Animated Prayer

Dear God,
Please take us away from Pinellas Park, Florida. I miss watching cartoons on Saturday morning. Ed, Edd and Eddie, Mucha Lucha!, Teen Titans. Those are my favorite cartoons. Thank you God for cartoons.

Why is everyone so angry, God? In church, Pastor Reynolds says we should love our brothers and respect our fellow man. But out here he's been so angry. I've heard some bad things about the husband of the lady in there, the lady who they've tied down and aren't feeding. That's a bad way to kill someone. Why are they killing her God? My mom won't tell me exactly what happened to her. She says "Pray for Terri honey. Just pray for Terri." And I am, but I don't know why, exactly.

I sure like my sleeveless t-shirt. Baby-blue is my favorite color. I wanted to get all my shirts in baby-blue, but my dad won't let me. He scolds me for saying baby-blue. "It's just blue." But I know it's baby-blue. I have a crayon the exact same color and it says baby-blue on the box. It's my favorite crayon too.

I like laying in the grass and looking up in the sky. The sky is baby-blue too. I pretend I'm flying. Flying far, far away. Dad says I play pretend too much. I asked him if praying and playing pretend were the same thing. He sent me to my room with no dinner.

Everyone is praying really hard now for Terri. God, why do people pray? It doesn't seem like much fun. There are people crying. People are saying your name over and over. Two days ago, Gramma passed out and the police had to help her get awake. The ambulance even showed up! That was really sweet. I wanted to ride in the ambulance, but my dad yelled at me. He said it was serious, and I needed to pray for Gramma and Terri now. Pray, pray, pray.

So I am. I don't know any of the other kids here. Well, except the Baileys. But they're in home-school and wear homemade clothes. No baby-blue there. Mom buys all our clothes at Wal-Mart. She lets me push the buggy. I love going to Wal-Mart! Mom laughs when I try on all the sunglasses and hats in the store. I'm so happy when she laughs. Not like this.

People press their hands together so tight that their fingers turn white! Dad said he's going to let me run in there with some water for Terri, but I told him I was scared. He didn't say anything, but I could tell he was mad at me, again...

I just found out Terri died. My mom is crying. Dad walked away and kicked over a trashcan. Everyone is yelling and the police are starting to tell everyone to leave. I think Gramma just fell down again.

Am I a sinner because I'm relieved? I hope not, but I just don't understand why we are here God. The sky is baby-blue this morning. If I pray hard enough I can hold Terri's hand and fly away with her into the baby-blue sky.

Hospice of Cards

Terri's angel will look down from whatever blessed paradise she's sitting in, and she'll witness the fall of Republican party. Her death circus has alienated the far Christian right (the Chrazies) against all the other Republicans (Chrazy-lite). This private issue played out on the floor of Congress has already driven a tremendous wedge, and the resulting political outcome of Terri's imminent passing couldn't be better.

Blue flowers will grow from the unfortunate grave of Ms. Schiavo.

Calls for help to Florida Governor Jeb Bush are met with "My hands are tied." So are your Presidential hopes Jeb.

For fucks sake, are we really considering a president named "Jeb"?

The Bush line resembes the "devolution of the fake-Texas billionaire", from upright and wearing a suit into a hunched, NASCAR hootin' redneck. I don't know where the Bush twins fit in there. Judging from the squinty, weirdly lascivious glances of "Daddy" and "Uncle Jeb", I'd bet these red-blooded, Southern boys could find a few positions.

Oops...I forgot, I can't mention the word "evolution". Let's call it the "de-creation of the fake-Texas billionaire".

Back to Ms. Schiavo, Jeb wishes there was something he could do. If given the chance, he'd roll Terri out in her bed at the 2008 Republican convention.

Terri would be done up in heavy makeup with teased Southern hair. The piggish goblins waving "Bush 2008" signs would launch into a frenzied orgy of cheers and "Oh, she's so pretty! She looks so happy. Thank God, Jeb saved her." I feel queasy.

