Poor old sad sack, couldn’t even…… you know. He slept out back.
At a convent nestled in the alps in the Garden of Needing the Monsignor dines on pears, wine and emmentaler cheese surrounded by a bevy of nuns, unaware of an approaching coven of enchanted priestesses, dew of the Urchin running off their chins.
The Judas Goat is under surveillance and war brides are guaranteed, so enjoy the carnage.
Watch as the drunken shoreman is ignored by the showgirl. He heads into the night with a bone to pick.
I pick up a highwayman on the freeway. He says that he who lies down with dogs rises with the fleas. I turn down the radio, put the car in cruise control and nap.
On waking I’m alarmed at the bulge in my passenger’s pants. “Oh that” he says, “it’s just priapism.” The permanent erection was the result of a curse acquired by his grandfather in Burma, recently identified as a transgenerational parasitic venereal disease, cock-ring worm.
Meanwhile at the convent the priestesses, naked and chanting in unison, pour dew down the mouths of the liberated, as the Monsignor, tied down to the wine stained earth, is raped by the dozens.