Slash Fiction - The Pope

She walks up to the podium from off-camera and begins.

"A poem to commemorate the passing of the Pope." She looks up, looks shallowly into the camera and smiles. She bounces, a mini-curtsy, and continues, "by Britney Spears." She clears her throat and reads her poem with heavy inflection, left fist clenched, brow furrowed, glancing now and then at those in the audience:

Dear Pope, the best Pope I ever scoped
I hoped you’d get better…
But nope.
When you passed, Oh Pope,
I couldn’t cope, my eyes, with tears
Kaleidoscope.
Oh Pope, oh John Paul, Pope,
The super priest, that didn’t grope
Little boys, (at least I hope)
Oh Popey-Pope with you gone,
My soul will mope.
Your heart was so pure, like Ivory Soap.
We’ll miss you Pope, my heart it slopes
For the dopest Pope I ever scoped.

Peering through the eye-piece of the camera at Mrs. Spears-Federline, Larry the cameraman mutters, "Classic."

A producer chokes on his coffee.

A PA drops his clipboard.