"Sir,” The Fehrn said. “We did the quick hit back, but I’m afraid this bully thing may be a lingering creeper.”
“What,” responded M. Rizzle, popping a grape into his mouth, “you think smacking that twit around like a purple haired circus monkey is a problem? I don’t even remember it.”
“Who did you smack around in high school?”
“Me? No one.”
“Did you have any friends?”
“Sir, my background is not a concern here. I’m worried yours could be a problem. It strikes right at…”
“No, Fehrn. It does not, because… I present a refreshing dichotomy. Wham!”
M. Rizzle looks The Fehrn in the eye. “You want me to repeat it?”
“Then I’ll explain it. On the one side, I am way the heck moral. I donate millions to charity. Millions. You aren’t aware of the full stretch of my tithing? I tithe like St. Francis would have, if he had been a little more business savvy. My alms, each year, form the shape of a tsunami wave, sucking miserable humans into its mass, lifting the little, damaged waifs up onto glistening surf boards on top of the wave, where they shoot off into the coral sky, and burst from too much health and general contentment; it presents a nice Fourth of July-like bouquet of fireworks over my house year round, for those who can see reality with that particular lens.
“Yep. I exude alms. Sometimes, instead of exuding, I spray alms from a high pressure fire hose. Orphans I help, you could stack ‘em. You could build an orphanage, with walls made of orphans I have helped. They’d have no problem being at the bottom either, ‘cause they’re so healthy from funds I have provided. Bones hard as oak. Muscular from so much bench pressing, supplemented by high protein powder shakes, all from my alms. It’s even a problem. Sometimes, if I stand up too quickly, angling too much to the right, I emit gaseous alms from my sphincter. On accident. It can be embarrassing.
“So that’s a little about the scope of my magnanimity. Because of these features of my living persona, some have tried to declare my premature apotheosis; Meaning, I’m so good, I might get sucked into the ether, because they can’t wait to have me up there.
“Well, I’ve got a second side that keeps me down here. It also makes me so fresh, the girls find their hands magnetically drawn to my cheeks with squeezing gestures.
“What side is that? Oh, the side that gains deep satisfaction from hearing the sound of whimpering sissies. So much, I have repeat tracks of it on my clock radio alarm to wake me up, instead of ocean waves. What I do, I transform the lives of strange-looking twerps with a little spike of humiliation, when they’re in their important formative stages. Like if they have a haircut that says, ‘I’m going to be different.’ ‘Oh, you’re going to be different? Ok. You can be different… on the FLOOR. Pinned there by me and my popular friends.’ Uh hunh! It’s the governor’s son, come to deliver some authority about how this world is going to work for us all. Oh? What’s that? The ear boxing is making you weep? Here, let me trim your locks, help you keep them from getting moist from tears.
“So, that’s also me. Something I’ve done multiple times, allegedly. And I paint people, too. Paint ‘em red, which works out nicely with my current party affiliation. So, if I win, I’ll paint the democrats red. It’ll be hilarious. You should try it sometime. The feeling of slapping someone in the face with a paint brush loaded with latex. Smack. Driiiip.
“Yep. You choose to dance with me, that’s what you’re in for. It may be hard to distinguish with the $700 million soft focus lens that makes me seem clean, moral and selflessly well-intentioned, but if you get in close, you can sense something else. Even in close, you may be mesmerized by the eyes, these glistening pools of cherubic wholesomeness, but there is also that smell, my own personal musk cocktail of erratic, mean-spirited danger, highly flammable.
“So, there it is: a refreshing dichotomy. With me, you get two options: Alms Bazooka, Face Slapper. Something for everyone.”
Eagle Breath - Fake Romney 2012 Campaign coverage, from the dais to the dog.