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The Cult of Clinton

We went to the temple of Bill Clinton with offerings and incense. When we arrived, there were few people; the old religion had begun to grow cold in the hearts of the masses. But we were devout Clintonites, and we would never let a week pass without visiting the temple.

When we arrived, we walked into the temple burning the incense. We sat and stared at the giant portrait of William Jefferson Clinton, in a half-trance, then bowed our heads in prayer. "Clinton, bless and accept this offering; bless and accept our souls." After prayer, we took the rats, three of them, and slit their throats over the bloody bowl there for this purpose. Their bodies we cast into the fire before the portrait of William Jefferson Clinton. My son stood and watched them burn; he was curious and seemed fixated on the rats. "Daddy, will the rats go to Clinton?" he asked. I didn’t reply. I generally don’t like to humor my son about religion.

After the sacrifice, we took a silver idol off the altar and removed his clothes. We bathed him in clean, cool water and brushed his clothes off to remove the dust. Then we dried him, put his clothes back on and set him before the altar, with a bowl of rice for his hunger. We let him eat for an hour, and then ate what he left over ourselves. "Daddy," asked my son, "is the god full now?" "Yes," I said, "the god is full." "Daddy," said my son, "tell me a story about the ancient times."

I told my son the story of the False Prophet. It wasn’t in sacred scripture, but it was an apocryphal tale with a moral, something fathers often told their children. In it, the False Prophet thinks he’s the messiah. He supposes that people would pay a high price for a photograph of the messiah’s penis, so he takes a picture of his penis, and tries to peddle it on the street.

Later, we all stood before the portrait of William Jefferson Clinton, and sang two hymns: "Glory be to the Most High God," and, "The Battle Hymn of the Republic." We didn’t change the verse that says, "As he died to make us holy, let us die to make men free," to, "let us live to make men free." I always thought changing it was a perversion of the meaning of the hymn. After singing the hymn, I and my wife sat and closed our eyes for meditation before the altar, as my son went outside to play. After an hour, we were done with our meditation, and I went outside to see my son.

"Daddy," he said, "tell me another story about ancient times."

"There once was a screenwriter," I began, and told him the story about the poor and unknown screenwriter who found himself at a Hollywood party for the biggest movie stars. He took a card from everyone there, and promised to send him or her one of his scripts. But when he got home, he found the cards were full of nothing but nonsensical phrases, such as, "You will know when the mouse says to go," and, "Forty big ants and a pocket of dimes." "Daddy," said my son, "what does that story mean?" Smart boy, he was.

We went back into the temple and prayed together as a family. We bowed our heads and I led us in a prayer for prosperity and happiness, and our ultimate salvation. I prayed for our nation, that it might return to the religion of its ancestors, and for some friends of mine who were in financial distress. My son still didn’t want to leave. "Might we stay at the temple of Bill Clinton a while longer?" he said. He said he liked all the paintings, the idols, and the scent of the incense. I thought it was good of him to like religion so; most little boys would want to leave by now. We decided to stay awhile for more meditation and prayer. We sang one more hymn, and looked outside; it was getting dark.

Finally, we took the bottle of wine, and sprinkled it upon the altar. We then each took a sip (including the boy), and poured the rest into the flames, just slowly enough to keep from dousing them. I looked to my left and saw a priest there. He had just come in, and was probably preparing himself to pray. "Why," he declared, "what a disgusting thing you are doing! Get out of here right now!"

But we must offer worship, I said, we must offer ourselves to the Most High God.

But he just kept repeating that we were committing some abomination, and chased us out into the setting sun.

That night I had a dream. In it, four men were sitting in a temple. They each cut themselves on the wrist, and bled a little into a chalice. They then took turns drinking from the chalice, until it was gone. Finally, they stood before the altar with its idols, and began to piss. As they pissed on the idols from bladders endlessly full, the idols slowly turned to flesh. Once the idols were flesh, they declared, "What’s this? An abomination!" But the men went right on pissing over them.

I awoke next to my wife, deeply disturbed. I arose from bed and wandered into the living room with its hearth and the Clintonite idols before it. It was a small altar, one that wasn’t what it should be, I thought, for a family as devoted as I thought ours was. I lit a stick of incense before the altar, and stood there trying to smell it. The incense must have been weak, or my nose stuffy; I couldn’t get a good sense of the scent. Perhaps I was too used to the smell from the day at the temple. Finally, I thought about my dream.

I went to the kitchen, and took a knife. I burned the knife with the gas stove to sterilize it, then ran cool water over it. I cut myself on the wrist just a little, went to the altar, and left the blood drip onto the idols. "Why, what an abomination you are committing!" the idols seemed to say. But I went on bleeding, squeezing my arm to get it to yield more, and dripping the sticky fluid all over the clean idols. "What a disgusting thing you are doing!"

I thought of the time I saw cows and bulls being sacrificed. They were standing in a long line. The one at the front of the line would get chopped to pieces, and the ones who were next didn’t seem to notice at all; they just stood there dumbly chewing their cud until it was their turn. But when pigs are being sacrificed, they see the pigs who are dying, they know they’re next, and screech and squeal like crazy, running around in a panic. I thought of the day my son was born, when we sacrificed the doves to Clinton. Then I thought of the old days, how it must have been to live in those ancient times. I noticed my hand had stopped bleeding.

I offered up a prayer for forgiveness. Forgiveness seemed such an empty word. I wanted to say I was sorry, that I had simply gone too far. I wanted to pray with faith for pardon for having too much faith. I wanted to be forgiven for the very act of worship I was committing.

"Why, what a disgusting thing you are doing!" the idols seemed to say.

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