I want Pat Robertson dead. Not merely “dead,” however, but pulled from his bed, shaved from head to toe, dipped in boiling water to loosen the flesh, beaten about the face and neck with a nail board, force-fed the liquified organs of aborted fetuses, gently stroked with a cheese grater, and frequently introduced to brass knuckles studded with screws. Writhing in righteous agony, he is then to be nailed to a door, peppered with buckshot, eviscerated, carved, and gloriously pounded with pillowcases filled with doorknobs. With one eye left open, he will be forced to endure the savage rape of his wife, preferably with the majestic tool of a black Marxist, while his children will be stuffed into pornography-laden trash bins, set aflame, and rolled down a hill with an angle of no less than 45 degrees, where they will be met by a pool full of sharks, alligators, piranhas, and the bloated corpses of one hundred random Americans who have professed a love of Christ. If the beast still retains a mere breath of life, he is to be pounded on the back of the skull with a hammer, where each blow will be followed by the pitiless cry, “Your mother sucks cocks in hell!” Then, and only then, is he to be administered a glass of water, allowed a five minute break, perhaps have his brow dabbed with a moist cloth, and finally be returned to a tub full of concertina wire, grain alcohol, Andrea Dworkin books and the broiled scrotums of ExxonMobil ‘s board of directors. And if that doesn’t kill off the bastard, we’ll let Jews touch his grandchildren until he croaks from disgust.
Those in the know need not ask why I demand such a punishment for the most vile man currently walking upright, but the urgency of the request has been pushed forward by Pat Robertson’s latest lapse into retardation: that the Pennsylvania town that recently dismissed its pro-“intelligent design” school board will no longer receive God’s protection. In fact, pain and misery are inevitable for these heathens, and they need not seek the Holy Father’s loving care in case of emergency. It’s a tired, pointless exercise to continually argue with those for whom “evidence” is a book of lies, superstition, and fables too ridiculous to meet with Aesop’s approval, but each time men like Robertson insist that a so-called “loving” God places conditions on his grace, it must be addressed with the mockery and calls for violence that such insanity warrants. And for a man who calls for the assassinations of foreign leaders, begs his God to kill Supreme Court justices, asks that hurricanes be redirected toward gay friendly locales, and blames terrorism on women who have the audacity to rebel against being legally defined as chattel, such derisive tones appear necessary with an alarming frequency.
It’s an amazing statement, even for Pat, and we can only assume that he would turn ashen in the face of evidence pointing to the fact that even among the god-fearing, death still follows life. In his magical world of make-believe, those who pray, love Jesus, and abide by his rules and regulations live well into their 100s, never encounter disease, never lose a child, never scrape a knee, never encounter adverse weather conditions, and never meet with a problem that appears unsolvable. There is a higher law, he asserts, and if the Constitution is ever in the way of chugging God’s galactic-schlong, that document should happily cede authority. For all the judicial activism that they decry on what appears to be a nightly basis, it seems to escape their attention that outright nullification — the law is only to be obeyed when it is convenient — is the cry of the anarchist, not those who preach order. But these silly folks in Pennsylvania have somehow managed to ignore the godly whispers in the night, and seem to be content with putting their fellow citizens at risk. Let no one doubt that during the next election cycle in that area, there will be at least one candidate who lambasts his opponent for “abandoning the folks to the will of Satan.” I’m sure the speech is already written. And in Karl Rove’s back pocket.
I long ago gave up hoping that the strikingly obvious secularism of the Constitution would be respected, let alone defended with pride and honor, so Pat’s abhorrent oinks merely add to the overall din. You’ll hear shouts and murmurs about his “fringe” comments, but I have no doubt that in quiet moments, most Americans believe much the same as this particularly demented Southern troglodyte. Some will even claim that God would never willingly destroy the damned, but see no contradiction when they ask that same being for protection against evil and the pitfalls of life. For if God bends the universe to his will and is therefore responsible for everything in it, why would he need to prevent that which he created in the first place? It’s a juvenile conversation — and one I settled in my own mind back when I stalked the halls of my high school — but it needs to be stressed that prayer itself is an acknowledgment that God is impotent at his core, which is the first step in understanding that he doesn’t even exist in the first place. But that’s water under the bridge; it’s something no one with even a shred of intellect continues to wrestle with. Religion is illogical, God is a cruel invention, and faith the surest sign that mental illness has ravaged the brain beyond repair. Settled. Done. Now is not the time for such talks; now is the time for action. Which brings me back to my original point: kill Pat Robertson. Now, without delay. He has forfeited his right to life. I’ve been kind enough to include instructions, so get to it. It’s on me.