Does the Pope shit in the woods?
…Is a very, very rude example of a malaphor - a mixing of two idioms with the same meaning
to make a brand-new idiom, usually for comedic purposes.
In this case, the original idioms are ‘Is the Pope Catholic?’ and ‘Does a Bear Shit
in the Woods?’, with the answer to both questions being a resounding ‘yes’.
But what, I wonder, is the answer to the malaphor these idioms create?
Does the Pope shit in the woods?
No, probably not.
But then, according to the Palmarian Church, he doesn’t relieve himself in a plush marble-lined
toilet in the Vatican, either.
OK, this is one of the weirder intros to a topic I’ve ever come up with.
So before this video is derailed completely, maybe we should put this question to one side,
just for now and start at the beginning, which, in this case, is the Spring of 1968 near the
sleepy town of El Palmar de Troya in Spanish Andalusia.
It was 30th March, to be exact, on a stretch of farmland where four Spanish schoolgirls
were picking flowers when a beautiful lady appeared to them in a vision.
Now, we all know that children have very active imaginations, but the local adults decided
to take this particular bit of make-believe seriously.
Why?
Well, Spain is, on the whole, a deeply religious country, with around 70% of the population
considering themselves Catholic.
And if you say the words ‘visions’ and ‘beautiful lady’ to a Catholic, they’re
only going to come to one conclusion - the schoolgirls had been visited by an apparition
of the Virgin Mary herself.
This was understandably big news for the local Catholics, and a large group of them flocked
to the site in the hope of getting themselves a big old slice of the divine-hallucination
pie.
And they were in luck - the Virgin Mary was to show up several more times in the coming
weeks and months, appearing to various different people in the area around El Palmar de Troya.
If you’re wondering exactly what the mother of Christ was up to wandering around the Spanish
countryside, intermittently revealing herself to the local faithful, it seemed she had come
to deliver a message: she felt that modern Catholicism was becoming too soft, and good
Catholics should return to the religion’s earlier, stricter traditions.
The timing of this guidance was particularly apt, coming as it did just a few years after
the conclusion of the Second Vatican Council in 1965 - which was basically a three year
discussion that eventually saw the Catholic Church relax some of its stricter rules in
favour of what was considered a more progressive approach.
It was seen as a positive step forward by many.
But, at least according to the visions coming out of El Palmar de Troya at the time, the
Virgin Mary did not approve.
One man who appeared in the Andalusian countryside in the aftermath of these visions was a Roman
Catholic by the name of Clemente Domínguez y Gómez, an insurance broker from Seville.
If rumours are to be believed, Clemente was known in the local Seville gay scene as la
volito - the she-volt - suggesting he hadn’t exactly been following his religion to the
letter up till that point.
But all that was about to change when Clemente had his own divine visitation - a vision of
Jesus Christ and Saint Pio of Pietrelcina.
This vision came a full year after Clemente first made his pilgrimage to the site, but
from that point on it seems like he really got the hang of it, and his second vision,
which involved the Virgin Mary, came just two months later.
Clemente claimed these visions revealed to him that both Freemasons and Communists were
in the process of infiltrating the Catholic Church, and that the Pope at the time, Paul
the VI, was no longer running the show in the Vatican, but was in fact being held hostage
by corrupt cardinals.
It was also around this time that Clemente reported - and very publicly displayed - stigmata,
wounds on his body mirroring those suffered by Jesus during the crucifixion - bloodied
palms and feet, a wide gash in his side, and even scratches on his forehead from the crown
of thorns.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, it was at this point the Catholic Church started to feel like things
were getting a little out of hand.
The Archbishop of Seville came out to formally denounce the visions in El Palmar de Troya,
suggesting they were a form of collective hysteria and advising that they were not to
be taken seriously.
He even went so far as to forbid Roman Catholics from visiting the area and banning all acts
of worship there.
It’s all fun and apparitions until people start bleeding to death.
But the site continued to attract tens of thousands of pilgrims both from Spain and
far beyond in the years that followed, during which time Clemente successfully styled himself
as the principle seer of visions there.
In 1975, following instructions he claimed to have received in visions from both Jesus
and Mary - who I’m assuming by now he was on first name terms with - Clemente Domínguez
y Gómez officially founded a brand-new schismatic Catholic group called the Order of Carmelites
of the Holy Face.
But there was one small problem.
