Why Mona Never Takes a Bath
Pope John Paul is strolling across the Sistine Chapel, swinging his incense thurible and coughing. He stops, blows his beautiful nose and looks up at the ceiling. “Is it just my imagination, or do those angels need a bath?” He looks over, the choirboys are having their morning practice. Within minutes he's got one of them standing on his shoulders, then another on his shoulders, and up and up and up. The last one is waaay up at the ceiling with the Pope's hanky and some of his holy spit on it. “Now rub, Dominic, rub!” his Eminence lovingly bellows from far below. The choirboy reaches up and scrubs like he's possessed. Not ten seconds later a miracle occurs. A chubby little angel belly has lit up like the morning star. The Pope falls to his knees in praise and twenty-two choirboys fall to the floor. Not one of them is even slightly bruised. He looks around, breathes a sigh of relief, decides he's had enough miracles for one day and goes boating.
The ceiling is soon completely cleaned, everyone in the Vatican is pleasantly shocked, and no one can quite accept the fact that they didn't notice it before.