The Konformist

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January 2002

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McHajj:

Part II

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!

 

Joe Stalin nudged Ronald McDonald, grateful that the clown had the chutzpah to invite him to his stag party. The cadre was a bit beaten and weather worn after the China tour. Mao never even showed. Ronald then made the announcement while passing through Cambodia that he was to marry. So a stop was decided, in Berlin, to celebrate before going back state side to the jubilant swarms.

On a stained and battered movie screen that had seen the likes of Caligari, Dr. Mabuse and Nosferatu, a flick starring Goddess Kali and the Virgin Mary played, for the umpteenth time that evening. In it, the Pope, all dolled up in a leather Teddy once owned by Madonna and clutching onto a sequin covered Crozier, watched the gals carpet munch each other. Kali's garland of severed heads, consisting of card carrying members of the United Nations trembled as she climaxed: each head speaking in tongues while an entourage of angels above listened in ears. Mission accomplished, the Virgin appeared demure, scanning her Rolodex, trying to decide which country next to infiltrate with Marian visions via NASA holography. Star Wars indeed.

"Jimmy Swaggart....eat your evangelical heart out.", was the Pope's only line. He delivered it deadpan enough to pass, but who pays attention to dialogue in skin flicks?

Down below, the cadre of commercial icons took on a luminous hue in the porn film light.

Pol Pot announced that the cake would soon be wheeled out. The Marlboro Men tossed some confetti. Joe Camel popped some champagne. All the lights were turned off and silence ensued. A Menorah floated in the darkness beneath an exit sign dimmed below code. It hovered around the theater, leaving sevenfold trails of candle light, which streaked and then formed into Hebrew letters : yod-he-vau-he, UFO's far more convincing than anything Spielberg has cinematically conjured for the masses. The candle flames/letters grew brighter causing the darkness to finally yield up its secret: A Golem had been guiding the Menorah all along. Instead of seven candle sticks there was a septet of finely molded, perfectly uniform wax Porky Pigs with wicks protruding from their snouts. But were they really 100% wax? They sizzled and crackled like some kind of animal fat, a fat which ran down and melted into the cracks in the Golem's thick earthy flesh. Ronald climbed up on the stage, made a wish and blew out the candles and chuckled. But an actor dressed up like Rabbi Loew came out of the wings and chided him. It wasn't a god damned birthday party. Ronald chuckled, bore the brunt of the catcalls from his fellow icons and signaled for the real cake to be wheeled out. An angel handed the Golem a trumpet and noticed the clayey android's breastplate: A Masonic pyramid with an eye in the apex.

Pol Pot signaled his military band to start playing along and the sounds of a million Cambodian skulls cracking in a hydraulic vice washed over the theater like a sonic flood. Joe Stalin wept as the ossified sonority echoed over the Siberian veldt of his soul.

The Golem sounded the first note on his horn, thus breaking Seal Number One: From out of the cake popped Barbara Walters in a bikini. There she was, the carnal frosting on the cake of test market destiny. Soon Berlin Gynecologists dressed like the sorrowful Young Werther, rushed in to see if the Hymen was still intact. It was. The real Mecca was finally reached. All were glad. A sacred pilgrimage spot was declared. Soon they'd be flocking to ABC's New York T.V. Studios and not to cleanse themselves of iniquities with the leftover bath water of Hugh Downs.

A mini-resurrection ensued in the cemeteries surrounding Berlin. All the young men Goethe conned into suicide rose from their mother's graves and began heading towards the theater. Would Gabriel lead the way for them? Or would it be Heine? Maybe Kafka himself would show them the short cuts through Berlin's sewage labyrinths? No, no compasses... they honed in merely by instinct. Once they arrived they were amiably greeted, but relegated to the last rows where the footlights from the stage barely shone.

The film ran again. Yet this time three dimensional like a holographic dodecahedron. Each facet contained an image, a precisely focused promise of salvation. On one facet of the screen was the land of the Houris, on another facet: the New Jerusalem, on another facet: Ashtar Command and other cinematic variations of the Chosen People Syndrome. Each promised land refracted kaliedoscopically like a disco light in which that scientologist John Travolta danced under so soulessly. The dodecahedron floated higher and higher up into the rafters and out through the roof and hovered over Berlin. Soon there were Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, Hindus all flocking to take in their personal slice of the flick.

Inside, the Rabbi pulled the plug on the projector and searched within the machine for what could possibly fabricate such a hideous illusion. All he found was a crystal, where the projector bulb should have been, a crystal holding the form of some kind of eschatological fractal yet to blossom.

The Marlboro Men ignored the No-Smoking signs and lit up. Barbara and Ronald did a little tango up on the stage in celebration of their union. No one would arrest them. No one would ask for their papers. All was steamy, sultry collusion across the board, that evening. There would be good stories to tell , yes, back on the range, of the strange pariahs abroad.

 

to be continued

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