The Beast Takes Human Form
Copyright © 2004 by Noam Daguerre, Culture Warrior. All rights reserved.
It’s the time of that Evil Season, the quadrennial duck-and-cover when the sphincters of fate convulse to pinch off another lucky President into our communal toilet bowl. Every four years I am forced to ask the same question, the answer to which causes my hand to fall to one name, and not the other, in the voting booth.
Which one is the Antichrist?
Aw, fuck it — this time we know. But what we want is proof: flies huddling around a puddle of blood spelling a name in black-glass glyphs; a photo passed over a virgin, making her hymen curdle; someone’s face in a goddamned tortilla. Proof irrefutable.
Seeing, as they say, is believing; anyone can say anything they want about who they are. They can claim to be steadfast and moral and resolute and compassionate. But action betrays the tongue. You can say anything you want about who you wish you were, or how you want others to see you, but your behavior is who you are. And so, I give you video of The One-Fingered Victory Salute and the Human Kleenex.
This stuff is easy to find (just Google ’em) and so is deep and shallow commentary on both. I’m not gonna repeat it here. I just wanted you to see with unspun eyes. If only for a moment.
All I’m gonna say is if this is how he treats folks who are in the same room with him, how would he treat the rest of us? Something tells me he’d wipe the shit off the backs of his thighs with our hopes and dreams. That’s how it feels, anyway.
Some of you have expressed fears about Bush winning the election; some of you have expressed a desire to see that, if only for his downfall. I, myself, have felt both, and strongly. But really and honestly, it doesn’t matter what happens on November 2nd — we win either way.
If Kerry wins, he’s just battered down the door to the bridge, where he will be momentarily overcome by the stench of fresh shit and rotting corpses. He will find that someone puked all over the charts, the compass is missing, and out the rain-lashed windscreen he will see, illuminated briefly in a shock of lightning, high seas against black rocks. He’s gonna hafta get busy quick and we might not make it…
If Bush wins, he takes ownership, historical ownership, of the whole mess. There was a story reported in Rolling Stone about Bush in the 70’s where he rented and then trashed an apartment. The owner cleaned it up (the mattresses had to be burned — and I’m not being funny here) and sent Bush the $900 cleaning & repair bill. Twice. He never got any money out of him. Not this time around. If Bush wins, he won’t be so lucky — he’ll own the whole fucking mess. History will nestle him somewhere between Nixon and Grant — to writhe in a cadaverous ménage-a-trois for all eternity.
So I am understandably sanguine about the whole affair, having come to a larger understanding of it — on November 2nd, either we get rescued by the hero or we get to watch the villian meet his inevitable messy end.
Sincerely, with all the meat in my skull,