The Holy Blog with Rev. Sean:
On its surface, last night’s CNN debate between Hillary Clinton and Bernie Sanders was as it appeared—a feisty, ideological slugfest between two careerist politicians. With a healthy dose of snark, I observed on my personal Facebook page that from a content perspective, this particular debate was like watching “two proboscis monkeys, high off low-grade meth, tossing their own crap at each other…” Certainly, I had been drinking, but the post still cost me several old friends, most of whom were either known Communists or bitter, menstruating trannies that had been waiting for an excuse to unfriend me for months. To them, I say, ‘walk with Jesus, my misguided children, and keep your goddamned hands off my Glock!’
Indeed. The debate was fun TV-watchin’, especially with a couple of dollar-shots of pineapple vodka seeping through your liver. But as an ordained minister, I sensed something…other. I noticed a disturbance in the broadcast, as if the digital stream was not quite telling the whole story. I felt, in the goosebumps rising across my tattooed arms, the presence of an ancient evil that I had not encountered before in my long, strange walk as an itinerant country preacher.
Curious, I decided to enter a deep meditative state which I had been taught by hookah-smoking monks back in my missionary days in rural New Jersey. Unnamed and unutterable by the monks, I refer to it as The Zone. It is a combination of self-hypnosis and astral-projection, and requires a fair amount of vodka in its own right. Once fully ‘zoned,’ not only am I able to subconsciously leave my body and travel to any geographic point on the globe, but I also gain the mystical ability to ‘see’ the ghost realm, which is not visible to ordinary, non-zoned humans. Last night, I projected myself to the debate stage in New York, and, floating there high above Bernie’s bald spot, I witnessed events of such malevolence, of such soulless evil, that even now, all these hours later, my hands are still shaking with the horror of it.
At the point in the debate where Sanders called out Hillary for her changing opinions on the minimum wage, the air turned bitter cold, and the pungent, nauseating stench of excrement and sushi filled the studio. As Wolf Blitzer gagged into his tie, Clinton’s demeanor changed, her eyes turning yellow, and her face contorting into a dark, beastly mask. In a sudden flash of movement, she leapt to the podium like a spider, her voice changing to the deep, guttural sneer of the demonic personality raging within her soul. “Pleasant evening for a debate, eh, Bern?” it croaked.
And then it barked like a dog.
Then squealed like a pig.
Invisible to the audience, I watched, terrified, as Wolf tried to regain control of the debate, reminding the former Secretary of the time limits she herself had agreed to, but before he could finish his admonishment, the thing inside Hillary Clinton splatter-puked his beard from across the stage. And it was here that Bernie Sanders’ voice crackled through the studio:
The demon went still, warily studying the older politician reach into his shirt pocket and withdraw a small, worn booklet. “What’s that, Sanders?” it groaned. “Is that what I think it is? You bastard!”
The senator called for Wolf to join him onstage, and to restrain the entity. Blitzer did as he was told, creeping up behind Clinton, then jumping up and grabbing her by the padded shoulders of her tunic. The thing inside Hillary raged as they struggled to the floor, and Bernie began to read reverently from The Communist Manifesto: “The history of all hitherto existing society is the history of class struggles…”
“Your mother trades penny stocks in Hell, Bernie!” the demon bellowed. “Do you hear me?! In HELL!”
Undaunted, he continues to read: “Freeman and slave, patrician and plebeian, lord and serf, guildmaster and journeyman…”
“F—k you, Sanders! F—k the plebes! F—k the serfs! Morons, Sanders! Every single one of ‘em!”
“The bourgeoisie, wherever it has got the upper hand, has put an end to all feudal, patriarchal, idyllic relations…”
At this, the creature seemed to grow weary, turning now to Wolf Blitzer, holding her down by her shoulders. Clinton’s face changed once more, into that of a successful popstar, its furry tongue lolling to the side as it whispered to Blitzer in the voice of Miley Cyrus: “Do me right here, Wolfie-baby! Do me like a wrecking ball! Ha! You know you want to! Do me like Geraldo would do me!”
The seasoned moderator fell to his knees, his face in his hands, weeping, broken. “You are not Miley Cyrus!” he shrieked.
“Don’t believe it, Blitzer,” Sanders warned. “Everything it says is a lie! Now repeat after me! The power of the people compels you! The power of the people compels you!”
Wolf Blitzer, regaining himself, began to chant, as do the horrified members of the studio audience: “The power of the people compels you! The power of the people compels you! The power of the people compels you!”
With her yellow eyes rolling back in her head, the Clinton-demon levitated from the stage, spinning around and around with weird, blue-lightening shooting from its mouth. Continuing to observe from my astral perch, I can see the populist chanting is beginning to break the will of the wailing demon, and, in a burst of raw physics and interdimensional force, there is a piercing crack of thunder as Hillary falls to the stage, once again herself, awakening from the possession and commenting, sluggishly, to no one in particular, “what…what’s a hard drive?”
In an instant, I am back in my living room, stretched-out on my couch and surrounded by empty bottles of Sol and Lemon Zinger wrappers, my ears ringing with the studio audience now chanting, “Feel the Bern! Feel the Bern! Feel the Bern!”
“Jesus,” I mumbled to myself. “That was weird.”
Even now, I am not quite sure of the spiritual meaning of this funky, astral vision, except, possibly, to observe that within every politician, there is a bit of Hell being raised, and not in a fun way.
So be careful when you smell the sushi and the excrement.
Jesus loves you and so do I,