Politicians are no longer kissing babies, they're kissing patients in vegetative states; the sunny kiss on an infant's cheek replaced with a filthy, public tongue raping. The Christian right gave up on kissing babies a long time ago. That's a fight they've lost too many times. And this one they've lost too. The hourglass keeps going.

Goodbye dear Terri and goodbye Republican solidarity.

Dinner with Terri

I sat at the small bedside table, tastefully appointed with a chocoloate velvet tablecloth. A single setting of porceline china and a fine crystal wine glass were lit by the dimmed lights of the hospice room and a tall red candle on the table.

I suddenly realized my dinner guest had already arrived. Languidly lounging on the other side of the table was Terri. How gauche of me. I must work on my punctuality. Well, this is where she is stored. I guess my punctuality was a mute point. Ah, thank you.

Terri looked fantastic; she was all skin and bones. "Girlfriend, you've lost some weight!" I complimented as her head rolled to the right. I swirled a lovely burgundy on my tongue before accepting the bottle from Dolores, one of many of Terri's very expensive care staff.

"Terri. It's been too long. What have you been up to?" Terri's head rolled back to the left. "Oh, stop. I'm going to choke on my wine." Terri was always a cut-up. And indeed she was making a fashion statement tonight. Her simple flowered bed dress (at formal dinner nontheless) certainly upstaged my coture smoking jacket, leather pants and saffron shirt ensemble. Terri's knack for simplistic style was well known among our social circles.

I continued to chit-chat with her for several minutes. She'd gurgle or her eyes would roll. We discussed how hoochie Paris has gotten lately. How thin Mary Kate is. I assured Terri the (lack of) weight looks great on her, but not MK. I asked her if she's seen that new show where they swap wives. "Terri, you'd be such a hoot on that show! You should totally try out." Her head rolled to the right and she stared at me blankly.

Finally our dinner arrived. I had a medium-rare filet mignon with mustard, caper sauce; petite green beans sauteed in garlic butter; mashed sweet potatoes with a pecan-raisin chutney, and for dessert, chocolate mint mousse. And the bottle of wine was nearly gone by the third course. I savored every bite, practically singing with each gourmet morsel.

Terri was to have protein goo force-pumped down a tube, but she's not eating right now.

Terri is such a nut with her weirdo diets. Well finally the night came to an end. I was indeed more than a little tipsy and the flighty prattle of the early evening took a darker tone as the candle burned into nothing and the shadows in the corners of that tiny hospice room became deeper, more ominous.

It was then I could hear the zealous prayers from outside the building. I sensed the dark, ironic thoughts of those bearers of the "culture of life" promising death to those who dare oppose them.

And why are we so worked up over Terri's tragic situation? I saw visions of Hades, Nirvana, Heaven, Olympus and Limbo. I heard the murmurs of ancient mummification rituals; priests giving theirs lives to serve their kings for all eternity. Crowds cheered at public executions and the screams of young girls burned as witches filled my mind. Boyhood friends gasped at bootlegged snuff films, then rewound to watch the splatter over and over and over. We mourned, yet secretly relished, the visceral internet beheadings, and celebrity murders cover magazine racks as families buy their groceries; the chalk outline transcended to mundane, urban art. My eyes grew wide like the dilated eyes of a child watching that slow motion procession as the family car passes a highway tragedy. All the blood, broken glass and a child's shoe left among the twisted, still smoking wreckage. My eyes snapped shut and I heard a pleading woman's voice crying, "Humanity is a culture of death! Don't they see? Why don't they know?"

I inhaled sharply and opened my eyes. I had nodded off. Terri still lay there. Her head rolled to the left and she smiled blankly, peacefully, staring into the dark, sepulchral room. I wished Terri goodnight and folding my napkin across the table, quietly left to the muffled chorus of "God Bless America" from outside the window.