This, this is what Tom DeLay (R-Sugar Land), former exterminator and fine, upstanding Christianist American, your House Majority Leader and mine, had to say about the 150,000 people who died, who have died, who are still dying as a result of the horrible earthquakes and tsunamis that struck on St. Stephen’s Day:
Therefore whosoever heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them, I will liken him unto a wise man, which built his house upon a rock: And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell not: for it was founded upon a rock. And every one that heareth these sayings of mine, and doeth them not, shall be likened unto a foolish man, which built his house upon the sand: And the rain descended, and the floods came, and the winds blew, and beat upon that house; and it fell: and great was the fall of it.
And had I believed in God, as such, I would no longer: no word has yet reached Google news of the sudden and spontaneous immolation of Tom DeLay (R-Sugar Land). How could any God worthy of the name allow such blasphemy to blot His earth without smiting the squalid little pisher with lightning? Or at least a coronary failure in flagrante? —There’s mysterious ways, and then there’s the only decent thing, and this, this man dares turn his back on love and compassion, decency and tolerance, on all our best qualities, the very things that make us human, that the book he professes to follow would teach him if he’d ever bother to listen—all this he spits on in a public forum before us all to play yet another game of my god is bigger than your god, Allahu Akbar motherfucker? The Old Testament God would at the very least have sent a bear to eat him up for this insult, and even the New Testament Christ at His most peaceful would eyes flashing toss this moneychanger from the temple and hurl stones upon his head.
Nor do I believe in hell, for all that I wish I could, so that I might join right-thinking people everywhere in praying fervently for his damnation to it. We could console ourselves by imagining him in the icy realm of Cocytus, and while away sinfully pleasant hours by disputing whether he might end up gripped in ice, head bent forward or backward, or completely submerged at the center of the Earth itself, awaiting his turn in one of Lucifer’s mouths. —Nor can I play the Devil, and quote Scripture to my purpose: much as I might dream of driving all-out for days from here to Washington, DC, stopping only for gas and the occasional cat nap, that I might stride horns swelling up the steps of the Capitol in my Chuck Taylors, unshaven and wild-eyed, demanding his whereabouts of everyone I met in those polished halls of power until I finally got to beard the pathetic little Texan in his wood-panelled lair and point my finger thusly, bellowing with a preacher’s booming cadences, “Know this, sinner: The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother’s keeper, and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.”
But I probably couldn’t make it past the cops, and anyway, that’s Tarantino, not Ezekial.
Not even the cooler æsthetic comfort of poetic justice is available to me: much as I might look forward to the day when his power will be broken, the panoply of his office scattered, his house razed, when his family will deny him bread and salt and PAC money, when the pot he pisses in will be taken from him and he must beg for the very compassion he tried to drive from this land, I can’t begin to believe he will ever come to realize it is all only what he must reap for the filth he has sown and the hurt he has spread. I can’t believe he’ll ever learn a thing. Comprehension is as far from him as compassion, or shame.
GIMEL ZAYIN YUD. This, too, shall pass. Y’all had the slightest inkling of what that really meant, we’d all be much better off. My god is bigger than your god: if that is all the meaning you pathetic little shits can draw from something like this, give me nihilistic despair. Please. It’s far more human.
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