The Vatican just announced that the Pope will grant you time off in Purgatory if you follow him on Twitter.

No, I’m not kidding.

Apparently, he’s neck and neck with Kim Kardashian and determined to one-up her. So, if you follow him during the week of July 23-28 (World Youth DAY – don’t get me started on that oxymoron), reading his tweets will earn you “indulgences” – an afterlife prize usually granted only for arduous and time-consuming good works, like attending spiritual retreats, feeding the poor and helping the homeless.

But thanks to a suggestion by some intern in the Vatican’s social media department, lazy people like me can now lie on the couch, read the Pope’s tweets, and cut short our stay in the highly unpleasant netherworld. It’s like an insanely good Groupon offer for the hereafter.

But only for a limited time.

For those unfamiliar with how the Catholic religion works, Purgatory is essentially a connecting airport on the flight to Heaven, where your earthly transgressions are burned away with super unpleasant fire, and you are thus “cleansed” and good to go once you hit the Pearly Gates. “Indulgences” (a sort of time off for good behavior) shorten your sentence in Purgatory, which thus means a lot less screaming and gnashing of teeth. I’m not sure why you couldn’t be cleansed of your transgressions with a bubble bath, but hey, I don’t make the rules.

Apparently, however, the Pope does. I mean, he clearly has an “in” with God. After all, this whole “follow my tweets and get a reduced sentence” business is a major revision of the policies for indulgences and Purgatory, so he must have a very cozy relationship with the Almighty, who, one presumes, would have to sign off on such a dramatic rewrite of the rules. Because who’s gonna wanna bother with performing good works if you can read a few tweets on your smartphone and save yourself a whole mess of flesh burning?

I am not Catholic, myself. But I have to admit, I was already a bit intrigued with this religion. After all, these guys know how to throw a costume party. And seeing how buddy-buddy the Pope is with the Lord makes me think that I really should consider converting, since the Catholics obviously have the inside track.

Prior to this, Catholicism had always seemed like a lot of work: all that kneeling, confession every week, the Hail Mary’s. But now, it’s as simple as powering up your phone.

Speaking of which, I think the Pope’s voice should replace Siri on the iPhone. Because clearly, the Pope is somebody who really understands the concept of saving time.

A good friend of mine just put her cat on Prozac.

And frankly, it’s about time.

Vanity has been on an emotional rollercoaster ever since she discovered that Prince, her live-in boyfriend of five years, has been stepping out with a Persian three doors down. Who knows when we would have even found out, had it not been for the telltale kitty litter stuck to his hind paws one afternoon when he returned from his “workout” (chasing pigeons in the backyard).

There are no clay surfaces in the back yard.

I keep trying to tell Vanity that it’s not like Prince can DO anything with this slut. I mean, he lost his scrotum in a savage attack by a crazed, knife-wielding veterinarian (who, tragically, was acquitted on a technicality). So there’s not a lot of “there” there, if you know what I mean.

But Vanity maintains that this kind of cheating – emotional cheating – is far worse than physical. Now, at night, instead of enjoying a few Humans Playing With String videos on MeowTube and maybe a little scratching post yoga, Prince sits at the window and stares at the neighbor’s house. Where that whore lives.

As far as I’m concerned, he’s always been a problem. He was arrested in 2011 for rodent bashing, after a drunken assault on an unsuspecting rat at the Third Street dumpster. Why would you wanna be with someone like that, I ask her? If he’d do that to some poor mouse, what makes you think you’re not next?

“But I love him,” she yowls.

I’m hoping that the Prozac levels her out and makes her see the folly of staying with someone who so blithely cats around. Sure, she’ll probably gain a few pounds from the anti-depressant, but she’ll finally stop playing that Adele album over and over and sobbing into her Friskies.

That gets old real fast.