He isn’t all that impressed by the everyday evil doings of the everyday evil soul; He knows He will always have them under His craven hoof. But for The Evil One, the critical thinker is like white meat at Thanksgiving. One of those is worth ten thousand of the useful idiots who hang around in Las Vegas and at gun conventions.
Unfortunately, here in Hell, where everything is a mirrored reflection, a perverse reverse, where perception is reality, in order for us to finally turn this torment, doubt, fear, and false hope—this damnation—around, we must 1) admit that we are all, in fact, living in Hell when we demonically ignore the suffering of the helpless who are at the bottom; and 2) acknowledge that we have created and sustained the power of Evil by not getting angry enough at it or by not hating it enough.
The ones who are happy and satisfied here in Hell, are the ones who keep everything awful in place. Silence is indeed eternal, suspended death, the ego run amok.
Keep getting pissed off, even though all those around you may be drugged on antidepressants and drunk on the false power of positive thinking. If you get pissed off enough, you will get off your ass and change things. You will find your depression begins to lift, and your craving for Justice and what is Right restoring every cell of your being. That is what the ONE GOOD GOD wants us all to know! She is our combined just and righteous anger, and nothing less than the restorative power of critical truth. God is the will of the people united on behalf of Good.
Next time a Satanist asks you why you are so angry, answer thusly: “Because God, the author of all critical thought, requires me to be so, you fucking moron!”
Glenn Beck and Sarah Palin’s American Prayer
Dear Lord,
We thank you for blessing us with our hugely disproportionate share of the world’s dwindling resources. We’re grateful that those less blessed than us have no choice but to work for next to nothing so that our profits are maximized. We pray for those who suffer terrible, agonizing ordeals and losses, but we thank You, merciful God, for making sure that none of those horrible things happen to us. We thank You for the Gift of the Right Religion, so that we never have to run the risk of actually thinking for ourselves, or of thinking at all.
Mostly though, we thank You for our vastly superior military might, to keep us safe from those who would oppose us, many of whom are jealous and resentful that we have so much more than we need and mindlessly waste, and for being able to remove the resources out from under the ground of those who practice the wrong religions.
We know You’re busy, and we thank You for Your time and for time itself, generally, because we don’t want to be with You in Your wondrous, heavenly kingdom just yet, or sooner than we need to. Thanks, again!
Acknowledgments
First, to the voices, thanks for always being there. Next, to the people who called me crazy my whole life because I talked to G-d, I would like to say: you kept me honest, and thank you. To all the Gods/Goddesses on earth and in the Heavens and Hearts and Minds of so many, I say, thanks for the glimpse into the life and times of Ascendant Masters.
Thanks to my psychiatrist, Dr. Colin Ross; to my editor, Tricia Whatserface; and to my publicist/chef, James Moore. To my life partner, Old John Argent, thanks for caring about truth and justice and the dow/tao.
To my sister Geraldine; my younger sister, Pearl S.; my genius brother, Dr. Ben Barr; to all of their children and their children; to my own five children and five grandsons and three siblings’ in-laws; and to all of their loved ones, thanks for laughing when I do the lemon teeth thing at every wedding; I adore doing it for you, as I feel really funny then.
Thanks to my mother, Helen Ruth Davis Barr, an Original Goddess (O.G.), survivor, and mentor. Thanks to Dr. Mary Daly for the education. And last, thanks to words themselves, but especially those that speak the right things to people who need to hear them at the exact right time, which is, as we know, just after reaching bottom.
About the Author
Roseanne Barr (1952–2011)
Roseanne Barr was born, through a spin of the cosmic wheel of misfortune, in what was then the small-minded town of Salt Lake City, Utah. Her father was a brilliantly funny misfit, socialist, atheist Jew, and football player—Jerome Harold Barr—who along with her mother, H. R. Davis Barr, the classic, post–Holocaust, middle-class, first-generation Jewish woman, taught her all that she needed to know to become a compulsive nail-biter, overeating obsessive with social anxiety disorder and a nasty messianic complex that has defied medication, psychiatry, stardom, and sanity. Her mother also taught her how to manipulate men with wit, and thereby subdue their aggressive sexuality, and then rage at them for that. These many influences ensured that little Miss Barr was to evolve a new organ for thought on behalf of women who subsequently emulated her to also become “people displeasers.”
In an age and culture where women largely fell all over themselves to lap up the very small amount of approval that was smeared on the concrete by the soles of the feet of powerful capitalists, patriarchs, and run-of-the-mill priests, Barr stepped up to irritate and insist instead that the owners of those feet kiss her very large, dynamic, and disagreeably combatant ass. She also graciously insisted that they invite their compatriots to take a crack at it as well.
