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An oily religious dream
By Saul Landau
In September, the body
count and property damage assessment mounted steadily along the Gulf Coast.
After watching TV news images of the carnage, the Rev. Jerry Pat Flatulence had
one of his many epiphanies – after eating his dinner in his home in
Lynchemhighburg, Virginia.
Millions of religious
broadcast watchers knew Jerry Pat’s fleshy cheeks, impish eyes and beatific
smile. Over the decades, he had saved countless souls for Christ and
coincidentally collected hundreds of millions of dollars in Jesus’ name.
Even before becoming one of
George W. Bush’s spiritual advisers, Jerry Pat worked TV miracle cures, helping
the blind to see and the lame to walk. Cynics said he used actors instead of
real people, but true believers maintained their faith: “Hallelujah!”
Indeed, Bush himself took
the Reverend’s cure for alcoholism: abstinence, physical exercise, video golf
and prayer -- infinitely preferable to going forever to AA meetings. Most of
those “recovering alcoholics” did not exactly fit into the president’s
family circle.
Like Bush, Jerry Pat
claimed that God had spoken to him. When catastrophic events occurred,
Jerry Pat orated to his flock at the Absolute Baptist Church. The TV
audience watched the same sermon.
“God has punished the USA,
which has become a haven for homosexuality, atheism, and false religions,” Jerry
Pat said he got this from God, who had also inflicted the events of 9/11 on New
Yorkers because they had an unusually high level of devil’s advocates. “The ACLU
has more members than in all of southern Virginia,” he announced. No one
inquired about the source of his figures.
Indeed, Jerry Pat had made
a worldwide reputation for saying unpleasant things about others – especially
Muslims. Logically, his fame spread to Israel, although it disturbed him that
the bearded, black-clad men who applauded enthusiastically also talked to each
other or slept through his entire sermon. But they did contribute handsomely to
his various causes. He did, after all, support Israel 100% even though he had
warned his flock to be cautious before doing business with “those people whose
prayers God does not hear.”
On this September day, the
TV news images had upset him. Bleeding bodies from suicide bombings in the
Middle East and bloated ones floating in the flood waters of Louisiana and Texas
sent Jerry Pat to the dinner table, a place to calm upset nerves. He consumed
three portions of his wife’s extra fried chicken, two sides of baked oyster
pie with cream and two helpings of whiskey pudding.
Coping with indigestion, he
prayed in his study. He requested the Good Lord for stomach relief because the
Alka Seltzer didn’t seem to help. As he mumbled his final prayers, he dropped
into a heavy sleep on his comfortable couch. Soon, he began to dream…
A stormy black cloud formed
over his head, followed by blinding rays of lightning and deafening thunder.
Wait!
The thunder disguised a
booming voice, a basso profundo exhorting. “Follow the oily brick road,” it
said. “Then shall you know your transgressions.”
In the dream, he stared at
the cloud, waiting for more explanation. In the past, he had not exactly had
such direct conversations with God. Rather, he reconstructed what he thought God
should have said to him. Jerry Pat was not the kind of man to quibble over small
details.
But this dream frightened
him and he could not force himself to wake up. The big voice belched loudly
again. “The oily brick road. Your president has lied in order to wage war in my
name. Your disciple in the White House has raised my ire. Now I have shown him
what I can do to his oil. Talk to him.”
The dream took on
nightmarish qualities. He awakened with a start. Did the Lord mean he had sent
Hurricanes Katrina and Rita to wreak havoc on the Louisiana and Texas coasts
because the oil industry does its major drilling and refining there?
In the dream, The Lord
never mentioned abortion, gay marriage, carnality or any of Jerry Pat’s favorite
Godly themes. Only that echoing phrase, “The oily brick road.”
Jerry Pat’s aching stomach
took second place on his bio-discomfort list to his throbbing brain. He picked
up the phone and dialed the special number W had given him in case urgent
messages from above came through.
