Betty Bowers, "America's Best Christian," dispenses her advice for fellow "lady Christians" at The Betty Bowers Online Ministry. Betty says that she is, "So close to Jesus, I returned the lingerie he bought me for Christmas." Betty is founder of "T.R.A.S.H," Traditional Families Raging Against Sluts and Homos ("Throw out the heathen Trash!").
With Jerry Falwell all in a titter about the Supreme Court Ruling that meant that you can't arrest homosexuals for cavorting in the privacy of their bedrooms -- and with Antonin Scalia clearly nervous that he was about to outed -- we couldn't think of a better Christian to turn to than Betty to explain what God is thinking about all of this, and who God has sex with and all that.
As a result, Betty was kind enough to pen us this confidential member, which BuzzFlash hopes that you will share with everyone in the non-pagan world.
A Confidential Memorandum from America's Best Christian, Mrs. Betty Bowers
Not to be disseminated to liberals and other unsaved trash
Dear Fellow Professional Conservative:
Perhaps, many of you think I was rendered inconsolable by the Supreme Court's Lawrence v. Texas decision, a stinging rebuke to industrious conservative Christians who employ an artfully edited version of Jesus to demean people who willfully refuse to cast themselves in my image. I can, of course, see where a misapprehension like this might arise. No doubt, if you caught me on Hannity & Colmes fulminating about America's slide into the depraved abyss that allows willful people to make up their own minds about how they wish to live their own lives, you might have reason to think I am angry – even sincere. But don't trouble yourself with unnecessary anguish on my account. And, please, don't think when leaders in the conservative Christian community complain about the decision we are being any more truthful than ubiquitous irritant Jennifer Lopez when she calls a press conference to bemoan publicity.
While dear Brother-in-Christ Jerry Falwell and I were in make-up at CNN, he confessed to soiling his alarmingly brief undergarments with emissions of spontaneous delight when the Lawrence decision was read from the bench. Since he is in the Religion Industry, like me, he knows that anything that can be parlayed into persecution hysteria can also be rapidly converted into envelopes stuffed with the Lord's most treasured gift, CASH.
Indeed, if I were William Bennett, I would bet that Jerry went out this very afternoon and bought that new British luxury car he had his covetous eye on all of last week! Isn't God good to us? Glory!
Why would Jerry and I be giddy in our delight over the Supreme Court's ruling, yet begin keening thirty minutes later (honestly, Jerry is, nowadays, requiring almost a jar of Max Factor for each chin) when the television cameras were turned on? Well, the answer is quite simple. We, in the most rabid and vocal delegation of the American right wing, have developed an ingenious marketing gimmick that takes considerable finesse to pull off. You see, even though we have most of the political and media power in America, we embrace powerless victimhood with more alacrity that wide-eyed, naïve Hilary Clinton revealing her utter dumbfounded surprise at finding out her husband had actually strayed – yes, been unfaithful! -- in Living History (a book being peddled as "nonfiction" presumably solely so it won't have to compete with Harry Potter on the New York Times bestseller list).
As you might imagine, convincingly playing a victim, while wielding the brutal power to denigrate and disenfranchise, which our enemies are either too polite or impotent to employ, takes smoking something and mirrors. Our righteously indignant potion for successful neoconservative invective in the current Cultural War is akin to Laura Bush's breakfast margarita recipe. As Laura always says: "If it doesn't burn on contact, you need to add more mind-altering substance!"
Similarly, to pull off the right wing's intoxicating brew of perpetrator-as-victim, we must mix equal parts careful cultivation of agitated paranoia with pithy vituperation. And, gals, you've shown shocking disregard for the attention span of your demographic if your putdown of liberals takes longer to articulate than it takes Laura to ignite a Parliament Menthol ("I used to smoke Virginia Slims, but after all the lying Tony Blair did for us, I thought the least I could do was start smoking ciggies named after their Congress-like building of those people").
The worst thing that can happen to right wing commentators and purveyors of commercial Christianity is for everything to go our way. Indeed, the American public's inability to notice, much less be shocked by, the autocratic Bush administration's seemingly deliberate attempts to rile the country up with double-dealings, ineptitude and lies was running perilously close to giving us nothing to complain about. That is why I am so grateful for a Supreme Court that always knows when to pounce to help conservative Christians (remember Bush v. Gore, when the court was thoughtful enough to sidestep a pesky issue of standing to help the unpopular candidate we wanted?). Just when the plausibility of our indignation was about to give up the ghost, Lawrence v. Texas rises like a foul-smelling Lazarus to miraculously fill us with the type of outrage that makes for wonderful television and wildly hysterical, yet successful, entreaties to tithe.
Frankly, as one of the leaders of American Christianity, Inc., I couldn't be happier. And I'm not the only one. Ann Coulter, who has made an industry out of feigned persecution, called me today to revel in our good fortune. Her call was the perfect opportunity for me to refresh my lovely cup of Kona coffee, while she gave my speakerphone a shrill upbraiding over being forced to listen to six Christian rock songs about blood while I had her on hold. When I returned to my office, Ann was segueing her wrath without discernible transition into coquettish delight. "Like, I haven't been this happy since Richard Mellon Scaife bought enough copies of "Treason" to make average Americans think people actually read my books!" she squealed.
With a patient smile, I said what I always say to the bulimic minx: "Eat something, dear." I had wanted to tell her the same helpful thing I had told Goldie "Baby Jane" Hawn at the Vanity Fair Oscars party ("Cut that hair; you haven't been seventeen since the Fourteenth Amendment."), but I had already hung up to take a delighted call from Pat Robertson.
