IF YOU STUMBLED UPON this site because you were looking for a bearded priest with unusually large eyes and a constantly bewildered look, then you’ve come to the wrong place. You were looking for Padre Pio da Pietralcina, the stigmatist priest. God rest his merry soul. This site is NOT about him. Not for a long a shot.

So who the hell is this PadrePio mentioned here?’ you might ask.

The answer is, No one knows. He is an enigma, a puzzle and a great conundrum to everyone who has ever heard of him. But one thing is sure. He is not human, as evidenced by this one and only image painted of him:

The earliest record we have of his existence is from a clay tablet found in the ruins of Mesopotamia. It mentions one Oiperdap, a priest of Ishtar’s temple who was sentenced to death for having been caught rolling in the hay with the head priest’s wife. Owing to missing fragments in the clay tablet, it is unclear whether Oiperdap was really executed or whether he escaped. Most scholars, however, are inclined to believe the latter. It was later established by archaeologists that Oiperdap is actually the Sumerian name equivalent of PadrePio.

Three thousand years later, in the year 1640, he reappeared in England and became a celebrated writer of his day. He wrote the classic ten-volume History of the Rebellion and Civil Wars in England (In Which a Bonus Chapter is Added on the Subject of Making Love While Riding a Horse). The book has created quite a furor and made England too hot for him to hold, moreso when it became known that he was sleeping with Oliver Cromwell’s wife. (He was even rumored to be Richard Cromwell’s father.) He disappeared from public view when the Lord Protector issued an edict for his capture.

Sometime in 1802, a book entitled Les Trois Gil Blas, Ou Cinq Ans de Folie (translated into English by Derbyshire as The Three Basic Sex Positions, With Variants Included) started appearing in bookstores all over Paris. It was selling like hotcakes. The great Emperor himself, Napoleon Bonaparte, was known to have bought 100 copies. Although PadrePio didn’t appear in public, it was widely acknowledged by everyone that the book was written by him.

Since then, nobody has ever seen him again in person.  The advent of two World Wars made people forget about him. His legend became an obscure thing of the past.

But still he lives. He is filling up his last days in the 7,108th island in the Philippines. (He found the country’s tropical climate–and the women–to be great tonic for his failing health.) He is holed up in a circular stone tower with one window and with nothing to distract him from boredom but a battered electric fan, an equally battered desktop PC, a more battered guitar and a most bothered conscience. When not busy sleeping, he spends his time writing, with a little more sleeping on the side.