Falwell, as we speak, cannonballs down the pit, bonking his empty skull in the filth heap of gluttony, the boulders of greed, splashing through the wrathful slime, past the gates of Dis, scoured by the sands of violence while Geryon cackles, past the sackcloth black of the Falsifiers night, into the ice of misery, of malevalence, the deepest point of the pit of hell, never to see the the light of the Son nor the Father, to be fellatiated in the cold fire that is the glowing maw of Satan, to be his only sustanence for all time...
...a snack, if you will, for the Lord of the Flies as he watches the G.O.P. debate on Fox tonight, his eternal penance...
I'm not sure who I am here: Am I the Poet-or one of the noble heathens? Am I Virgil?
While it is true that I have been called a heathen from time to time, I consider myself more "christ-like" than "Christian"...tonight I am the poet.
This, of course, would be the reason why I am privvy to the hell that is this second installment of the "Thunderdome of Stupid", a phrase that I am not entirely sure I can take credit for, but it is a phrase that is so astutely, acutely accurate to describe this steelcage match for the right to be on the disaterously wrong side of history, refusing to chastise in any meaningful way the Mayor of the City of Dis, all while fireball Jerry goes screaming by, reeking of fried chicken and astroglide, shrieking about gay mafia, unrepentent Jews, and pictures of naked ladies.
Boatman Brit throws the softballs, knowing that taking them across the filthy quagmire takes them further down the pit, their city on the hill is the capitol of Hell.
Glasses on, he lets them yuck it up. Sayeth McCain on his colleagues "They spend like drunken sailors" (is this a talking point?), while ex glutton Fuckamee sayeth they, yea, "spend like John Edwards at a salon", or some similarly asinine attempt at humor...
Inexplicably enough, this is not how I imagined the banks of the River Styx, nor the steel cage: The backdrop looks like the old set from "Star Search", and instead of the yellow light, red light set up at MSNBC, this one features a bell, a fucking bell, like a game show from the fifties, and like Tic Tac Dough, this fucker is rigged-it is Hell, after all. They even have rounds!
It would have to be a game show in hell that your host, Britt Hume, the infernal Wink Martindale asks a question about terrorists with nukes that causes the salivation of the hopefuls like Dr. Strangelove frothing over the heaven of mine shaft living.
"The last, best hope of civilization" Tancredo says, wild eyed, problem with a bubble of semen hanging from the end of his viagra engorged shame, his incontinental ballistic failure.
Indeed, this is the last hope of civilization, a game show in hell, with each of the lovely contestants, again, trying to out conservative each other, the corpse of Reagan humped relentless:
Yes, Britt, I'll take Gay Marriage...
"Define Marriage"
Traditional...Bible...Man and Woman...
Britt...I'll take Islamofascism to block!
"Do you support 'the surge'?"
Al Quaeda doesn't have a plan B!
Hard hitting queries, straight answers (right off the RNC teleprompters). Hell, it seems, is an endless cacophony of platitudes, howls from the party faithful, and a total blindness to the reality of their situation: Inheriting Bush's Legacy, especially as a yes man, might be akin to being the bastard son of Mussolini-or less dramatically, yet somehow more apt, Kato Kaelin Jr., the progeny of an intellectual bottom feeder,a snivelling, bootlicking, faux human, crawling through the oil toward the money, clawing over the bodies left in the wake of the ideology of absolutes.
If only a sith deals in absolutes, then only a Republican presidential candidate vomits them ad infinitum, but this is too be expected: The game show in hell is reality in factoid, and all answers are final. Britt Hume, the Wink Martindale of the waste, glasses on, glasses off, will always ask in a voice that might indicate an impacted colon to a proctologist, but instead would indicate, to the poet, that his soul is passing out of his ass, ever so slowly. Chris Wallace will titter like the muppet pet of Jabba the Hut, occasionally bearing his teeth in some hideous smirk in the face of his name.
The candidates, one and all,will justify the sacrifice of others for the good of themselves, in the tragic conclusion of logic that is the toughest love imaginable:
This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me.
Falwell, who admonished us about the immanence of the heavenly host, who admonished us about HIS judgement rendered through his porcine visage, is on ice, forever masticated by the glowing maw, like a putrid, blubbery shrimp cocktail.
The Winner? No one. The Loser? Everybody.
Update: Hey Virgil...take me home.
"incontinental ballistic failure" Damn, that's rich.
ReplyDeleteAnd the Game Show metaphor--brilliant! I would've spewed out my morning coffee harder from laughing had your parodic poetic portraiture not been all too...apropos.
At least I take some personal glee in believing that EF would be indignant at your use of Dante to lambast the GOP.
Good work, my friend!
Purring...
Maybe I should send him a copy...
ReplyDeleteA nice antidote to the Falwell Love-n-Remorse that's sweeping the nation.
ReplyDeleteQuite brilliant, Aaron!
My favorite: "Britt Hume...will always ask in a voice that might indicate an impacted colon to a proctologist, but instead would indicate, to the poet, that his soul is passing out of his ass, ever so slowly."
ReplyDeleteRock On mighty Wizard!!