I collected some interesting postings from around the chattablogosphere after publishing my last short story about deporting Pat Robertson (which, by the way, still awaits readers creative enough to provide an ending to the cliff-hanger that I ended with..).

The Old Grey Lady did a nice pithy follow-up piece (oh for the day in which they would add that tone and substantiative quotations to their other stories!).

The Holtonian inadvertently attempts to place Venezuela’s Hugo Chavez into a broader South American socialist revolutionary context.

Stella Blue elicits comparisons between Robertson and your old loony uncle who won’t stop going on about those Yankees and their oppressions, except Robertson has his own cable tv program (ABC Family, how much do you suck now for agreeing to keep Mr. Rapture on air until the 3rd millennia?).

Finally, the Funky Presbyterian & commentators note that Robertson lacks not only “the boys” but also the truly Christian virtue of self-sacrifice in the face of death. Yeah, a Christian leader that’s neither Christian nor leader. Hopefully we’ll be able to ridicule him in a few decades just the same as that old Empire.

I’m outie.

August 26th, 2005 | Current | 3 comments

The irony would be so sweetly rich. Sigh.

“This is even more threatening to hemispheric stability than the flash of a breast on television during a ballgame.”

Imagine with me: Robertson gets erusticated to, just to make it interesting, Venezuela, by CIA officers flying a private-chartered Gulfstream V who have spent the previous evening at the local Hilton racking up a tab. After being whisked away from the airport by Chavez’s neo-commie posse and tickled with Mao’s little Red book, Pat manages a daring daylight escape by donning a beard, cap, and fake Cuban accent that have been smuggled to him by Paul & Jan Crouch (who know a thing or two about under the table dealings and prison).

Sensing the imminent End of the World and Rapture for All True Believers, Robertson makes his way up the isthmus, through Noriega-free Panama, and into Mexico. His disguise is less than convincing for the locals due to their ability, even in the most agrarian of villages, to catch a TBN signal.

Pat spends two straight days running, families of illegal immigrants chasing after him. He makes it to the border, but, damn! While he was out, Texas & Arizona put up that border wall that he spent all that airtime fantasizing about. Pre-mill prophet he is, Pat has already foreseen that he must make it back into the ole US of A. He constructs a wall scaling kit out of cactus and discarded Corona bottles. Falling heavily on the other side, he kisses the God-blessed ground of our fair America.

Pat has made one mistake, however, and it might be his last. He told his 700 Club crew via TBN satellite phone that he was planning on entering the border in Texas. But during that 48 hour ultra marathon, Robertson became disoriented. He veered west, and has dropped to his knees in Arizona.

“Don’t tread of me,” says the Minutemen volunteer border guard from behind the barrel of the standard-issue 12-gauge double-shot…

Audience participation time! Write your grand finale to my little yarn in the comments below:

August 24th, 2005 | Best, Current | No comments