the secret life of pope francis the first

Felippo Di Tomasso and Ron Genucci, the two main handlers for Pope Francis, are holding a crisis coffee break in the Vatican cantina.
A group of high ranking ultra leftist prelates in the corner, Cardinal Scherbitzki, Monsignor Steinervortzel, and Archbishop Diarmuid Martin of Dublin (we'll be fortunate indeed if they are just leftists) are playing clarinets in an obvious Star Wars homage.
The Pope's two coffee sipping power brokers are impervious to the music.
They are deep in conference.
"It's the lightning strikes!" exclaims Felippo fervently. "Every time he goes anywhere, lightning hits something. Boom. Church steeples, passing citizens, the silverware in the kitchen. It doesn't matter how many babies he kisses. In fact anyone concerned that their baby shouldn't be hit by lightning should definitely not let this Pope kiss him. This looks bad."
"I know," assents Ron. "But whatchya gonna do?"
Felippo ponders.
"We gotta play down the whole portents of evil business," he muses. "We gotta issue a press release blaming the lightning strikes around Pope Francis on... on... on...."
"...on climate change," concludes Ron in a burst of inspiration. "We'll say Pope Francis has developed his own independent weather system because of climate change. We can blame the Americans."
His friend nods.
There is a moment of convivial conspiratorial satisfaction gilded by the continuing hustle of the clarinets.
"But what about his problem with doves?" enquires Felippo breaking the spell.
 "The doves are a problem," murmurs Ron.
They are thinking about the occasion when Pope Francis released doves from the window of Saint Peter's basilica and carrion birds immediately attacked the doves.
"This would be a pickle for any Pope," sighs Felippo.
"And it's a real bitch if you're a dove," agrees Ron brilliantonelinerishly.
Ron and Felippo weigh the matter.
"It's as bad as the lightning strikes," says Ron. "Benedict and John Paul were releasing doves every five minutes and nothing ever happened to them."
"Could we blame the Americans again?" proffers Felippo  brightly. "You know. CIA doves on the prowl in Rome infiltrating the Vatican and suiciding themselves with carrion birds to make His Holiness look bad."
Ron shakes his head.
"No," he pronounces fiercely. "We need something else. Something to turn everything around. How can we turn portents of doom into reasons for  optimism in a way that even the proles won't notice?"
A penny drops.
"I've got it," cries Felippo. "We'll just let him release carrion birds from now on."