Friday, September 03, 2004

 

If only, If only ...

Why, oh why, do I keep hearing the rain? The WiFi connection here is horrible, dear readers. I know that there's someone in there, in that Jesus suit, but the thunder and lightning keeps drowning out the cries of the poor helpless sonofabitch. Clearly it's an ally. Perhaps even a well-known talk show host, or some Dixiecrat Senator from Georgia, or a fellow prostitute. Should I open the zipper? Should I just tune to another channel and do some serious work on my uvula? (... which, frankly, has been looking rather pale and sickly lately ...) Clearly, the puny structure of this church won't hold up under the pounding from the hurricanes and hail and locusts and the giant sucking Hoovers in the Sky much longer ... what to do? what to do? In an instant, the answer is clear: open the ditches and cleanse the earth! Open every closed-off and mud-choked ditch on the planet, open them with the fury of 1,000,000 unemployed hungry motherfuckers, open them with the key, the key given me by Chef Pharaoh's comely daughter, when she revealed to me the secret ingredient for her father's Belly of Osiris Pie: lint. Lint from the navel. Lint from the navel of Fatima. Rubbed in her palm eye, this lint can open any ditch, anywhere, and even add a dash of low-phosphate detergent. With a dash of dried shit from the White House toilet carefully mixed in--a shamefully overlooked point of national security, White House shit--I can open every ditch in the goddam UNIVERSE and even kick in a rinse and spin cycle: Ultimate Power. And I'm set to do it. Use the key. But then the radio buzzes to life, the one implanted in my molar by Barry Goldwater during his presidential bid as a "security measure" since he greatly feared the power of a nascent mullah-cum-weatherman and hoped to control it with the power of AM radio ... it's a country station, and just as I hear "she got the gold mine and I got the shaft," the roof and walls collapse, and a wave of the stuff Holy Climatologists call "rapture mud" pours in. As I am being encased in the red, sticky clay, reeking of transubstantiation, only one thought comes to mind: the giant catfish that live in the deep bottoms of the Mississippi River and their incessant lust for Sufi flesh, and the countless investigative mullahs who had become their dinner. If only I hadn't blasphemed, if only ...




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