When I was in high school, I had to read the Screwtape Letters for an English assignment. I unabashedly loved them, and I didn’t like the other CS Lewis I had read.** There was humor, there was some solid theology, and there was some solid worldbuilding.
It was towards the end of the year, and the teacher gave us an option of either writing a straightforward essay on the book, or writing our own version of the Letters. I wrote my own version. In my rendition, a demon named Headley Gristmill creates the 2000 election disaster in order to test the faith of a Palm Beach County retiree named Bobo who lived in Whispering Palms Leisure Park. Bobo is unaffected, primarily because he thinks the word ‘chad’ is hilarious, and figures the influx of lawyers to his locale will give his lemonade and pickle stand more business.***
You know–normal stuff.
In recent days, I saw the fake Screwtape letters meme travelling around Facebook and felt the time had come to perhaps revive my satire. So, here is Screwtape Letters, continued!
** I KNOW. I KNOW. Revoke my Anglican card right now. In my defense, the Chronicles of Narnia are a really transparent allegory that gives short shrift to the female characters which irked me, even as a child.
***FYI: The character of Bobo and his friends at Whispering Palms went on to have several other adventures which I also wrote about. Look, some people get bored and do drugs, or drink. Me, I invent characters that amuse me and write bonkers letters from them.
Helldate July 25, 2016
It has not, perhaps, escaped your notice that I have not written you since the Great Defeat some years ago–when I, Headley Gristmill, first attempted to entrap one devastatingly simple denzien of Florida, only to meet with utter defeat. My downfall was great; my penance severe. I have only now, you will see, have returned from that pit of despair known as the waiting area of the Milwaukee Airport, wherein I have spent the last sixteen years in various and sundry minute temptations and irritations: flight delays, gate changes, inventive TSA regulations, and my personal invention–overhead storage that fills up in an instant.
While such nagging irritants does more to draw the humans away from the Enemy than nearly anything else, I felt that such monotony was beneath me–a descendant of some of the most fiendish minds of our times. Would Lady Gristmill be proud to see me administer fees for checked baggage? Would Undersecretary Hertzmunster VonBrine be pleased to hear me coax another infant to scream through a redeye flight? Nay. Blood (and maggots, but I digress) will triumph!
And so, I have emerged from my Wisconsin cocoon to undertake a new feat–one which, if I am successful, will prove more destructive to the Enemy than anything attempted in recent memory. (Except the invention of Jar Jar Binks. I remain jealous of that genius bit of devilry.)
I give you: your drunk uncle at Thanksgiving.
Think of it, Scrimshaw! The reality show blowhard postures about greed, hatred, and malice, while the cheers of good American citizens ring out across the countryside! Ah, it fills the cavernous void within my chest with delight just thinking of it.
The genius of this plan, however, is not the candidate. No–any mere imp may propose a highly irritating politician. Do not think so lowly of me! It is rare indeed that we find a person willing to echo our tenants so loudly or with such fervor, but no! Drumpf himself is not the crux of my plan. He is incidental.
Rather, the genius of the plan is what comes next–what creeps across the country in thousands of incidental ways. The mistrust that unfolds between friends, as their differing political views are now cause for alarm. The fear is unleashed against the Muslim, Latino, Black, and pretty much every other minority community. (Our Donald covers them all, doesn’t he?) The apathy that causes formerly engaged citizens to give up because they cannot take the ugliness and disappointment anymore. These, these, dear diary–are the true prizes. They are what will turn the people of this land away from the Enemy.
Do bear in mind, Scrimshaw, that the Enemy’s chief commandment is to love your neighbor as yourself. How better to turn people from this law, from the disgusting, weak-hearted law of Love, than to spread hatred, fear, and finally–apathy?
Once this plan meets with success, Scrimshaw, do remind me to regale you with tales of my tempting of Shari Lewis. Such a drubbing I gave to that damnable sock puppet.
Your dedicated cousin-twice removed,