“Believe (in) me!”
by David Benjamin
He
said, “Picture this: the Oval Office. A dozen news cameras are rolling.
The new president ushers in an eight-year-old girl named, let’s say,
Jenny. He sets her up on his desk. He proceeds to strip her down and
molest her sickeningly for ten minutes. Within an hour, a billion people
everywhere have watched the famous “Jenny video.” The world is
appalled. But 60 million Americans — the Trump Faithful — shriek in
protest at the atrocity exposed to their lying eyes. It’s a fake, they
cry. But this claim is debunked. True or not, it doesn’t matter, they
all agree, because the little bitch seduced the president. She led him
on. She was asking for it — the faithful roar unanimously — and the slut
got what she deserved.”
I replied, “Well, yeah, for this so-called president, this sounds like a normal day at the office. So what?”
Dr.
Wilhelm “Reverend Bill” Bienfang, the author of this scenario and
America’s foremost “idea man,” said, “Oh, but, dude! The implications.”
I said I’ve been pretty much overwhelmed by implications since Election Day. “They scare the bejesus out of me.”
“An
interesting word choice,” said Bienfang, “because this guy doesn’t
function in any sense as a politician. He’s immune to his own
transgressions, no matter how vile and selfish. Nor is he a policymaker,
administrator or even a businessman. He is — well, look! Mass rallies
in coliseums, prodding his believers into a hysterical exercise of call
and response. ‘Build the wall!’ he bellows and they cry, ‘Build the
wall!’ ‘Lock her up!’ he goes. And they scream the words back. His very
name, as they shout it, scrawl it on placards and and spray it on walls
is an icon, a symbol as emotional as the cross and the swastika. What
we’ve wrought is neither political, governmental, democratic, nor even
particularly American.”
“It’s… it’s religious,” I suggested.
“Correct.
But this spellbinder is no garden-variety evangelist, laden with
Scripture and scripted by liturgy. He’s not even a prophet in the normal
sense. He has no dogma, no catechism or missal, no creed, no tablets
brought down from the mountain. He’s a virgin reborn daily, empty,
impulsive and infantile. He is the crucifixion of the Establishment, the
wordless become Flesh, the resurrection of the damned. His presidency
is past and done. He ascends not to a mere way station in the White
House but beyond! Into the firmament of mortal godhead, where he will
sit at the Right Hand of his own tremendous Self, judge the living and
the dead really, really well and tweet his verdicts every five minutes,
every day — forever.”
“You’re saying?”
“Think,” said Bienfang, “Messiah.”
My mind began to reel, because — it hit me! — Bienfang was right again.
“And what an opportunity!” Bienfang exclaimed.
Bienfang
has a nose for profit that can sniff a buck beneath fifty tons of
rotting offal. He noted that the infrastructure of an endless “mission”
to keep the “faithful” in a constant state of charismatic frenzy is
almost complete.
“These huge rallies are wondrously devoid of
content. It’s really a tent meeting. Same sermon over and over. The
chanting mob, grown men weeping, women rending their garments and — most
important — the collection! Thousands of poor people — indigent,
unemployed, desperate — joyously donating their dollars, their dimes,
their last miserable nickel to a man so obscenely profligate that the
flush-handle on his toilet is 24-carat gold.”
Bienfang went on.
“The only missing ingredient is the megachurch — which, as you know, is
the greatest profit center ever conceived in the name of God!”
“But how? Who would build it?”
“His
churches are already built!” said Bienfang. “In Manhattan — St.
Patrick’s. In Washington — the National Cathedral. In Utah — the Mormon
Tabernacle. Every stadium in the National Football League. His church is
wherever he says it is, because he is — now — the Government. He’s the
body and soul of Eminent Domain. What he wants, he gets — for all of us,
in his name, for his glory. Praise the Lord!”
I knew Bienfang
had already schemed a thousand ways to cash in on the deification of the
presidency. But I finally spotted an implication.
“You’re talking about a state religion,” I said. “In America?”
“Yes!
Because here, at last, is a faith that’s simpleton simple. No doctrine.
No commandments. No prayers. No rules. No sins to confess. Just pure,
google-eyed, talking-in-tongues, holy-roller, dear-and-glorious leader
worship. And ponying up for the collection. In a church where you can
wear a t-shirt printed with the word ‘fuck’.”
“No elections, either?”
Bienfang laughed. “Where is it written that we get to vote on the Second Coming?”
“You’re comparing Trump to Jesus?” I said.
“Let’s
not name names, shall we? Why not just be glad we’re getting a Messiah
who’s a lot easier to take? Forget about loving your neighbor, keeping
your brother, turning the other cheek. We have ourselves a savior,
finally, who’s happy if we all just sing his praises, guard our goodies,
cover our asses and stay white ’til we die.”
“And pay,” I added.
“There
is a hitch, though,” whispered Bienfang. “This is our first Messiah in
2,000 years who’s walking, literally, amongst us. He’s a little too
exposed.”
“Right,” I said, catching on. “It’s not good for the
bottom line if your Holy of Holies is running around loose, hugging
dictators, lying his ass off, trashing beauty queens and Gold Star
mothers, eating all the loaves and fishes, and grabbing every pussy that
slips into his range.”
“Exactly. You can only grope so many Jennies before the shtick gets old and the apostles get jaded.”
“You have a solution?”
Bienfang smiled. “According to age-old custom, the best Messiah is a heavenly Messiah.”
“You mean, literally?” I said. “Like, a martyr?”
“Ideally. Eventually.”
“Crucifixion?” I mused. “Burning at the stake? The guillotine?”
“No no no. This is America. And it’s not the Middle Ages,” said Bienfang. “We’ll just shoot him.”
Thursday, December 15, 2016
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1 comment:
Bienfang's right. That's the classic scenario.
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