For a man to go on the airwaves and say that sinful, sinful people got what they deserved because they didn't pray hard enough ought to outrage every decent thinking person in this country. That Limbaugh fellow is bad enough, but Pat Robertson is, pound for pound and dollar for dollar, a thousand times worse than Limbaugh will ever be. You see, Limbaugh knows he's a pathetic waste. Pat Robertson thinks he has a line directly to Jesus. Well, good for you, Pat. Jesus sure made sure you had enough cash, didn't he? Or did he?
Ah, that elusive mountain of money that so many sinners go off and chase. Pat's chasing his, and he'll never stop stumbling after that low hanging fruit. He is a feeble old man who thinks that if he can just stuff a few more wads of cash into his pockets, all will be right with the world. He goes after it by going on television and telling people that they are dirty, worthless sinners in the hands of an angry God. This has been the rap since Jonathan Edwards (the non-sex tape version) in this country, and it is a fool-proof marketing scheme that makes that offering plate ring with coins every time.
The people who lost their lives didn't die because they failed to pray for divine intervention. They died for any number of reasons, all of them sad and tragic, but they didn't die because there was some moral flaw or character deficiency in them. They died because tornadoes are a fact of life, and natural disasters are, of course, a fact of life.
Those children didn't die because they didn't pray. Those decent people didn't die because they didn't pray. No one died because of what Pat Robertson is saying. They died, and it's a tragedy. It's the tragic consequence of the forces of nature. The God that most of us believe in (and if you don't, that's alright by me) is taking care of those people and their cares are over and their loved ones need comfort right now. Shoot lights of kindness and understanding their way.
But here's the sickening part. Pat Robertson has to appear on television and render divine judgement like a prophet of the lord. He has to sit in the makeup chair and wear a wonderfully tailored suit and appear on his crappy network show and boost the ratings and bring in the money from the shut-ins and the last vestiges of those who still give money to the TV preachers and the fomenters of hate and shame in this country. Their world crumbles every time someone passes on and stops the automatic credit card payments and stops sending in the checks. Their world is passing just like Pat Robertson is passing.
Age, she is a bitch, isn't she? Old age comes and you cannot pray it away. Death is stalking the liars, the grifters, the hacks, and the cheaters. Death has a mad dog at his feet. The hell hound with fire in his eyes and a blackened heart full of vengeance. That hell hound has been chasing so many people that it is difficult to know who he's coming for. Is he coming for you and me? I suppose he is. Is he going to get the evil, the depraved, the hypocritical and the bent before he comes after us? I sure hope so. I would hate to be dragged away by that hell hound while twisted thieves trick hapless and feeble old people out of their money.
Pat Robertson can hear the howl of the hell hound. He can hear it down by the railroad trestle that leads to the cemetery. He can hear it echo off the surface of the water. He can hear it behind the gates of his fabulous mansions of gold and treasure. He shuts it out by squishing his eyes down in his head, just like he was taught when he was a boy. This is how the God Boys pray on television. They have to sell it. No one sells it like old Pat. No one hears the sound of the hell hound like he does. It's off in the distance. It's in the parking lot. It's in his ear when the producers are silent. It's there when the change in his pocket hits the floor. It's all he hears when there is silence in the room.
A lifetime spent using God to rip money out of the hands of sad, desperate, lonely people invokes the vengeance of death's dog, that canine with bloodless limbs and unswerving devotion to putting right what man did put wrong. To cheat so many, to steal so much, to pile up gargantuan piles of dollars for his own use and no other use except personal pleasure and comfort means Pat Robertson knows the sound of the hell hound better than any of us do. He's here. Is that panting?
Was that the slimy coat of the hell hound, brushing against those thousand dollar pants?
I just weep for this country. So many good people who don't know any better. And this man just gathers them up like wheat and uses them for his own enrichment and his own purposes. He grinds up what little they have and bakes loaves that are poison, and he eats them by himself, gluttonous and never satisfied. He is a beast with horns, and perhaps that hell hound is here to do his bidding, and that's something I didn't consider. Perhaps the hell hound stalks us while Pat Robertson points his bony finger at everyone who ever did the right thing and at the really holy, church-going people of this country who are down on their luck and lost their homes this weekend and saw their loved ones taken away.
Here's what I pray for--a hell hound who turns on that feeble master. A hell hound who turns on the beast and the demon who sends him after the likes of you and me for thinking what we think and knowing what a grifter does when he goes on television and calls good, decent Americans sinners who got what they deserved. I pray that the hell hound will smell the evil of his soul and get the urge to feast on him what brung him out of hell.
Get after him, hell hound. Get after him, and soon.