Mea Culpa, motherfuckers. (Photo credit: karltsakos)*
Me: So, I finished it.
Husband: Your story?
Me: What? Oh, no. That’s being…well…never mind. I was talking about this.
Husband:…Did you spend all night drawing superheroes again?
Me: Not just any superheroes. This is what Now-Pope is going to split into when he becomes Then-Pope.
Husband: So, according to you, the Pope is Voltron? I think your Sunday School teacher missed a few things.
Me: Fine, maybe he won’t split, but he’ll have to pick a new identity. Eight years as the fucking Bishop of Rome must have given him a few extra-normal abilities.
Husband: I suppose it’s possible.
Me: Right. I mean, why else would anyone want that job? It must come with superpowers. The resignation has only happened three times before, and usually at times of great crisis. So, clearly he’s going on to fight crime, right?
Husband:…clearly.
Me: The question is, who’s he going to become now? It’s a big decision. I thought I’d help out by providing some options.
Husband: (Looking through the pile of sketches) Why does this one have a cape and a hammer?
Me: That’s Pontifax.
Husband: Of course it is. And this is…why are there all these floating eyeballs?
Me: The Holy See. Spymaster. He sees all your fucking sins.
Husband: Right. So this one must be…did you draw Pope-Hulk?
Me: He’s never gotten laid, dude. Even Bruce Banner gets laid sometimes. He must have some built-up frustration by now. Speaking of which, here’s the last one…
Husband: Why’s he wearing this huge cloak? And do I want to know why this kid is with him?
Me: Because he’s Cover Up. And that’s his sidekick, the Choir Boy Wonder.
Husband: Send me a post card from Hell.