After a brief and
unpleasant round with Karl Rove, who screened all religious hot line calls, the
familiar voice resonated in the earpiece.
“Flatty,” W said. “How
y’doin?” The Reverend Jerry Pat Flatulence shuddered over the nickname, but he
also knew that you can take Texas out of the boy, but you can’t take the boy out
of Texas – or whatever.
“Mr. President,” he said
hesitatingly, “I have just received a very disturbing message, one that I
believe requires your urgent attention.”
“Is this for real?”
“Mr. President,” Jerry Pat
sad gravely, “this is truly serious.”
Jerry Pat phoned his pilot
and his private jet took him to Washington. Within minutes, Secret Service
agents ushered him into the Oval Office.
The two men fell to their
knees and prayed silently. Jerry Pat’s prayer involved a request: “Please God,
don’t appear ever again in my dream or give me any real messages. Please let me
just keep interpreting what I think you should be telling me rather than what
you really told me in that last dream.”
Bush prayed silently for
peace. “Please God, give me a little peace from that Cindy Sheehan woman
resentful woman whose son died in Iraq and now nags the heck out of me not to
send other mothers’ sons over there. God, you know how difficult it is for me to
deal with death and suffering. Well, strong angry women are even worse. I also
beg you not to hit us with any more hurricanes – at least until I’m out of
office. I really hate going into those places with lots of poor people, dirty,
some ‘em diseased -- especially while I’m on vacation. Well, you know what I
mean God and I await your message, which I hope will come as months of good
weather and success on the battlefields of Iraq and Afghanistan.”
They shook hands after
praying and sipped Diet Pepsi. Jerry Pat related his dream. “This message could
not have been clearer,” he told Bush.
“Heck, Flatty,” Bush
responded, “that’s just one dream. And knowing you, it probably came after you
ate too much of your wife’s home cooking.”
“But, really,” Jerry Pat
pleaded, “the oily brick road message, I couldn’t have invented something like
that.”
“Flatty, we didn’t go to
war for oil. Even though I’m practically sure God told me to invade Iraq and
tell the folks at home that it was about weapons of mass destruction and all
that. He knew that Saddam was sitting on all that oil and that Saddam didn’t
deserve all that oil and that we good Christians did. So, go on home and relax,
Flatty. And tell the folks out in TV land that they should keep the pressure up
on those liberals and Democrats on abortion and taxes and homosexual marriages.”
The Reverend Flatulence
returned to Lynchemhighburg. Depressed about his inability to convince Bush, he
feasted on his wife’s cooking and again he dreamed. This time an even angrier
bass voice burst through the dark cloud.
“You have failed me,” it
said. “You and your disciple who says the stupidest prayers in the world will
slip on the oily brick road. It will lead you to your doom.”
Jerry Pat woke up,
frightened. He consulted with Robbem “Robby” Paterson, a fellow televangelist,
who shared his elite status – at the bank, anyway. Robby had become a realist
after getting caught on several occasions with underage hookers. After the third
bust he vowed to God never to get caught again.
Robby had a way of putting
Jerry Pat at ease. “Flatty,” he said, imitating the President, “what you gonna
believe, all the money you got in the bank or a bad dream about oil? If God
wanted to send you a message, your stock would go down. If he wants to send Bush
a message, his approval ratings would go down.”
“But they have gone down.”
“Yes, but if He really
wanted to send Bush a message, He’d put those twin girls of his in the
centerfold of Playboy. If God wanted to take his anger out on Bush, the
cover of Playboy would read ‘A Tale of Two Bushes’ – heh, heh.” Jerry Pat
smiled. He thanked Robby and then phoned the White House. “Mr. President, things
are alright. You don’t have to follow the oily brick road. I mean…” He thought.
“I mean watch your daugh…” He hung up. He no longer knew what he meant. It was
all so oily.
In 1982 Landau made QUEST
FOR POWER, Sketches of the New American Right, starring Jerry Falwell.
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