Continuing from Why Tom Delay apologized
And Marilyn-Aphrodite saw the photos of Tom Delay on the tarmac at Andrews Air Force Base, and her heart wept for him, and she loathed herself for punishing him by abstaining from him, and went to him and said, “The photos of you on the tarmac struck me with unexpected force, for which reason I come to you now. Tom, please, the truth may hurt, but hear me out. ”
“Oh, Doll-baby,” said Tom Delay dropping to his knees, “don’t ever do that to me again. Don’t leave me, please. You don’t know what it’s been like around here. But Tom Delay has been fightin’ like the lion he is. You won’t have any reason to be ashamed of me, babe. I’m a winner.”
“I know you’re a winner, Tom,” said Marilyn-Aphrodite sadly.
“The press, the photographers,” said Tom, “you don’t know what it’s like, but I live for the contest.”
“Well, Tom, if you get out of your vain skin and think about it for a minute, you may reconsider and decide I know something about living on the stage.”
“Oh, no doubt you’re an icon, babe,” Tom said, eager to not anger his Marilyn-Aphrodite. “They say you were the most photographed woman in the world. And, to think, you’ve chosen me…”
“It took me years to fully flesh my Marilyn Monroe persona. There has never been another Marilyn, and never will be.”
“And there will never be another Tom Delay, ” said Tom.
“I should hope not,” said Marilyn-Aphrodite, gently patting Tom’s head. “Without a doubt, you are a repulsive, degenerate, distasteful, corrupt, thoroughly repugnant human being.”
“A matter of perspective.” Tom rested his head in Marilyn-Aphrodite’s delightfully perfumed lap.
“You are driven and driving, never resting, ever discontented, demanding more. You are a lover of money and conniving conjuror of the same. You are critical and condemning and unethical. Your history as a politician is not only infuriating, and contemptible, it’s a crime against nature and humanity. Your voting record is from hell because hell is your habitation.”
Voting records are not a matter of perspective, they are a matter of fact. Tom bristled. It was a little bit of bristle, he didn’t want to run Marilyn-Aphrodite off again, but he did bristle.
“Despite that low estate,” Marilyn-Aphrodite continued, soothing, stroking his hair, “the angels say you are failiing, you are falling, Tom, which doesn’t constitute demise as an individual with your passion, fury, prodigious connections and unfulfilled ambition is unlikely to consort with idle disuse. Whatever you are, you’re no George Bush, an acknowledgment I’m certain you’ll appreciate. It’s said you’re intelligent and I’ve no doubt that’s true, so it’s a pity your intelligence and seeming endless reserves of energy have been for decades absolutely invested in first ultra-conservative, then Dominionist, patriarchal, scorched-earth, death-cult, apocalyptic interests. But you are used to criticism, Tom, and you are used to vanity-petting praise…”
“Sticks and stones may break Christ’s bones, but his boundless love sustains and preserves me.”
“You’re not listening to me, Tom. I want you to listen to me and not go robotic.”
“Sure, doll-babe. Say what you want. I’m not stopping you.”
“You’re a perverse creature. You revel in that perversity, which is why I’m here with you, rather than with Bill Frist.”
Tom didn’t know what to say to that, so said nothing.
“I have faith in that perversity, Tom, your intelligence, your ability to withstand the slings and arrows and your martyr-enthusiasm for taking them on. But more than anything, I have faith in your twistedness. Political ambition has outlived its purposefulness for you, Tom, I see it in your eyes. You’re bored, and confused with that boredom. You are mortal, decrepit, feeble and the the pace of your fleeting days is wearing on you. But it’s not too late to be reborn and find life in a new role.”
Tom had to admit to himself he was listening with more than vague interest.
“Tom,” said Marilyn-Aphrodite, “If you would redeem your mortal flesh and immortal soul you must renounce Tim LeHaye, the Council of National Policy, your profession and devote your spiritual pursuits to my worship, or you could become a Quaker, that might do. Maybe a Unitarian-Universalist.”
“And, of course, you’d have to write a book about everything you know and have seen.”
But Tom’s wearied, unfocused mind had drifted elsewhere.
“So,” he said, “Frist is a total nut job?”