You are beautiful. You know this. It gives you strength. You are Blonde. You are the Master Race. What pathetic struggles the rest of us who are not born blonde and beautiful must work through to get anywhere. You who are Superior can just pose, “Hold still; Smile; Good,” and you get the reward God intended for His chosen Few.
You float along in a bubble agreeing with your mirror that you are "good" and "they" are not. You recast every issue in terms of your short little memorized list of bullet points. "These are the good things," you chant like your cult has taught you. "These are the bad things. These are the good things. These are the bad things. Kill the bad things."
You remember that Anyone who agrees with the "Good List" is 100% good. Those who support the bad list must be destroyed. "I am doing the work of God," you remind yourself after you type vicious phrases that the cult has indoctrinated into your blank stare.
You look at your baby and think he verifies that you are Godly. Puritans have always taught that those on the right will be rewarded. You do not see the son of a mother a little older than you. That baby boy grew Army strong to be blown to shreds in the War for Cheney's Oil Investments. You call that dead baby a Hero and send his mom a ribbon.
Your baby will also ... It is too horrible to type. Your sneering hatred will bring another war just in time for your baby boy to ... Don't think. Don't think.
Because you are beautiful, you think you are more correct. Your gorgeous facial bone structure and silky blonde hair validate your belief in what you believe. But you are fooled.
The pretty blonde lady a little older than you who is mother of the American Hero Buried with Military Honors that she will never see again no longer cares what color her hair is or how pretty she was Before … before … … She would trade it all to have her son back.
Not to worry. Rush and the Warlords who dictate what he will say lovvve you.
They love all their guns. You are a killing tool They will use you like any other Semi-Automatic weapon with a silencer, until you sag and get cellullite in a few years and crow’s feet, so your picture needs too much photoshopping to sexually stimulate the recruits that surf to a hatesite from behind a locked door in a darkened bedroom, all alone with your blonde smile, enlarged and printed out to concentrate on, while they grin and receive positive strokes because the popular blonde girl they could never touch in their real life likes the same kicks they do, hates the same fags they hate.
Then they will replace you with another fresh young girl in her own delusional soapy bubble whose every thought they have replaced with their scripts. You will become a clucking hen and then a hacking hag. You will be the next Phyllis Schlafly with her pitiful son living in a back room. You will be brought out to speak to teenage Nazi recruits at Private high schools and Patriotic Rallies for invited teens only. You will replace your lost ability to sexually stimulate the teen Nazis by appealing to the other side of their unpopularity, their fear.
Oh yes you will. You will do exactly what your handlers say. "They are Right," your mirror will tell you. "Look at your Good List," your mirror will warn you. "See. Right there. The bullets. They never lie."
You look at the Good List and cover your eyes and smile.
"I am a Good Girl," you repeat over and over. "I am I am I am."
"I am on the Good List," you pray. "I am Honest. There. See? That’s my Excuse. I am not perfect. See, God? I am not vain and proud, God. I have a flaw."
You smile your beautiful-blonde smile like an angel. Your mirror makes you feel soooo good. Insert
"My flaw is that I am too honest. I can't help it," you say, checking the bullets they gave you to make sure of what to hate, ignoring the clock in the background ticking away the minutes till your son is military age. You don’t want that Ribbon.
I wondered if I should tell him that my Dad is Sicilian and I don't have a drop of German blood in me (though, I did marry one)...and that he too could be just as blonde if I gave him my hairdresser's digits... In the end, I sent what I deemed as the most appropriate response to an email such as this...
So, like...you think I'm pretty :)
Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile
Yeah well, *I* think I'm funny :)