My father wanted me to be a judge and sent me to the best schools in France to prepare me for a lifetime of wearing powdered wigs but i always felt a tug towards the Church, only i was too scared to tell my father that so i took lessons in the gentlemanly pursuits of riding and fencing until i got up the nerve to tell him he had wasted his money.
What made me come out of the Catholic closet was falling off a horse three times and everytime i fell my sword came out of the scabbard and came to rest on the ground in the shape of the Christian cross.
A vision or even a dream would have been a lot less painful but i decided to take it as a sign and come clean to Dad that i didn't want to dress up in black, judge people and tell them what to do for a career, i wanted to be a Catholic Priest.
Pulling strings like a marionette's puppeteer on opium, he got me a job at with the Bishop of Geneva which just happened to be next door to Calvinist territory and boy they didn't like us Catholics.
The Bishop decided i would be a good choice to head into their territory and try and spread the word of Catholicism but after the first few assaults, doors slammed in my face and rocks bouncing off my head, i decided it would be safer to slip pamphlets extolling the virtue of Catholicism and how we are all one under God and Catholics are awesome with their wafers and wine and no amount of lotion would sooth a pitchfork up the backside in hell.
It worked, sort of, some shifted back to our side but it got me the job as Patron Saint of Journalists but even i cant do anything to make Rupert Murdoch's Newspapers readable, i'm just a Saint, for that you would need a miracle worker.
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