“Sweetie? Sweetie, I’m back from the doctor’s office. The baby’s healthy! I saw him squirming around on the ultrasound! He has such a big little head!”
Paris Hilton reached back and delicately pulled the purple maternal thong out the crack of her ass. A bold voice was vibrating the thin walls of the apartment. Malcolm X was rehearsing another speech. Paris yelled louder to get his attention, her voice becoming whiney and shrill.
“Red? Red? Can I still call you that? Baby?!”
Malcolm X emerged from the bedroom and rubbed his eyes. He slid his glasses back on and straightened his posture.
“Omigod, it’s so fun to be here with you! It’s, like, so ghetto. You’re so cute with your little glasses and anger about everything. White devil this and Plymouth rock that! How’s it going with Elijah Wood? Is he going to be in your movie? He’s so fucking hawt! Except when he was like, all short in Lord of the Rings. I heard they made a book out of that now! Reading sucks.”
“I believe you refer to the Honarable Elijah Mohammed. And, my dear, to tell the truth, I have found his lifestyle to be a bit hypocrital when juxtaposed with his teachings. I have left the Nation of Islam in order to…”
“That’s cool, but kind of boring. Sorry man! Can’t you thug out a little more like you did in the old days? You were so fucking hawt back then….”
Paris Hilton approached him and drunkenly grabbed the crotch of his immaculately pressed pants. Malcolm X adjusted his bow tie and sat down, pressing his fingertips to his chin. He sighed as he moved his left index finger to his temple, staring directly into Paris Hilton’s cold, green eyes.
“Your natural eye color is brown. Why do you insist on denying your heritage with those contacts?”
Paris Hilton appeared taken aback for a moment and then fled to kitchen in tears.
“I do it to look beautiful for you! I’m frying bacon now, I don’t care what you say! Goddamnit, I can eat pork if I want to! Or swine or whatever you call it. You used to eat it, too! What happened to us, Little? What happened?!”
Malcolm X stroked his goatee and spoke in a calm and even tone.
“How many times to I have to tell you not to call me by my slave name? Never call me that. I’m not even going by “X” anymore. I will be respectfully referred to as El-Hajj Malik El-Shabazz, like I’ve told you time and again. You can’t drive a knife into a man’s back nine inches, pull it out six inches, and call it progress. Remember that. Pass it on to that anorexic bitch you used to do the TV show with.”
The sound of fat frying against a griddle eminated from the kitchen as Malcolm X stood and faced the window, pulling out an M1 Carbine rifle. He peeled the curtains back and peered outside. The scent of burning meat wafted into the living room. Paris Hilton was a shitty cook.
Rants
Rant # 2: Malcolm X & Paris Hilton, A Love Story
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Rant # 1: God & Pat Roberson Do Coffee
DISCLAIMER: THE FOLLOWING TALE IS IN NO WAY MEANT TO DISRESPECT THE PERSONAL BELIEFS HELD BY MANY, INCLUDING MYSELF. IT IS INTENDED MERELY TO EXPRESS MY FEELINGS ABOUT THE LEADERS OF THE RELIGIOUS RIGHT AND THE HYPOCRISY THEY REPRESENT.
It was a lazy Sunday in Arlington, Virginia and Pat Robertson sat down for his weekly latte with God. God was growing a moustache. He was getting on in years and figured he’d go for the Tom Sellek look, maybe bag him a younger chick, get her pregnant, send the earth another messiah. He frantically typed into his laptop and frowned.
“Hey, Patty-boy, you have a cool Facebook page. Where did you find all of those stills you uploaded from Mel Gibson’s flick about my son?”
Pat Robertson farted silently and loosened his belt. The scent drifted up around his quivering, hairless frame like a pungent air born stew. He sat in the vapors and grinned smugly.
“I dunno, an intern did it. Seriously, though, God, to hell with this species. I tried to tell ‘em the deal about the homosexuals and the Jews. No dice. Why, I’d be willing to bet today’s ‘contributions’ double-or-nothin’ that right now, at this exact second, there’s a hooked-nosed heathen munchin’ on a kosher hotdog whilst having his brown-eye thoroughly explored by the tongue of a hot, young rabbi…it’s disgusting. And don’t even get me started about the Islamo-dyke agenda…”
“Yep…”
God’s eyes glazed over and He distractedly picked through His new moustache with a fine-toothed comb. He coughed into His sleeve and an earthquake hit the Philippines. No one in Arlington seemed to notice. A barista approached the absurdly tiny, circular table with two steaming cups. Pat Robertson flew into a rage, hurling his cup to the floor. The coffee splashed onto the barista’s leg and she screamed as he stood up and punched her as hard as could in the face. Her belly was swollen. As the fist made its impact, she went into a contraction.
“You…unholy…fat…whore.”