No crap lapper, she was the first of her generation to refuse to explain and apologize for being offensive, fat, and in possession of an altered opinion and an unapologetic (per her father’s mentoring) lack of respect for anything that did not come from other resisters, jokesters, and martyrs, lynched on the tree of human pride.
Living as she did in the very last few days of the American Empire, under the occupation of bores and minutiae masters, when freedom of speech in any form by any woman was unofficially illegal, Barr never could find any critique of her work that had any intelligence to it whatsoever, except for John Lahr’s piece on her in The New Yorker, thanks to Tina Brown, then editor.
Brown and Barr formed a mutual fan club and decided to bring the issue of feminism front and center to America’s most conservative liberal weekly magazine, The New Yorker. Brown offered Barr a stint as a guest editor of the first Women’s Issue of The New Yorker magazine, which was really a revolutionary idea whose time had passed and was highly overdue.
Apparently, as always seems to happen in the U.S.A., whenever anything radical threatens to overtake everything out-of-date, the middle caves in on itself. The exact middle of The New Yorker’s contributors decided that it was her time to bust a move and use Ms. Barr’s invitation as a way to make a grand exit that coincided with her contract not being renewed, or something like that. Even the highly educated can confuse television personalities with the actors who portray them. The contributor in question apparently felt that Roseanne Barr, who created and portrayed a working-class character, “Roseanne Connor,” on a television show, lacked the intellectual prowess required to helm a feminist critique of working women’s progress in post–Reagan America. To the editor, this was apparently evidenced by the fact that Roseanne Connor lived in a small house in Illinois and worked at a take-out chicken restaurant. It was either that confused, ill-conceived analysis or the tired notion: God only knows who the hell these actors think they are! Just because you write a show and portray a working-class female, who fights to break down barriers set before working-class women and is viewed by forty million viewers every Wednesday evening, doesn’t mean you have anything important to say! Oh wait, yes, indeed it does mean that! Sorry. Carry on! (I fear I am starting to sound like Jerry Lewis now! Oh my God, I hope not. I must stop bitching! I simply must! But no, not quite yet, amigos!)
Ms. K then riled up the mother of all backbiting, class-ignorant women writers of all time, Maureen Dowd, who agreed in print in the New York Times that Roseanne Connor was loud and loose and could not walk from the soundstage to the hallowed halls of The New Yorker up in this mothafocka! It just isn’t done!
As always happened whenever Roseanne Barr spoke about America’s caste systems, most
of her sisters-in-arms gave up the ship and fled in horror when it became apparent to them that Barr was interested in revolution, not polite reform. The issue of which she is so proud is framed on the wall of her office, and features writers Amy Sedaris, Mary Daly, Wendy Wasserstein, and Anna Deavere Smith, among others, and has an article in it about a growing maids’ union in Las Vegas, Nevada. (Years later, this union became quite a decisive force in the election of Barack Obama.)
Barr went as far as any woman can ever go in the Judeo- Christian tradition that demands thinking women to constantly reassure the powers-that-be and their lackeys that they are not witches to be burned at the stake. After ramming through the concept of class to a segment of middle-class American feminists, who at the behest of their masters are encouraged not to address, name, or be aware of the class system that controls their every waking thought, Barr bought a nut farm in Hawaii, where she retired, which seemed appropriate to any and all who had ever enjoyed the pressure of her company. She spent many happy hours reading and writing books and cultivating and smoking things that she grew in her garden. Her life took a magical turn when she gave herself fully to the idea that the wild pigs that stalked her fenced acreage and trolled her farmland, trying to root mac nuts out of the ground, could themselves be physically outmaneuvered. Riding roughshod over hill and dale and tusked boar on her Kawasaki Mule, Ms. Barr has redefined the has-been in sublime repose.
Her busy life was cut short by an angry, razor-tusked boar while shooting at it drunk on her Kawasaki Mule in preparation for a luau bar mitzvah for her fifth grandson, Buster, named for Buster Keaton. He barely noticed, as he had received a Playstation 9 as a gift, and no one missed her at all. No one attended her funeral, or spoke at any memorial, as all wonderful things had already all been said while she lived, and there was no need.
She is survived by five children and five grandchildren, whom she also survived, and by the handsome John Argent, who continues to write songs but now sings them himself, to much greater success.
Her lesser regrets were that she had not burned even more bridges, pissed off more idiots, fired more assholes, sung more patriotic anthems, and gained more weight.
Her major regret: never having had sex with Elvis Presley.
The attribute of which she is most proud is, of course, her humility.
Her favorite thing about her body: “My eyes,” she once said. “I can cast the Evil One like no one else.”
Now free of her physical existence, she is able to hang around with her best pal and discuss solutions to world problems uninterrupted, one-on-one, for all of eternity.
Roseannearchy Page 26