Listen, I won’t lie to you.  I respect you too much for that.  Plus, with the Googy and Yawhoo and WooHay you can check any fact you want.  The electric infotaiment superconductor  is always right.  You have nothing to fear but me.

So climb inside.

Two states away, they have perfected the Jesus-based community and the child-brides have been sold, trained and traded.  A muscled, confusing savior has been re-worded and delivered all-new, engaged, sanitary.  From our aerial view, the splendid castle juts from the desert like a broken bone.  We’re not close enough, not yet.  The stone is styrofoam and the sweet trumpets roll through all-weather loudspeakers.

Cruelty has been perfected:  She keeps her head bowed, the men are excised like rotten old zits one by one.  The new cars are not repaired and sit in the driveways and  fields leaking fluids, incontinent old stamped-steel hermits.  A few will roam the roads at night eerie, driverless wraiths.  The next day the owner will be fined or shot while still sitting on the toilet, pounding out that morning’s offering.    Sure, they don’t call it cruelty.  Why should they?  If you enjoy being slapped with a glass-studded tennis racket we are terribly, terribly, terribly unable to help you. On the other hand, cat diarrhea isn’t guacamole no matter how much cumin you put in.  Take my word for this.  Or don’t.  Check your Googy.

We, the soft-bodied faithless, go into the ring.

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