The Prophet Speaks
The prophet sat in his room writing down his vision. It was a message directly to the people of God and no one else. He was pissed. Really pissed. It seemed to him that no one was paying attention. His own people were busy, caught up living their lives. Too busy, in fact, to notice much at all. These people—God’s people—were about as oblivious regarding spiritual matters as any blind heathen, drug dealing, scum bag ever was. To them, however, everything was great. Everything was A-OK.
“How could they be so blind” the prophet wondered. "Wasn’t it bad enough that their debts were as stratospheric as the flight of the Hindenburg—and twice deadly?"
What about their government? These bastards were running wild, flying 1st class, having toga parties in the senate with high-class call girls (and boys.)
Worse still, these “Servants of the people” had created a law for everything. There were so many laws, in fact, that every man, woman, and child, even dogs and cats had to watch out, lest they became criminals by pure accident. It wasn’t like the politicians thought that writing a bunch of new laws would really make people behave more justly towards one another. No. They weren’t that naïve. They knew sure as hell, though, that it would make the politicians richer and more powerful.
For their many faithful supporters, the politicians could do no wrong. But only those politicians they liked. The ones that tickled the citizens ears with promises of free things. Free everything, is what they offered. Paid for by somebody else, of course. So it wasn’t really free, but nobody cared.
Likewise, the people had come to believe that all that business about sin were just old wives tales. “Don’t worry about it. If you get pregnant, the government will pay for it. Just make sure you don’t get married, otherwise, they’ll cut you off.” They’d say.
So, mamas babies had no daddy’s and kids grew up—especially boys—getting into all kind of trouble and ending up in jail, while streets became unsafe, even for grandmas and children who were being shot dead in their beds by stray gunfire. Every now and then, though, some politician would throw a fit, drawing attention to the plight of these poor people, who were huddled into urban hellholes, but only for the votes. In that way, nothing ever changed.
“Why?”
Because they were all in on it. The politicians, the people, everybody. A few hundred dead, on a bad month, a few thousand maybe? “This was an acceptable price.” They thought.
“Don’t rock the boat! We got a good deal here.” Others shouted.
So, the prophet stopped writing, knowing that the rain would eventually fall—and, that it would keep falling, day after day, night after night, the deluge would descend from heaven and wash it all clean. This compelled him to scratch his head and eventually say “To hell with them! I tried to tell them, but they would not listen.”
Apparently, they never do.
Mark Magula
“How could they be so blind” the prophet wondered. "Wasn’t it bad enough that their debts were as stratospheric as the flight of the Hindenburg—and twice deadly?"
What about their government? These bastards were running wild, flying 1st class, having toga parties in the senate with high-class call girls (and boys.)
Worse still, these “Servants of the people” had created a law for everything. There were so many laws, in fact, that every man, woman, and child, even dogs and cats had to watch out, lest they became criminals by pure accident. It wasn’t like the politicians thought that writing a bunch of new laws would really make people behave more justly towards one another. No. They weren’t that naïve. They knew sure as hell, though, that it would make the politicians richer and more powerful.
For their many faithful supporters, the politicians could do no wrong. But only those politicians they liked. The ones that tickled the citizens ears with promises of free things. Free everything, is what they offered. Paid for by somebody else, of course. So it wasn’t really free, but nobody cared.
Likewise, the people had come to believe that all that business about sin were just old wives tales. “Don’t worry about it. If you get pregnant, the government will pay for it. Just make sure you don’t get married, otherwise, they’ll cut you off.” They’d say.
So, mamas babies had no daddy’s and kids grew up—especially boys—getting into all kind of trouble and ending up in jail, while streets became unsafe, even for grandmas and children who were being shot dead in their beds by stray gunfire. Every now and then, though, some politician would throw a fit, drawing attention to the plight of these poor people, who were huddled into urban hellholes, but only for the votes. In that way, nothing ever changed.
“Why?”
Because they were all in on it. The politicians, the people, everybody. A few hundred dead, on a bad month, a few thousand maybe? “This was an acceptable price.” They thought.
“Don’t rock the boat! We got a good deal here.” Others shouted.
So, the prophet stopped writing, knowing that the rain would eventually fall—and, that it would keep falling, day after day, night after night, the deluge would descend from heaven and wash it all clean. This compelled him to scratch his head and eventually say “To hell with them! I tried to tell them, but they would not listen.”
Apparently, they never do.
Mark Magula