A satire in prose

It’s a bad, first draft….Also, I put in a lot of references to bizarre religions; I felt it was pretty humorous.  By the way, though it may seem like it, I’m not making fun of God.  I’m trying to say that some modern sects of “Christianity” have strayed from the Bible’s actual teachings.  I think once you’ve seen people holding up signs that say, “God hates fags,” this becomes pretty apparent.  That’s not even the main point I’m trying to make anyways…

 

He sits there with his button-down shirt and his baby-smooth chin, a truly fantastic array of commodities oozing from his pores, all to make himself look good for the prodigious blubber of humans surrounding him.  Everyday he submerges himself in sewage and cavorts with the prepubescent sewer-babies; everyday he gawks through his telescope and worships planet Venus−the origin of all things scientific; and everyday he stuffs ufology-based dingbats/doohickeys up his bum while the epitome of modern evangelicals feed him fish to make him “more religious.”  Even his primrose dog, with her glorious coat of strikingly pale hair, is not for him, but for the minds of others, for their infinite benefit.  Though his body tells him otherwise, he remains stagnant, because if he starts to ponder, the fright of life’s tangible nature would kill him.  Thus, he stays blindfolded.  Tired and drained from when he gets home from his twelve o’clock appointment, he’ll jump in a galactic tube and boil his flesh just so he can be orange like all the other confederates.  A sort of revival from steeping in communal esteem, a marinating in the love that only a truly inanimate object can give.

 

Oh, wouldn’t mamma be proud of her boy now.  Wouldn’t she be enthralled with his social esteem and glamorous magazines sprawled throughout the kitchen.  Yes, he thought, her incredible zest for lobster statuettes and porno wallpaper would be almost too much to handle; he’d have to shove her in his suitcase with the other women, all the while their masochistic squeals exploding like dynamite, as he rubs himself with bananas and other exotic fruit.  Then, when he’s drained of enthusiasm and zeal, he’ll pop open season one of Oprah and take notes.  Because who needs the Bible when you have TV land on demand.  And who needs Jesus when you have Bob Dobbs and X.  But soon, when he’s fifty or so, his rotting flesh will prompt him to look a little deeper.  Though he needn’t worry right now, because the doctor said, “odds are you’ll live until you’re seventy.”  So he’ll smoke and drink until he’s sober enough to have a baby−after all, in 2020 we won’t want to discriminate, so we’ll allow men to have babies too.  Oh, wouldn’t Barrack be proud when that day comes!  Just like Ma used to say.

 

So for now, he’ll live for the moment and he’ll live for the crowd: whatever ‘floats his boat’ and ‘makes him feel good.’  Soon he’ll be dead though, in a stupefied state like he didn’t know what was coming.  Soon the funeral home will shut the coffin like a bank vault; they’ll make his body look deceptively clean and well, while people he never cared to know bow and give sentiments.  But he won’t hear them; he won’t care, and in a few weeks, no one will remember him, and no one will care.  All the greasy praise, all the greasy money, and all the greasy food will vanish into thin air, creating a cloudy miasma.  And some authoritative man draped in black will tell them he went to heaven regardless.

 

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~ by ardentbowel on March 23, 2013.

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