She quivered at his feet and God distractedly began to file his nails.
“Do you know who I am? Do you?! Do know who this is?!”
Short, stubby fingers gestured frantically in God’s direction.
“We’re sitting right here! Right here! Why the heck would we want ‘to-go’ cups? Why?! This is a ceramic-mug-only zone, you harlot!”
The barista’s body began to heave itself involuntarily into the floor tiles. She was going into labor. Pat Robertson stood over her and smirked until it dawned on him.
“Oh my God!”
God winked and coughed lightly into his sleeve. A hurricane hit the gulf coast of the United States.
“I mean, oh my goodness, this woman isn’t fat! She’s with child! A child! The baby must be saved from the filth that is her adult body!”
Pat Robertson firmly planted a black dress shoe in the barista’s face for leverage as he reached down and jammed a pudgy arm between her legs. Her nose broke under the enormity of his weight. He farted again but didn’t have time to savor the effect. There was a child to save.
“Is there a doctor in the house?! A cobbler with a shoehorn? A butcher to slice open this obscene, uncovered belly?! There’s a wonderful, pure, ray of light being ejected from the vulgar inner depths of this whore of Babylon! If we can just cut her open, it won’t have to pass through her Canal of Sin!”
Light-hearted bemusement spread across God’s face and He rose from the table, approaching a sixteen year old who scribbled dramatically in her journal at the next table. He winked again and she looked up at Him and blushed.
“Watcha writing ‘bout, baby?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Life. A lot’s been going on…”
God sat down at her side and kindly took her pen hand into His own.
“I know. Your parents' divorce. The pain. No one understands. They never do, do they?”
The girl giggled and looked away, flushed. “How do you know?”
“Because I’m God. Have you ever tried pure MDMA?”
The girl rolled her big, blue eyes and looked down bashfully.
“Well, yeah, duh. Who, like, hasn’t? And say, man, what’s up with the moustache…”
God stroked it and leaned into her, kissing her forehead ever so gently.
“Thigh tickler…”
The barista was dead in a puddle of blood and afterbirth. Pat Robertson clutched the crying newborn to his chest and beamed proudly.
“Someone bring me a spork! I must cut the umbilical chord!”
God sneezed and Israeli soldiers gunned down three Palestinian children. He blew His nose into a monogrammed handkerchief and a suicide bomber retaliated, blowing up a bus in downtown Tel Aviv. Pat Robertson sawed away at the chord until it split. He spanked the bright red, screaming baby and blew air into its lungs.
“Alright, kid, here’s some bootstraps.”
He shoved two long strips of stretchable fabric embellished with crosses and Nike swoosh logos into the infant’s trembling hand. They fell to the floor.
“You’re on your own now. I’ll see to it that you get your bible and gun license in the mail. Keep it sin-free, now, ‘kay?”
Pat Robertson dropped the baby and it’s head shattered against the tile. God didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were shut while the girl slid her lips up and down the shaft of His swollen phallus. When He came, it stopped raining for five minutes in Seattle.
“Well, God, looks like another a uneventful Sunday in Arlington. Other then my selfless heroism, of course.”
God looked over at Pat Robertson with sleepy eyes. His moustache bristled as the teenaged girl rose to her seat, dabbing at the sides of her mouth with a cup sleeve. God cleared his throat to speak and a plane crashed into the Empire State Building.
“You said it, Patty-boy. Let’s get out of here. Next Sunday?”
Pat Robertson farted and sniffed his armpit aggressively.
“Next Sunday, big guy.”
God and Pat Robertson interlocked arms and skipped out of the coffee shop, whistling a chipper, upbeat rendition of “Amazing Grace” as they went. At the counter, three solitary figures sipped Chai tea and watched them go. Jesus spoke first:
“My dad’s sure been an asshole since he started hanging out with that Pat guy. I think he’s a bad influence.”
“Yeah, man, fuck that guy,” said Mohammed.
Buddha took a long, thoughtless sip and smiled wryly.
It was a lazy Sunday in Arlington, Virginia and Pat Robertson sat down for his weekly latte with God. God was growing a moustache. He was getting on in years and figured he’d go for the Tom Sellek look, maybe bag him a younger chick, get her pregnant, send the earth another messiah. He frantically typed into his laptop and frowned.
“Hey, Patty-boy, you have a cool Facebook page. Where did you find all of those stills you uploaded from Mel Gibson’s flick about my son?”
Pat Robertson farted silently and loosened his belt. The scent drifted up around his quivering, hairless frame like a pungent air born stew. He sat in the vapors and grinned smugly.