Clemente, remember, was an insurance broker, which kind of undermined the validity of the
new austere Catholicism he was peddling – the good old Catholics amongst you will of course
know that usury is a sin.
But it didn’t take him long to find a solution to this little issue in the form of Roman
Catholic Archbishop Ngo Dinh Thuc (no-din-toe), older brother of the former President of South
Vietnam who had been assassinated in the run-up to the Vietnam war a few years earlier.
Convinced by the righteousness of Clemente’s cause, Ngo Dinh Thuc officially ordained him,
an act that would get the Archbishop excommunicated by the Vatican.
A year later, this strange tale took a turn for the even stranger.
In a twist of fate so ironic it kinda makes you wonder whether he might have found himself
on the wrong end of some bona fide divine retribution, the self-styled mystical seer
lost his non-mystical eyesight in a car accident.
And he wasn’t just blinded - his injuries were so severe his eyeballs had to be removed.
After recovering from his wounds Clemente refused to wear eyepatches of any kind, and
would appear in public for the rest of his days, empty eye sockets gazing out across
his congregation.
A few years later on the 6th August, 1978, Pope Paul VI died.
It isn’t entirely clear whether Clemente still thought the Pope was locked in a cupboard
as a hostage somewhere in the Vatican at this point, but either way, it was the trigger
he had been waiting for - he was finally ready to execute his plans for religious domination.
In a formal announcement, he explained he was no longer to be known as Clemente Domínguez
y Gómez, former insurance broker from Seville, but as Pope Gregory XVII, one true ruler not
just of the Order of Carmelites of the Holy Face, but of the entire Catholic Church.
It turned out Jesus Christ himself, along with Saints Peter and Paul, had personally
popped down to crown him as Pope in yet another handy vision.
The Order of Carmelites of the Holy Face became the Palmarian Church which, according to Clemente
- sorry, Pope Gregory XVII – had now replaced the power and might of the Vatican and the
imposter pope who resided there.
You hear that Francis you tiny old fraudster.
The Catholic Church took this news about as well as you would expect, denouncing the Palmarian
church and its leaders, seeing it for what it was: the blind leading the clueless – there’s
another malaphor for you.
But in his new position as ‘antipope’, Gregory XVII realised that two could play
at that game.
Keen to wield his new-found popey powers, he set about excommunicating pretty much everyone
he could think of.
The actual Pope, newly appointed John Paul II, was up first of course, and next came
those mischievous cardinals responsible for all that hostage business.
Then there was the Spanish Royal Family, all socialists and communists, all believers of
false religions… you get the picture.
Basically, as far as the antipope formerly known as Clemente Domínguez y Gómez was
concerned, if you weren’t part of the Palmarian Church, you could go fuck yourself.
Getting the hang of his new job, Gregory XVII made himself 24 new cardinals in the space
of a single day, then set about making a list of all his favourite people from history and
canonising them as saints.
First up was Christopher Columbus - if you want to learn more about how he didn’t quite
discover the New World then check out my video on the subject, linked in the description.
And then came Francisco Franco, who you probably know as General Franco, the Fascist Dictator
who led Spain through one of its darkest periods between 1939 and 75.
There were even rumours Hitler had made the shortlist, but it seems even antipope Gregory
XVII drew the line somewhere, even if that somewhere was way, way off in the distance.
Now, we’ve all heard plenty of stories about fringe religious sects and strange cults that
get up to all sorts, from a bit of basement buggery to the odd ritualistic murder.
I’ve told you about a few of them on the channel myself.
Most of the time these groups are led by deluded crackpots and megalomaniacs.
Outside of their followers, who are typically lost, desperate, and vulnerable individuals,
they have no real power or influence.
But not only did the Palmarian Church amass several thousand followers both in Spain and
around the world, they also managed to get their hands on one hell of a lot of cash while
they were at it.
And I mean, a lot of cash.
Enough to build a mini-Vatican City on the site where the original visions of the Virgin
Mary had taken place, for starters.
The Cathedral-Basilica of Our Crowned Mother of Palmar is a colossal structure complete
with huge domes and no fewer than eight towers, and it’s thought to have cost upwards of
sixteen million euros to build.
No expense was spared elsewhere, either - Palmarian church cardinals and bishops deck themselves
out in enough bling to make P Diddy jealous, senior members of the church get around in
top of the line BMWs, and the grand interior of the cathedral looks like King Midas himself
came home drunk one night and crashed into pretty much everything while looking for somewhere
to throw up.
