Warning: Sexually Explicit
Mr. Beck, I saw you on Fox News the other day and I think you’re hot. Mr. sweaty palms, will you be my sweet Valentine?
I love your blue eyes, twinkling blue spheres bobbing in bullet holes, sweet lips, tender tummy wummy. I tend to agree you are literally a goddess, but only in the sense we are all goddesses, i.e. tiny transexual beings with ideas and hefty hips, arthritis and sepsis. The key, Mr. Beck, is the value of isms, social or otherwise.
Did you know 1.5 million Jews found solace in ditches, each one individually shot right through the skull with a bullet named anti-Semitism? This was Eastern Europe years before the invention of mass cremations, irrational exuberance and blond ambition in the West.
Are you a natural blond? Do the furnishings match?
“I saw with my own eyes how a child was killed,” the former child said.
I am Almost Dorothy, Mr. Beck, a fata morgana and hellraiser, a witch child that would have been burnt at the stake in another century, the one in the ditch. Questions: Have you ever been lynched? Have you ever read the Christian Bible in Greek or in any language at all? Have you ever hunted a mouse from its home? Been gay-bashed? Have you ever counted the stars in the sky just before a tropical storm?
Show me your friends, Mr. Beck, and I will show you nihilism. Show me the woman at your side and I will show you my libretto dedicated to Mars between the sheets, my little Trojan warrior.
But, seriously, Emperor Beck, I’m not talking about condoms or the power of history. I’m talking about the power of words and the thorn in your side that’s also a thorn in mine. I know you fear black men but I’m more afraid of cats, not the musical.
You would probably label me a communist, brand a hammer and sickle on my ass, but I like pain. You know I read Marx when I was six and Adam Smith at nine. All I want you to know is that liberalism is just a form of tolerance, a respect for the rights of cats and mice, tits and tats. I also love Mickey Maus and Garfield too.
Mr. Beck, show me your wrist and I will show you how many cuts it will take or how tight the rope should be.
Mr. Beck, measure it from A – Z, shaft to stump, nut to bolt. I want to determine if you are for real. I want to know if you are bigger than the universe, the almighty answer to everything that is missing from television, a neutron superstar. I just want to know if you are really Winnie the Pooh or just the boy dragging Winnie through the Pooh.
Mr. Beck, you screw with logic like an addict is screwed by a hypodermic needle.
“I saw with my own eyes how a child was killed,” she said.
I want to avoid attacking you ad hominem but I know you will appreciate it when I say you’re crème brûlée. Et tu, brute, I know. All hail to this and that and fudgery and grudge. I know you are just as afraid of death as I am, the ultimate unconcealed weapon.
Mr. Beck, I’ll defend your right to speak, to spread voodoo and baba ganoush on pita bread and veggies. You are not a racist, I admit. I am. If you were, you would have the ability to distinguish locomotion from nuclear fission, sex workers from sex slaves, the invisible hand from the invisible.