(After Maurice Blanchard)
“He craps… The well-beloved Head of the Supreme Global Police Force craps.”
“What? He craps too?”
“Well, yes. He craps.”
“Oh! Damn! This could change the look of the globe. But tell me. Is the stuff He craps… SHIT? The brilliant Spokesman of the People? The well-beloved Head of the Supreme Global Police Force? Please, no! Tell us that it’s Starbuck’s Coffee that he craps. Lie a bit. Have pity on us who have Hope!”
“No! He craps shit!”
“For real! Isn’t his asshole made of platinum? Doesn’t he plug it with an emerald as large as my head and finely faceted?”
“No! His asshole is, in fact, greenish, but with long, god-like hemorrhoids that hang over the liquid in the toilet and wriggle when He pushes his crap out, groaning, making faces, ugh, ugh, and ugh!”
“Oh! But doesn’t He have a golden cock, the well-beloved Keystone of the Globe? Tell us that he isn’t made like the rest of us. Zeus on Olympus had a cock like that, but it didn’t function. It was a Whitmanesque poetic image like the moon. But Him! The Greatbrilliantwellbelovedheadofthesupremeglobalpoliceforce! Every morning, at breakfast, at the very least, he will inseminate all the lust-crazed adherents of Hope!”
“Oh, no! He was always a cuckold. Hallelujah!”
“Damn fool! Lie to us a little bit. We need so much to believe! We do! Or will we have to start all over again?”
“Well, no. You will eat… His shit!”
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