”
His makeup now resembled a medieval fresco melting in real time. Eyeliner ran like rivers of Babylon. A single teardrop traced down his cheek and landed on the floor with a splat so dramatic a Swiss Guard crossed himself.
JD VANCE:
“I’ve betrayed Christ, conservatism, and a moderately priced mid-century chaise lounge from Target!”
The Pope knelt beside him. Slowly. Like a man preparing to perform a spiritual mercy killing.
POPE FRANCIS:
“My son… Christ died for the sins of all mankind. Even yours.”
JD VANCE:
(gasping)
“Even the couch orgy in Duluth?”
POPE FRANCIS:
(brief, dark pause)
“Yes. Even Duluth.”
JD whimpered like a televangelist with tax trouble.
The Pope rose. Majestic. Resolute. Radiating that unique energy of a man who’s seen too much… but is still willing to offer you a ride to church.
POPE FRANCIS:
“You know, when Jesus rose from the dead, the angel said: ‘Do not be afraid.’”
“And I say the same to you now — though frankly, you look like Judas if he’d been sponsored by Sephora and emotionally mentored by a La-Z-Boy.”
JD said nothing. He just leaked eyeliner and shame.
Francis turned to leave. Then stopped. He raised a finger. Not for judgment, but for truth.
POPE FRANCIS:
“God is not mocked, Mr. Vance.
You weaponized Christ like a talking point. You quoted Augustine like a frat boy quotes Nietzsche — to sound deep while doing something profoundly stupid.”
He pointed to the crucifix.
POPE FRANCIS:
“That man up there gave his life for the poor, the outcast, the refugee.
You gave yours to a podcast and a padded lie.
You kneel in this room seeking absolution — but you built your career mocking the cross.”
That broke him.
JD let out a sharp, choking sound — somewhere between a sob, a hiccup, and a malfunctioning Roomba — then scrambled to his feet in a panic, smearing black streaks across his cheeks as he clawed for the door.
He didn’t bow.
He didn’t speak.
He just ran — tripping on his own loafers, mascara dripping like a crime scene, wheezing like a haunted accordion through the echoing halls of St. Peter’s.
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Badly, badly needed comic relief.
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