Political Humor,

Locater Nun

Locater Nun. AKA the Plainclothes Nun. She was out and about. Again. She wasn't often still. She had a calling. It was her duty. Her job she sometimes thought. But. She consoled herself. The way was never easy. So. She cultivated perseverance. It was perhaps her most admirable quality. She persisted. No matter what. She did not give up. Stayed the course. Loyal. To herself. To her ideals. To the end.

As I say. Admirable. Perhaps. After all. The message must get out. An inspired message. Divinely inspired. Luckily she had a habit otherwise people would label her insane. But she did not believe in histrionics. Not like those who threw themselves to the floor. Speaking in strange tongues. Eating carpets. Fists and feet flailing. No sir. Not her. Not Locater Nun. No such antics for her. Her agenda was different. Her agenda was open and forthright. Above board.

Locater Nun was after hypocrisy. Sanctimony. She ferreted it out. But. Let us lay this to rest. For the moment. We'll pick it up later. Like a Puritan it will always be with us.

Now. A little about Locater Nun. Herself. The soul of the woman. Which wasn't as simple as some said. Simon. Put your mouth where your hands are. Put your feet in your mouth. Heh-heh.

You see. Some say she is of the establishment. That is. She has the corporate mindset. Because. She's a fine specimen of the Institution of God. Godliness. She succumbs. She knows her place. Has accepted her hooded state. She has been habituated. Even though she's a plainclothes nun. An undercover agent. As such. The saying goes. She can only think what she's been programmed to think. A robot for God. And. Of course. It is true. When you are inside the castle you cannot see beyond the walls. And. Again. Those who have been affected by the thought police don't know they've been effected by the thought police. But they think everyone else has been. Oh well. You know. When you're right you're right. And if you're right you're not left. Behind.

But this is being harsh. There is more to Locater Nun. Though for some there is only one. One thing. One to her.

You see what you want to see. Mirror mirror. Etc. Etc.

No. Locater Nun believed she was the Charioteer of God. She had a good soul. She. Herself. And. She took seriously. Literally. The dictum. "Go forth and stand upon the outside of heaven." Even here Locator Nun had her detractors. They said. Concrete thinking is a sign of mental instability. There are always naysayers. Let us be kind. Love your enemy. Otherwise how will you know what he or she is thinking?

The Charioteer of God. Locater Nun. Knows true knowledge. Abides there. In colorless formless intangible essence. Visible only to mind. The pilot of the soul. As they say. I am therefore I have thoughts without a thinker which demand a mind to think about them. Yes. Locater Nun was mindful of this. And so it was. That. Being nurtured upon pure knowledge she rejoiced at beholding Reality. Halleluiah! And she gazed upon Truth. And she was replenished. She was glad. Knowledge in absolute. Existence in absolute. Justice and temperance. In absolution. And. Beholding true Existence. She. Locater Nun. Passes down into the interior of heaven and says. Nay. I cannot accept ambrosia and nectar until all reality is saved. That is. All mankind.

What devotion. What dedication. Benevolence. Beneficence. Compassion is the greatest love. Let there be light!

Locater Nun's avowed job. Her chosen path. Her raison d'etre. Is to save other souls. To bring them enlightenment. By confronting them with reality. With the error of their ways. They are troubled. She believes. By uncontrollable steeds. Unruly Houyhnhnm. This is because these people are not strong enough. And so they are carried round and down. Plunging. Lunging. Treading on each other. Everyone striving to be number one. To be on the top. Falling. Espying. Failing again. Confusion. Perspiration. Extreme effort. They become lamed. Clip-winged fallen angels. Fruitless toil. And. Disillusioned. They imbibe opinion. Even though there is pasturage. Unable to follow. Unable to behold Truth. Ill-happed. They slip and slide into forgetfulness. And vice. Aiya! What to do? What to do!

Enter Locater Nun. Come to show them the error of their ways. Determined, Diligent. Demanding.

None. She vowed. None would escape her revelatory zeal. It was as if she were on a witch hunt. Only as if. You understand.

Hypocrisy. Sanctimony. She came after them

She kept a little black book. And in that book she noted who was naughty and who was nice. Who got their stockings filled. And who got their blocks of coal.

"There is no profit in a man's life," she began, "if his body and mind are in an evil plight. You must rid yourselves of these lurid sex stories from anonymous assistant crudite girls who work on arts and crafts service tables at this or that carnival of animals hoping, hoping for that big break only to uncover nonexistent penumbras of delight to airhead anti-humanists."

So went Locator Nun's hysterical anti-humanitarian rants. She traversed the land. In seven league boots even. Maintaining. In appropriate self-righteous tones. After all. She was saved. God's charioteer. Here to bring the fallen back to the proper way. The enlightened way. Yes. She maintained that the few anti-humanists were perverting the rest of humanity. And they had to be stopped. In their tracks. Before they led the goodly humanists over the abyss. They. The anti-humanists. Were traitors. To all of humanity. Humanism. The people who really cared.

But. Of course. They didn't know it. The anti-humanists. So. It was time the error of their ways was smashed unceremoniously in their repugnant faces. Locater Nun called them what they were. She called a spade a spade. She wasted no flowery rhetoric. Judgment was coming. Judgment would be swift. And final.

Taking a deep breath Locator Nun lowered her already worldly standards to speak in language that these traitors to humanity and humanism could understand. Traitors needed to have their anti-humanitarian ways thrust unceremoniously into their lurid disgusting pig-eyed little faces. Locator Nun was bringing home the bacon. Plopping it unceremoniously in their back yards.

And so. These are the kinds of things she said. Distilled. You understand. She'd been at this for oh so many years. Spurred on by her sense of mission. Her horses were becoming restless.

"Anti-humanists could never persuade humanists to follow their insane ideas. Infanticide. Sexual perversion. Adoption. Trigger finger tampering. Mixing and matching. Abolishing punishment finalities. Opportunity knocking. And yet. Anti-humanitarians wage a vicious campaign. Of vilification. And. Therefore. Of course. Craven moderately humanist humanists would be expected to follow."

Yes. She said, "We face moral choices. Between good and evil. Every day. Every day. Day in and day out. Everyman's everychoice everyday. If we make excuses for evil soon we cease being able to distinguish evil from good at all. With each choice we make. Large or small. We therefore take a step closer to the Devil. And so. Yes. They have made excuses for evil for so long they cannot recognize evil any more. The closest thing to it. Evil. In their vocabulary someone who wears fur. Yet many anti-humanists wear beards!" She would need to take a deep breath here. Sucking back the excess saliva that had accumulated on her rosy lips. Natural. No lipstick. You understand.

"Hiding their true selves. Behind their masks of fur. They are become amoral appeasers and foreign suck-ups whose faces are no stranger to confusion or befuddlement. Look at their beards for the love of God!"