In the old days, grabbing a fistful of altar boy would get you a cop car ride, a trial and a new girlfriend named LaDarius.
Now, it gets you a job transfer and closer to canonization.
With the sexual mindset of NAMBLA, a public relations team more fitting for O.J. Simpson and a knack for cover-ups that would make Jimmy Hoffa blush (a true “holy trinity”), the Catholic Church has outdone itself with Touchy-Gate 2.0.
We could understand your need to build your lavish palace in Italy with funds raised from guilt-tripping illiterate townsfolk. (“Give us thirty pieces of silver and grandma gets to leave purgatory and go play shuffleboard with Jesus!”)
We can momentarily overlook your “expert” medical opinion that AIDS-ridden Africa needs abstinence programs and a few rosary beads instead of more practical things such as a protection and sexual education regimen that isn’t routed in the Dark Ages.
But when your over-embellished, over-publicized king in Rome tells a country with one of the richest Catholic traditions in the world “Oops, we did it again,” something’s not right.
Instead of giving boatloads of cash to the people you used to give lollipops and back rubs to, take some steps that — you know — aren’t grounded in the doldrums of depressing Gregorian chants and antiquated traditions. If it takes allowing clergy to marry or crucifying these criminals in St. Peter’s Square, do it.
But heaven help us if all Father Happy Hands gets is only a slap on the wrist from the hand of God.
