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One Nation Under God
I had a terrific Independence Day under our God and Flag at the park. Despite the presence of the Motherland Security Force, our crowd was milling about anxiously because of the upgraded terrorist threat. But our enormous Flag mounted over the stage had a calming effect as we awaited the arrival of Father Babouin.
We had a big turnout out because we resent threats against this great nation of ours. Our nation is the leader of world civilization, the epitome of freedom and equality, against whom an attack is an attack on civilization itself. As a matter of fact, our nation is the mother of equality and liberty. Therefore nobody had better mess with our fraternity. We may be feeling a bit anxious, but we also feel belligerent when confronted by aliens who are jealous of our liberty and equality.
I certainly am glad I showed up at the park, and especially so since I made the evening news! As I was waiting for Father Babouin to show up, a reporter asked me, "How much liberty are you willing to give up to fight terrorism?"
"Plenty, as long as I am behind the biggest guns and have the true faith," I confidently replied.
"And what faith is that?" the reporter quizzed.
"The land-based faith of old-time religion. The man-based faith of the mother (expletive deleted) liberals is what got us into this mess."
Someone applauded - bystanders had gathered around to catch the interview. The reporter knew he had caught a live one. Two other reporters showed up with cameramen and poked microphones into my face; one asked, "Do you believe in our Father Babouin's Jesus?"
"Of course I do! The real Jesus is my political hero! But the liberal Jesus is dead as we can see by his followers who are running around doing whatever they want to do in the name of love. But we know love just does not cut it unless it is rooted in hatred of enemies. We must hate our enemies if we are to love our friends, and..."
At that point the interview came to an abrupt end. Father Babouin had entered the park with a caravan of armored cars. All eyes were on him as he mounted the stage - it was surrounded by clean-cut men packing heat. We cheered during his grand entrance. I felt my knees buckling; I wanted to fall on them and pray. I am an intellectual when alone; my inner intellectual does not want me on my knees; but, to hell with those intellectual bastards and their Matriotism, I thought, as Father Babouin waited for the cheering to abate.
My heart thrilled as our national Father began to speak. Chills ran up and down my spine with his smooth phrases; the hairs on my arm stood up when he enunciated certain key words. However, for some strange reason, I cannot remember any of the speech except: "Patriotism is a living faith! We love our Motherland! And when she is attacked we love her even more!" I heard a someone scream, "Thank God! For we know what the mother (expletive deleted) liberals want to do to their motherland!"
I had seen Father Babouin on television many times and I considered his image to be enormously persuasive, but his charisma in person astounded me. I felt my anxieties dissipate under his hypnotic gaze. I felt I was being cleansed of all evil, that he was submerging me in loving equality under his awesome stare. Yet I could not bear his look for long because I feared it would turn me into stone. I think the others felt that way too, and were about to panic. Fortunately, our attention was diverted to our enormous Flag. Subdued, we faced the Flag, put our hands over our fluttering hearts to induce a regular beat, and chanted:
"I pledge allegiance to the Flag of the United States of America, and to the Republic for which it stands, one nation, UNDER GOD!, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all!"
Although I am not a liberal, when UNDER GOD! was shouted in unison, I almost had an orgasm. It aroused old associations, memories from my puberty, when the phrase "under God" was inserted in the pledge at my grammar school. Mind you, I prefer not to give away my age because age is generally disrespected in this great nation of ours now that so many mature persons need jobs or more social security benefits, but when I was born again I resolved to make a clean breast of things. Yes, I remember very well when "under God" was inserted into the pledge. How could I forget? And I remember how the brightly colored letters of the alphabet were strung out across the front of the class room. Before we pronounced them one by one, from A to Z, we faced the Flag, put our hands over our hearts, and chanted the pledge of allegiance. I recall it was something we were supposed to do, one of those weird adult things such as saying prayers with your eyes closed and head lowered. We had formerly learned our pledge without "under God", so when we came to that phrase, Teacher would shout out "UNDER GOD" in order to firmly implant it in our young minds.
Remembering "under God" was a hassle at first. I didn't fully understand the implications of "under God" but I knew the phrase had something to do with the god of the Sunday school where I was told, "Jesus loves you." I received the impression people were trying to cheer me up because they really did not love me themselves - but Anne gave me my first kiss, and that was very exciting! I was told heroes won wars "under God." My dad could not afford to buy me a toy machine gun, but I had a cap pistol to shoot virtual "krauts" and "Japs" with, and I progressed over the years to killing virtual "gooks", "chinks", "commie bastards" or just plain "Reds", and by the time President Johnson announced the police action in Vietnam, I was itching to kill "Charlie." Now I hear our current enemies in Afghanistan are "cockroaches." We've got to "exterminate" them in their "roach motels."
My dad survived the wars. He married my mother after her first husband was killed, then she died of polio soon after I was born. Many of my school chums had lost their fathers. But my best friend's father had made it home with some really bad memories, so he committed suicide; then his wife killed herself, and a year later my best friend and his brother hung themselves in the garage. The rest of us kids went on to middle school where a few of us boys made zip guns in the shop. Our mathematics and Latin teacher had been gassed in the war so his face was covered by bumps; he was a very serious man - I did not care for math at all, but Latin was cool. Our geography and science teacher was also our football coach; I liked him because he knew how hard I was trying even though I was a clumsy kid; he showed a few boys what the war was like: he had photographs of Japanese soldiers his platoon had killed and dismembered, placing the private parts in the mouths of the severed heads. However, another teacher was depressed by memories of the surrendering German soldiers his unit murdered after the armistice was announced.
