The court of the boy Pope-a John Paul II was a genuine wonder.  A wish fountain flowed aside each masseuse station, the ground soft with the pelts of the Dream Yeti, corners garnished with plants long dead and longer forbidden.  

New to the Splendor Dome was a man who all knew, but none had ever seen in person.  He was President George Superman Eagletalon, the master of America!   He made trumpet-y sounds with his lips and skipped to and fro, like a young pet at the vet’s office for the first time (before they punch his balls until they die and fall off.)

The Council of Four were concerned that President Eagletalon would break the holy bungie cord, and they had no mind to drive out to Rome for another.  It was time.  Time to figure out how he got to the court, and perhaps reverse engineer the process.

“Boy Pope-a John Paul II,” bellowed the Council through paper towel tubes, “Do you know how President George Superman Eagletalon of America the country got here?”

“Of course.  I’m-a the freakin’ boy Pope-a!  America the country was over there, flaunting their big President boner in the air like a beached John Holmes and I came to a decision: I’m-a gonna steal that fathead prick and put him in my secret garden.  Cuz I’m-a the freakin’ boy Pope-a!”

Wars between the Council and the boy Pope-a John Paul II raged for weeks, but the kid was a sneak and the Council of Four said fuck it.  President Eagletalon set deep routes in the court, making many generations of U.S./Vatican fuck babies before the lineage came back home.  This is why the United States Government has so much religion in it.  Give me an A please or my Dad will punch my balls until they die and fall off.

-Pappy got a quality half hour of writing out of me.  Pretty fun.  And yes, the inviso-tentacles of The State still manipulate my brain whenever I think of the Pope.  And balls, and dipping.