Thoughts On The Dead

Musings on the Most Ridiculous Band I Can't Stop Listening To

An American Prayer

Are you there, God? It’s me, TotD.

Blessed art Thou, Holy art Thou; Perfect art Thou. How art Thou? It is getting very summerish where I live, but I suppose You know that.

I do not pray often, Lord, and when I do it is to give thanks or beg forgiveness: a prayer is not transactional, but desperate times call for desperate measures and so now I come to You on my knees–if you want a beej for doing this, I will give You one; this is absolutely worth it–pleading with you, O Creator of everything and Fullingness of the Filament, You who Are and Am and Will Be. You who require so many Capital Letters.

This I pray:

Don’t let Trump embarrass us (too much).

I am a patriot, Lord. America is where my parents fucked, and I’m proud of that. After that, they stayed here and raised me, and I’m proud of that, too. You know this, O Lord: TotD is more American than French toast with Canadian bacon in a Greek diner cooked by a Mexican guy. I was born on the Fourth of July, if you have a defective calendar.

The occultists give their energy to a spell via their fluids, Lord, and the frenetic manipulation of themselves. So, then what gives energy to a prayer? It must be love. Vicious and childlike and unreasonable love, and this is my patriotism, O Lord. I know that America is a just a continent-wide heap of nitwits, slapdicks, and assholes that likes bombing the rest of the world, but love isn’t about Knowing. I love my country, Lord.

Please don’t let that unhinged taint embarrass us (too much).

Perhaps, Lord, you’ve noticed the parenthetical phrase I’ve appended to my plea. Let’s get this straight: I am not asking for perfect. Perfect is just not doable. Presidents have fucked up on foreign trips before. The first Bush threw up on the Prime Minister of Japan, and his son got a shoe thrown at him. Neither of those are really the men’s fault, but they were both funny.

(And to give the devil his due: Dubya was one shoe-dodging motherfucker. He avoided those Nikes like he had been practicing the move. Before the guy throws the second one, Dubya doesn’t commit: he’s on the balls of his feet and ready to go in any direction. The man was graceful. If the only things he did in his presidency was avoid those shoes and throw that strike at Yankee Stadium after 9/11, he would be the Best President EVAR. Throw in the speech he made into the bullhorn with his arm around the firefighter’s shoulder, and I’d vote to put him on the money, and not one bill: all of them. You’d be able to tell the denomination by Dubya’s mood: $1’s are thoughtful; $5’s are serious; $10’s are tranquil; $20’s are playful but aware of his role in the history of his great nation; $100’s are happy.)

When Ford fell down the steps, it was in Austria, Lord. That wasn’t a great look. Did you push him down the stairs? If so: good job, Lord. Fucker pardoned Nixon. A good stairing is the least he deserved.

But these were all forgivable blunders and goofs. None of these men were capable of what Basketball Head is capable of.

Please don’t let that orange dumbfuck embarrass us (too much), O Lord.

You can do it, Lord. I mean, how bad could it be?

Sweet Christ, we’re all gonna die. There’s no fucking way. Rick Steves couldn’t keep up a smile on this schedule? Who booked this? Are they trying to kill him, because this looks like it might do it; the man is 70, fat, and riddled with psychological and emotional maladies. The pace here is frantic for any human; it looks like the plot to It’s a Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World 2. I’d blow my brains out by Brussels.

Really: who the fuck did this? The more I look at it, the madder I get: they are setting this unstable lump of diseased chicken carcasses up for failure. This cannot end well. Shit, I bet it won’t even start well.

And so I pray, for in You all things are possible.

O Lord,
Let him not make a joke about revealing an Israeli intelligence source while standing right the fuck in front of Netanyahu at a press conference.

O Lord,
Keep him from improvising.

O Lord,
Get his aides to tell him that his data plan doesn’t work in the Middle East or Europe to keep him from tweeting during meetings.

O Lord,
May he misidentify the country he’s in only once or twice.

O Lord,
The fucker shouldn’t talk politics in Israel, like, at all; it’s dangerous to do that when you know what you’re talking about.

O Lord,
(And this is the big one.)
Don’t let this thieving, soulless maniac pull his handshake bullshit on the Pope.

The future lies in Your hands, Lord, omnipotent and timeless. We quiver beneath You. All praise is due to the Creator; all fault lies with His creation. We are weak, but only because You made us so, Lord. Give us this one, O Lord. It’s been a rough year.



  1. Nine fucking days — it’s gonna feel like a month; time is literally going to slow to a crawl and we’ll all be up at ungodly hours refreshing our browsers to see what fresh hell is unfolding in Jerusalem or Brussels.

    And this is a guy who flew home literally every night while on the campaign trail because he likes to sleep in his own bed (… which is possibly the only thing I can relate to with the guy; I hate sleeping anywhere but home).

    And DC isn’t gonna shut down for more than a week; the leaks will still be coming fast and furious from staffers enjoying a little quiet time while the boss is away. He’ll be coming home to a pile of shit of unimagined depth.

    And yet, he will still win in 2020.

  2. I am praying now to, you inspired me.

    Dear Lord:
    Please give the power to Pope Francis to grab Trumps hand, pull him in fast and knee him in the balls, followed by a quick sign of the cross.

  3. Luther Von Baconson

    May 22, 2017 at 5:53 pm

    and the Gong Show continues


  4. Luther Von Baconson

    May 24, 2017 at 1:17 pm

    Orange Prom King

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.