Malapropos

Joesef stared at his plate of cheese.

“This cheese”, Joesef pontificates with his accented stutter, “is very very holey”

Serenity is distracted, she’s watching the last rites of the robo-pope on the black and white television over the bar. Through the static and snow of the aged television she soldiers on, hanging on to every utterance of the toaster-cardinal.

“Holey, yes”, Joesef continues unperturbed that Serenity isn’t listening to him. He clears his throat, a sonorous sound.

“This cheese”, Joesef declares, “Is so holey it should be the next pope”

His face splits into a wide grin, exposing rotten teeth leaning against golden caps.

Swiveling her neck in an impossibly graceful motion, Serenity faces Joesef.

“Has it ever occurred to you”, says she, “that that was a most malapropos pun”?

With her lips she points out a figure clad in a monk’s orange robes sitting on a barstool. He is weeping, weeping over a beer, chanting a solemn somber ditty for the robo-pope.