With that in mind along with weekly episodes of my television favorite show, Combat, it is easy to guess what the red, white and blue and "under God" meant to me. I should have went right into the army where I could have done some good for the nation that founded freedom and equality. Instead I wound up on the streets and came under the influence of alcohol, pot and acid, and mother (expletive deleted) liberals. I was an impressionable young man, and my morals were soon perverted. My eagerness to kill enemies for reasons better kept secret changed to aversion to war and disgust with uniforms and flags. I began to believe in miracles: I thought I could change into a liberal and love everybody. Instead of killing Charlie in the jungle, I wound up reading The Ugly American and hanging out with old beatniks, young hippies and yippies. Shortly thereafter, I was tear-gassed by the National Guard during a peace march to the armory. The sight of any national flag still invoked images of death and destruction, ignorance and hypocrisy, but instead of loving those images I hated them. For many years I harbored such evil feelings and led a perverse life of intellectual protest against war and religious nationalism. But some time after the great terrorist attacks, I was saved from my life of sin and brought to the reasonable realization that the territorial imperative must be re-established under the old god of mass terror. Allow me to briefly explain:
I thank God that I walked into that church! By God's providence the Flag of United States was prominently displayed there instead of a crucifix. Prior to the sermon everyone stood up; the pledge of allegiance was recited: two patriotic songs are played. Sinner that I was, I was incensed by the procedure, and when the minister approached the pulpit, I shouted, "Where in hell is the cross of Jesus?"
"Right here," answered the minister, pointing at his heart.
"Well, why don't you take it out of there and put it where we can see it, where it can do us some good, instead of displaying that flag?"
"Jesus is no longer on the cross, and we have faith in the unseen. Please see me later and I will explain this further," the minister said, opening his bible.
"But why are you worshiping Caesar's sign? Is this God's house or Caesar's?" I inquired.
I noticed people around me squirming in their seats. A few people were smiling. A man on my left whispered, "Shut the (expletive deleted) up you (expletive deleted) and get the (expletive deleted) out of here." The minister was visibly annoyed; he obviously wanted to get on with the service. He nodded to someone behind me; they turned out to be security, and they turned me out of church forthwith, one of them bruising my arm. As they literally ran me down the aisle, I made the best scene I could under the circumstances, shouting, "Hypocrites! Where is the cross of Jesus? Hypocrites! Where is the cross of Jesus?"
I was really worked up by the episode, and, even though I had not had a drink for ten years, I thought I would really enjoy a six pack of beer for a change. As I walked to the grocery store, I imagined what I would have said if I had not have been evicted from the church; it would have been a terrific tirade of jeremiads, of that I'm certain. With those thoughts racing through my mind, I got to the grocery store in a jiffy. I grabbed a six-pack of Bud and got in line. A Catholic priest was in front of me, preparing to purchase a case of Heineken and a round of gourmet cheese. A large crucifix with an image of Jesus suffering on it was hanging from a chain about his neck. I was moved to engage him in conversation.
"Father, it's good to see you wearing the cross," I got his attention.
"And it is good to see you. Are you..."
"Protestants do not want to suffer," I discourteously interrupted, wanting to continue my inner tirade, of which he, of course, knew nothing. "They don't show the cross at all, or they won't show Jesus being tortured on it. They prefer to think he's with his dad somewhere, but that somewhere is nowhere to be found on this Earth. Their faith justifies whatever they might want to do until they join their dad in heaven. Protestantism is really liberal atheism. Works are what counts, and Catholics know..."
I had to pause at that point to allow the priest to purchase his beer and cheese. I expected him to ignore me and walk out of the store in a hurry, but he waited for me to buy my beer. He invited me to a gathering where I wound up drinking most of the Heineken and smoking a cigar. In that little group I found all the authority I really missed but had been rejecting since I fell under the influence of mother (expletive deleted) liberals. I was quickly converted, and became family member. I will say nothing more since we do not advertise.
It feels good to be back on the right track again, and I am delighted to know that according to the latest poll eighty-four percent of my fellow Americans are on board. I will not fall off again because thanks to my new family, I KNOW it is the righteous track. And I am sure glad I attended the Independence Day celebration and heard Father Babouin's speech; even though I cannot remember it, I can feel it. Oh, yes! now I recall he patriotically addressed the issue of whether or not "under God" belongs in the pledge of allegiance. I suppose as an opinionated American I should venture my opinion on that before I sign off here. Well, even if the phrase is not there, God is still in charge, and the American people can rest assured His family is in control, unseen behind the scenes, for God works in mysterious ways. Some folks think kids might get the wrong idea if the phrase remains in the pledge. But look at me, it sure kept me on the right track until the mother (expletive deleted) liberals gave me some acid and pot, and, as you can see, I got back on the right track because of my earliest experiences.
