the end of the innocence

"The sheep didn't give me pubic lice! I gave them to the sheep!" Wayne was a damnable screamer. That much curiosity could get a man into gallons of trouble. Blessed be the sinful, though, for they are the least likely to have their undercarriages scrubbed by bullish nursemaids.

"Screech is on TV! Let me celebrate with sex!" Julia was not alone in the room, but she didn't care if Wayne heard about her confusing adoration for all things Dustin Diamond. If she wanted to celebrate with sex, he would oblige, or at least find some hobo in need of a quarter.

"Julian Lennon is not only brilliant, but divine," burped the lonely Pope, losing his way with God and the Church. He had just finished spackling his laundry room when he heard the precluding conversation. It made him winsome for his dollies and his winter hideaway replete with Julian Lennon merch. He wandered mentally (and physically... into the street) and realized that the Holy Mother would not cradle him in the lullabies of warmth and juicefulness, but would sully his nappy with guilt.

Smack was the sound of the strike of the auto on the Pope. Wayne and Julia felt sad, in the distance, and could not explain why. They embraced. A nation mourned. The lice held an icebreaker and became amicably acquainted. Spiro Agnew wondered if he might care less.