Scene: A rural Alabama living room A stuffed opossum, leaking fluff and with one eye missing, stands menacingly in a corner. A couple of easy chairs and a sofa, with a coffee table in front of it are arranged in the main space. Pat Robertson’s “700 Club” oozes from the television. Atop the mantle, in a place of honor normally reserved for a wedding photograph, stands a black, pebble grain covered book. Embossed on the cover, in silver leaf Gothic letters are the words The Holy Bible And scrawled underneath, in black Sharpie is By Donald J Trump
Of course Donald Trump signed bibles during his trip to the Alabama tornado disaster zone! What else did you expect him to do? They put them in front of him fer Crissakes! You have Pat Robertson calling him the living incarnation of King Cyrus, and that bubble headed moron Mike Lindell telling C-Pac that God himself plucked Trump from a manger and plunked his overstuffed ass down in the Oval Office. I guess Apparently Matt Schlapp couldn’t get Trump’s DJ with the drums guy from the inauguration for C-PAC this year. Anybody who knows anything about Donald Trump should know by now that the only thing that Trump won’t sign is an alimony check.But blaming the Orange Whip mutt for howling is missing the point.
Let me tell you a short story. About 40 years ago, I was a young paramedic for a private ambulance company in my home town of Chicago. One summer day, my partner and I were assigned to Grant Park, as part of a squad of paramedics on hand to provide any necessary medical treatment for Pope John Paul II’s celebratory mass from the Petrillo band shell. A high honor for an Irish Catholic kid from Chicago. And it became an even higher honor when, before the mass, Pope John Paul II showed up at our staging area to personally bless the medics that would be tending to his flock on that hot summer day. You can tell by my vivid memory how clearly that day is etched in my memory, 40 years later. But the one thing that I can’t remember is the Pope, after the mass, sitting at a table in front of a receiving like, signing bibles, or anything else.
Look, forget about His Lowness here for a minute. What is the most important thing here is not that Trump signed a bunch of bibles for kids in Alabama. The real tragedy here is the sad, almost pathetic desperation, or lack of veneration, that leads desperate, disillusioned people to take what should be their most prized possession, and hand it over to a craven, avaricious, philandering, heathen poltroon to deface. I wanted to make sure that I had it right, so I looked it up, and the first commandment still reads;
- You shall not make for yourself any idol, nor bow down to it or worship it.
Behold the true nature of the beast, the “Trump base.” Why would anybody be surprised that they would ask a hedonist fakir like Trump to authenticate the words of God when they spend their lives sending checks to opportunistic hack religious hustlers like Pat Robertson, to keep him comfortably ensconced in fancy digs and private jets. We used to think that nothing made a Trump supporter look dumber than when they staggered around wearing red MAGA hats. Now we know better. They look even dumber when they hand him bibles to sign.
Copies of President Evil, and the sequel, President Evil II, A Clodwork Orange are still sitting around collecting dust, and Amazon is starting to send me nasty e-mails. And what better time to get reacquainted with the roller coaster that was the 2016 election cycle than before the release of the final volume of the trilogy, President Evil III, All the Presidents Fen.
Cross posted on Politizoom.com
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