The Konformist

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April 2002

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McHajj:

Part XVII

by

Jaye C. Beldo

Netnous@Aol.Com

 

*Please note: The McHajj series you are about to read came to me directly via a series of disturbing dreams, dreams which continue to haunt me at present. These dreams, more like interminable nightmares, have resulted from life long exposure to advertising in the relentlessly predatory, capitalistic society that I'm haphazardly posited in. In order to deal with the severe psychological trauma such exposure has caused me, I have translated what my unconscious mind has directly conveyed to me into the story below. It is the only way I know how to cope with the constant trespassing into my psyche by the corporate powers which loom about in a most menacing and merciless fashion. Thank you for understanding my dilemma. BTW: I am currently starting a twelve step support group for those who may believe that they are victims of a similar kind of corporate psychological terrorism. I will provide more information in the near future...if there is one. Thank you!

P.S.: Part XVI of the McHajj series is available only through snail mail. I sent an imaginal version of it through the imaginal internet. Those of you that are telepathically tuned in should have gotten it by now.

 

The Pillsbury Doughboy genuflects in front of the Cardinal who parts his spandex canonicals for easy oral access. Readily erect, he commands his makeshift altar boy to come forth. Having no jaw muscles to speak of, the Doughboy doesn't have to struggle much to deep throat the Cardinal. He fellates gracefully, responsibly.

"Don't swallow my son. In the name of the lord....don't swallow." The Cardinal closes his eyes, enjoying his carnal bliss, unabashed, in front of the congregation. He is tempted to squeeze the Doughboy in his bare hands, but refrains from the Vatican approved albeit sadistic reflex.

"....And don't you think for one moment that this scandalous behavior on my part is mere sleight of hand. There is virtually nothing else relevant for the front page of our daily newspapers these days. Do you understand?"

Unable to answer, the Doughboy takes the sanctified membrane virilis in deeper but his nostrils are savagely pinched together, causing him to gag, thus tightening his throat muscles and thus causing the Cardinal to come on cue.

"Am I alive or am I dead?" Osama bin Laden says, bowing to a statue of Mother Mary high above the altar. "Only my hair stylist knows for sure I suppose."

"Who cares? Especially now that We the People have a much more serious threat of Pedophilia Terrorism plaguing our land. I've alerted the Pentagon that the very next fondling and/or misuse of statutory genitals by a Catholic priest will cause World War III." George W. proclaims.

"Is this the go ahead to microchip all the Catholics priests's testicles?

Even the pope's? Should make the consumer confidence index rise a bit. Enough to get America ready and willing for mass inoculations later on." An IBM executive corpse exhumed and imported from Germany proclaims.

"Now's the time to invest in Homeland Security." Ivan Boevsky whispers to Ariel Sharon who is too busy caressing Arafat's vulnerable thigh to care about the insider information.

"Zion is not a state. It is a place within everyone's heart."

"Don't swallow." The Cardinal forces the Doughboy over to a basin filled with anthrax powder. "Or you'll go to hell like all the other sinners that have dared to violate this church." He holds the Doughboy up to the basin. The Doughboy vomits up the holy semen from his sullied esophagus and anoints the sacred, bio-manufactured anthrax within.

"At least I'm not vomiting semen on a Daisy Cutter. No telling what kind of earthquake would rock the church if that happened." The Doughboy mutters to himself, a tear in his eye.

Altar boys begin mixing the concoction into dough and stuffing it into envelopes addressed to Peter Jennings, Tom Brokaw and Dan Rather.

Ronald McDonald processes down the center aisle, clutching onto an 8 mm movie projector. He sets the projector on the altar and plugs it in. The movie, projected upon the mylar rood screen, is most revealing: Enron executives walk hand in hand through the fog of America's amnesia only to discover Charles Keating and Oliver North stuffing bales of child pornography and laundered money into underground vaults in Colorado near a Coor's Brewery. Attorney General John Ashcroft holds a lantern and leads the group down into the vault's secret inner recesses where they discover Vatican bankers hanging their own laundered money out to dry. Colonel Powell is trapped in an Iron Maiden with a bas reliefed Martha Stewart, quaintly painted on the lid. The lid closes. Purple colored blood oozes out and pools around the Enron CEOs's shoes.They leave footprints behind as they exit, much like the ones that O.J. Simpson did so very long ago in a far distant eon.

The film jams in the gate. The heat from the projector bulb bubbles the celluloid beyond recognition. Ronald McDonald starts sobbing. "No one remembers, no one cares." The Marlboro Man climbs up on the altar and pats him on the back and helps him pull the film out of the projector. He pulls some scotch tape out of a snuff can and tries splicing the film back together.

"Wasn't that..." Kim Jong II begins to ask, squirming in the back pew with arms crossed. "... Jiang Zemin's love nest that we just saw?"

"Oh I wouldn't go that far. " Reverend Sun Myung Moon says, covering his face with the latest edition of the Washington Post. On the cover are detailed schematics describing China's involvement in 9-11. "It could have been the tunnels under the McMartin pre-school for all we know."

The Altar Boys grow impatient and begin handing the stamped and seventh sealed envelopes out to the congregation.

"May God love a Texan...." George W. says, examining an envelope. "...this one is addressed to Fatima. Who in hell is that?"

"That's mine. Give it to me." Osama bin Laden demands, pointing a .45 Magnum at George. "Only Islamics have true 20/20 Marian vision. You're blind as a bat on the Isle of Cyprus when it comes to prophecy. Now give it to me....."

"Now...now." The satisfied Cardinal reassures the congregation, speaking into a microphone. "We must not forget the Repentance Option the Pope has so catholically offered us at the recent summit meeting. We only need to be forgiving of each oth..."

Osama aims at the Cardinal's heart and pulls the trigger. The Cardinal collapses on the stage.

"Am I John Wilkes Booth or am I Gavrilo Princip? Am I Sirhan Sirhan or am I Lee Harvey Oswald? Am I Mark David Chapman or am I John Hinckley?" Osama ponders with futility, thus dropping the gun.

Yet no one rises to seize him, so stunned by the event they are. Osama's identity crises that is.

 

To be continued

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