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Genesis 20:13

By | 2013-10-10T09:00:00-04:00 October 10th, 2013|Opinions, Parting Glances|

Parting Glances

1. In the year of the mongrel beast of war endlessly chasing his flea-bitten tail, a prophet of restless dudes scaled Mt. Rush-no-more seeking counsel with the electrifying powers that be.
2. Thus spake the Prophet Dude. “Eternal CEOs of centuries flushed down the drain of time. Ye who have dazzled and conned naive humankind with awe-inspiring displays triune, quadraphonic to behold, hear my humble (but mainly cool) complaint.
3. “Yea, verily! Ye who made the sun stand still in its skyward climb. Ye who made Noah’s ark a crib for lowly ass and bellowing pachyderm (our present pets). Ye who turned well water into Palestinian Perrier. Give us thy hands-on blessings of total space out for this the Age of Lukewarm Tea Baggery.
4. “Give us a push-button rod to conjure with, a change-channel staff to comfort us. Give us thy constant rerun soaps. Gridiron images of total adoration. Placebo messages of world dominion. Free-floating, whiz-bang, be-here-now, do-whatever-thou-wilt.”
5. Then atop Mt. Rush-no-more spoke a voice from a burning bush, unlike any theocratic tumbleweed past, present, or future. [Annotator’s note: that is until after April 14, 2013 tax time]. “O lowly assembly line kinda guy!” it said, echoing like ten thousand autoharps in perfect E-flat Pluribus Unison.
6. “May We, the autonomous Big Three, presume, that thou art not content to keep sabbath, ritual, holy day? Lease and buy our chariots, used and otherwise? Kiddest thou us not?”
7. Then answered the Prophet Dude (sun-glassing his eyes for the sight of the day-glo, smoldering shrub was too much for mere mortal sight), “These are trying, ball-busting times. Years of zillion dollar debt. Trickle-down disaster. (All knowing Big-Three, surely thou getteth da’ pitcher?) Grant us, thy hallowed hocus pokus to help us make it through the night.
8. “Yea, and howdy doody!” he continueth. “Ye whom the Angels, Cardinals, and Cubs praise sky high, ad infinitum, ad nauseum, let our three-score-ten (so short a bluenote gig) be sweet and 24/7 entertained, in this bad-ass epoch of mumble-grumble, wife-swap politics, and navel fuzzing. Give us top booking. Amen.”
9. So moved by this bogue supplication, the burning bush toned down its thousand points of light, and in an omnipotent, omnipresent, omnivorous, omnibus, oh-my-gosh voice spoke forth again. “O Prophet Dude, we, the autocratic Trinity Broadcast Network, think thou hast indeed a legitimate axel to grind. Take, then, our magic buyout. With kith and kin go raiseth hell.
10. “Better still. Many are these cellphone charms to chose. (One model never fits all ears). Yea, truly, Prophet Dude, these gizmos are prestidigitation! Images. Tunes. Eden postures. Instant hand-held, high-watt joy. Be now gods like Us! Never bored. Wide awake. Pandora power mad. (But these new add-on, commandments, O Prophet Dude, must be obeyed.)
11. “Make thou no You Tube graven images. No iPod XXXing during prime time. TXT us when in TBL. (See if indeed We Three give a damn.) And always recharge in an holy socket. No AC-DC hanky panky. Over and never out. Pax! Nix ObamaScare. Amen!”

About the Author:

Charles Alexander