“I dunno, an intern did it. Seriously, though, God, to hell with this species. I tried to tell ‘em the deal about the homosexuals and the Jews. No dice. Why, I’d be willing to bet today’s ‘contributions’ double-or-nothin’ that right now, at this exact second, there’s a hooked-nosed heathen munchin’ on a kosher hotdog whilst having his brown-eye thoroughly explored by the tongue of a hot, young rabbi…it’s disgusting. And don’t even get me started about the Islamo-dyke agenda…”
“Yep…”
God’s eyes glazed over and He distractedly picked through His new moustache with a fine-toothed comb. He coughed into His sleeve and an earthquake hit the Philippines. No one in Arlington seemed to notice. A barista approached the absurdly tiny, circular table with two steaming cups. Pat Robertson flew into a rage, hurling his cup to the floor. The coffee splashed onto the barista’s leg and she screamed as he stood up and punched her as hard as could in the face. Her belly was swollen. As the fist made its impact, she went into a contraction.
“You…unholy…fat…whore.”
She quivered at his feet and God distractedly began to file his nails.
“Do you know who I am? Do you?! Do know who this is?!”
Short, stubby fingers gestured frantically in God’s direction.
“We’re sitting right here! Right here! Why the heck would we want ‘to-go’ cups? Why?! This is a ceramic-mug-only zone, you harlot!”
The barista’s body began to heave itself involuntarily into the floor tiles. She was going into labor. Pat Robertson stood over her and smirked until it dawned on him.
“Oh my God!”
God winked and coughed lightly into his sleeve. A hurricane hit the gulf coast of the United States.
“I mean, oh my goodness, this woman isn’t fat! She’s with child! A child! The baby must be saved from the filth that is her adult body!”
Pat Robertson firmly planted a black dress shoe in the barista’s face for leverage as he reached down and jammed a pudgy arm between her legs. Her nose broke under the enormity of his weight. He farted again but didn’t have time to savor the effect. There was a child to save.
“Is there a doctor in the house?! A cobbler with a shoehorn? A butcher to slice open this obscene, uncovered belly?! There’s a wonderful, pure, ray of light being ejected from the vulgar inner depths of this whore of Babylon! If we can just cut her open, it won’t have to pass through her Canal of Sin!”
Light-hearted bemusement spread across God’s face and He rose from the table, approaching a sixteen year old who scribbled dramatically in her journal at the next table. He winked again and she looked up at Him and blushed.
“Watcha writing ‘bout, baby?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Life. A lot’s been going on…”
God sat down at her side and kindly took her pen hand into His own.
“I know. Your parents' divorce. The pain. No one understands. They never do, do they?”
The girl giggled and looked away, flushed. “How do you know?”
“Because I’m God. Have you ever tried pure MDMA?”
The girl rolled her big, blue eyes and looked down bashfully.
“Well, yeah, duh. Who, like, hasn’t? And say, man, what’s up with the moustache…”
God stroked it and leaned into her, kissing her forehead ever so gently.
“Thigh tickler…”
The barista was dead in a puddle of blood and afterbirth. Pat Robertson clutched the crying newborn to his chest and beamed proudly.
“Someone bring me a spork! I must cut the umbilical chord!”
God sneezed and Israeli soldiers gunned down three Palestinian children. He blew His nose into a monogrammed handkerchief and a suicide bomber retaliated, blowing up a bus in downtown Tel Aviv. Pat Robertson sawed away at the chord until it split. He spanked the bright red, screaming baby and blew air into its lungs.
“Alright, kid, here’s some bootstraps.”
He shoved two long strips of stretchable fabric embellished with crosses and Nike swoosh logos into the infant’s trembling hand. They fell to the floor.
“You’re on your own now. I’ll see to it that you get your bible and gun license in the mail. Keep it sin-free, now, ‘kay?”
Pat Robertson dropped the baby and it’s head shattered against the tile. God didn’t seem to notice. His eyes were shut while the girl slid her lips up and down the shaft of His swollen phallus. When He came, it stopped raining for five minutes in Seattle.
“Well, God, looks like another a uneventful Sunday in Arlington. Other then my selfless heroism, of course.”
God looked over at Pat Robertson with sleepy eyes. His moustache bristled as the teenaged girl rose to her seat, dabbing at the sides of her mouth with a cup sleeve. God cleared his throat to speak and a plane crashed into the Empire State Building.
“You said it, Patty-boy. Let’s get out of here. Next Sunday?”
Pat Robertson farted and sniffed his armpit aggressively.
“Next Sunday, big guy.”
God and Pat Robertson interlocked arms and skipped out of the coffee shop, whistling a chipper, upbeat rendition of “Amazing Grace” as they went. At the counter, three solitary figures sipped Chai tea and watched them go. Jesus spoke first:
“My dad’s sure been an asshole since he started hanging out with that Pat guy. I think he’s a bad influence.”
“Yeah, man, fuck that guy,” said Mohammed.
Buddha took a long, thoughtless sip and smiled wryly.