“You think that was an accident?” Pete squawked. “Sharks don’t make mistakes, my friend. That bad boy was jumping with intent.”

The fishermen were not hurt, but the flying shark scared the red snapper out of them. Asked about sharks jumping into small boats, federal fishing officials went out for drinks.

The Tattler had to ask; was the mako shark seeking revenge for the BP explosion?

“Let’s just say that among the wildlife community hereabouts there are those who think the humans got off the hook, so to speak,” Pete said.

“And I should mention that here in the Gulf, the movie “Jaws” is still quite popular with the local wildlife.”

“Ratings don’t lie, my friend,” said Verizon. “CSI this, CSI that, NCIS here, NCIS there, Bones – the medical examiner is the new American hero.”

Network suits seem to agree. “Law & Order is OK but it’s so 2007,” said one NBC executive. “Catch the bad guy, put him on trial. Ho hum.”

“Nowadays people want to see the corpse they found at the bottom of the well after 20 years, then watch the forensic anthropologists boil off the remaining flesh. Now that’s good TV.”

Analysts contend that dancing shows peopled with broken-down former football players, bulked up former super models and nitwit panels of judges will supply the only break from the body parts.

“We expect some complaints from the ‘Modern Family’ crowd,” said one cable exec. “But they can watch old episodes of ‘Cheers’ on TNT. We’re going with the gore.”

It’s possible the owners and players may figure how to divide up $9 billion in revenue by the season opener. If they don’t, well, Smegal is thinking Australia.

“You gotta understand,” he said, “I don’t care about health care or Libya or “Dancing with the Stars.

“I don’t care about the stock market or the hog market or Newt Gingrich. I like pro football. If we don’t have it, well, I hear they play football without helmets down there in Australia.”

Shooter’s wife, Mary Pat, likes living near her sister in Treetops and doesn’t want to hear about Melbourne or Perth or those cute koala bears. She tried to get her husband interested in NASCAR.

“It’s OK,” he said, slipping a Dallas Cowboys’ beer cozy around his favorite brew. “Kinda noisy. And it’s hard to bet on.”

“If he’s like most people,” said Fabreze, “Claude has Facebook friends he hasn’t seen since high school, or maybe never seen at all.

“All of sudden he’s under pressure to send birthday greetings to the guy who lives next to his sister in Fresno or someone he met at the Christmas-in-July office party back in ’98.”

The lunch crowd at Roz’s Roost was sympathetic to Cummerbund’s problem.

“There’s the birthday thing and people who want to play some kind of online games,” said a customer named Sunflower. “Me, I’m just on there trying to find my ex-husband.”

Cummerbund thinks America needs a Facebook Commissioner, like baseball or the United Nations.

“There could be some rules, or guidelines,” he said. “Like, if I never, ever wished somebody a happy birthday before there was Facebook, should I have to do it now?”

The Tattler does not come to this editorial decision easily. Over the years, we have chronicled the exploits of many celebrated idiots, some actually living outside Hollywood, Wall Street and Washington D.C.

Drunken movie stars, pickled rockers, wayfaring politicos, gun-toting footballers outside gentlemen’s clubs, foul-mouthed radio yakkers; moronic “celebrity” housewives; stoned hedge fund managers; nitwit White House gatecrashers; we’ve covered them all.

And we probably will again. But no more Charlie Sheen. No more of his ranting interviews, his ex-wives, his co-stars, his contract, his adult-movie girl friends, his sunglasses.

Frankly, if we wanted to hear grownups talk and talk and talk and make no sense, we’d tune into C-Span.

We trust our readers will understand. And enjoy our upcoming five-part series on whatever happened to your favorite child TV sitcom stars.