Truth be told, nobody knows exactly where the cash for all these extravagances came
from to this day, but it’s thought the antipope managed to secure some seriously hefty donations
from wealthy supporters during extensive travels around the world.
Whether you’re a believer or not, you’d probably have to admit that modern religions
are, by and large, really rather welcoming to outsiders, often doing important work in
the community and just generally trying to be nice to people.
Not so the Palmarian Church.
If you were to visit the Cathedral-Basilica of Our Crowned Mother of Palmar, you would
not be met by a friendly church representative offering you brochures and a cup of tea, but
by a five metre concrete fence barred by a giant iron door and topped with CCTV cameras.
Rumour has it there isn’t even a doorbell.
Rules within the compound are incredibly strict, dictating what the people within can eat,
wear, watch, say, do, think, and feel.
There are stories of brutal self-flagellation and severe punishment for misdemeanours.
Members of the Church aren’t even allowed to talk to non-Palmarians who break any of
the myriad rules, and those who choose to leave the church are immediately excommunicated.
You won’t be surprised to hear that plenty of controversy has come to light about the
cult - I mean ‘religion’ - over the years.
To name but a few we have abuse - psychological and physical - money laundering, intimidation,
and even the odd mysterious death that’s occurred behind those high walls.
Clemente, that is, Pope Gregory XVII himself, was accused of sexual misconduct by several
of his priests and nuns in the 90s - charges which he would later admit to.
You might think revelations like these would be the end of a fringe sect like the Palmarians,
but somehow, they are still going strong, well, maybe not strong, but they’re still
going, at least.
When their founder and leader Antipope Gregory XVII died in 2005, the group didn’t disintegrate
as so many have before.
No, Clemente had lined up his best mate, Manuel Corral, to rule over the Catholic world in
his stead as Pope Peter II.
No doubt as a thank you, Antipope Peter II’s first task was to canonise his old pal Clemente
as a saint, naming him as Pope Saint Gregory XVII the Very Great.
The ‘very’ was overkill if you ask me, but hey.
These guys don’t do things by halves.
Peter II was somewhat more reserved than his predecessor and never did claim to have any
divine visions.
He did, however, bring his own brand of batshit crazy to the job, announcing that the antichrist
had been born in the year 2000 and would make his first public appearance at the age of
12 when he would mock Christ, before becoming the antichrist proper at the age of 30.
I suppose you need a bit of experience under your belt if you’re going to take on such
a senior role in the destruction of all mankind.
Personally, if I was going to publicly make some grand prediction, I’d have picked something
a good few thousand years in the future to eliminate any chance of looking like a wally
when it didn’t come true, but I guess antipope Peter II was just that confident on this one.
Out of interest I did a quick internet search for famous people born in the year 2000 who
made their first public appearance at the age of 12.
I found two possible candidates.
American actor Jace Lee Norman, born in March 2000 and known for playing the main character
in Nickelodeon’s Henry Danger - he got his big break at age 12 in Disney Series Jessie.
The second candidate - the Neville Longbottom of this prophetic pair, if you will - is Samuel
Sevian, a chess prodigy who became the youngest American ever to earn the title International
Master at the age of 12 years and 10 months.
So far as I know, neither of these two has ever publicly dissed Christ, but it’s probably
worth keeping an eye on them just in case.
You never can be too careful when it comes to the end of days.
There have been two further Antipopes since Peter II passed away back in 2011.
Despite coming up with an undeniably inventive new religion, the Palmarians apparently aren’t
the most imaginative bunch when it comes to names.
Peter II was followed by Gregory XVIII, and after him came Peter III.
It feels a bit like one of those maths series you used to get in school - I guess we can
look forward to Gregory XIX next, right?
Incidentally, Gregory XVIII was the first and only Palmarian Pope so far to resign from
his position, rather than relinquish it on his death.
The reason for hanging up his Mitre once and for all?
He’d lost his faith, having come to the startling conclusion that the Palmarian Church
was one big scam.
Who’d have thought it.
Somehow, Peter III rules over all of Catholicism to this day from his very own little Vatican
in El Palmar de Troya, Andalusia, and while the number of Palmarians has dwindled over
the last forty years, there are a fair few faithful who swear their allegiance to him
even now.
Which is why, the next time someone asks you ‘does the pope shit in the woods’, you
know exactly how to answer: Which Pope?
Thanks for watching.