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Eric urges us to disbelieve

Rubber up Ratzinger, or shut up

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Friday, 10 April 2009

So here we are again, some rancid ex-Nazi youth drag queen for Jesus telling us, in his, ‘oh so infallible way’ what he thinks about sex, HIV and life. This is from a man who’s never had sex, unless you count the midnight fiddling and drooling over alter boys or the frantic frottage of himself up against pictures of Hitler and the Virgin Mary. A man who’s idea of love is a dusty 130 page document written in Latin, a man for who forgiveness is a brand, and no sin too unoriginal to charge for.

This squat, toady, squinty eyed agnostic gnome, this silk clad Vaticanised Uriah Heap who slides around the world sitting ever so ‘umbly in first class as the very children of the people he is bestowing himself upon starve to death in the shadows of the corrupt buildings of the governments his visits endorse. The red carpets that his fabulous red Prada shoes (credit where it’s due) step out onto stained with their silent blood, so his holy rolling’ness doesn’t have to sully himself with the dust of the lost generations. Generations slaughtered, murdered, suppressed and silenced by his less than holy hosts. He shakes their hands, blesses the despots and dictators, takes their money, eponymously pontificates and runs. No kisser of the dirt this one, nothing but the blood of lambs (lightly fricaseed with some virgin afterbirth) gets past his reptilian lips. No humble stumble to the world, no shrug and silly Polish gurning, no.

The Old One, Ratzinger, (Vicar of Christ to you and me lad) doesn’t do humble at all. His is the post to die for, his is the pulpit major, his is the word, the truth, the one true faith. At least that’s what he believes and he spouts his rancid, uneducated and ridiculous shit to people as if the very words themselves will bring back the legions of brothers, fathers, sisters, mothers, aunts, daughters, sons and lovers who have been ravaged by an illness that a single bit of common sense, rubber & the tiniest shift in protocol could prevent.

But suffer little children to come unto me, for unless those little children suffer, cry in pain, weep for their dead parents, sob through their despair, scream as they are raped, murdered or taught, by their political masters, to do the same to their peers, they will not get saved. Oh yes, suffer little children until you shake off the joke of this madness, this superstitious mumbo jumbo that gives this fat little odd man, who was once proud to wear the swastika on his arm, his amoral authority. He is more like Tinker Bell than he knows, and if we stop believing in him, he will (I promise) fade away and die. But we must all think very, very hard about stopping believing in him, boys and girls, for if we don’t he and his religiously bonkers right wing kind will give us exactly what we deserve.