In The Name Of...

Origins of ATT

"I saw the war today - and it's a good one. One that God wants." She is one who worships the world in the name of God. Driving in her luxury isolation tube, she passes telephone poles piercing the bodies of crucified poor who wriggle in silent agony outside the soundproofing of her gleaming glass as gospel music emits in death minor. "The war on the poor must be!" she surmises in the worldly wisdom of rejected religion. In tithing she rationalizes: "To do a great wrong, do a little right."

"You cannot help the poor by helping them. They have to earn it!" She keeps her face buried in the trough of greed, filth and waste dripping from her soul as mutual pigs snort and nod in understanding of the unspoken conspiracy. In the daily supermarket of delivered goods thorns of the world dig deep into the heads of cashiers, tears of blood running down their smiling faces in quiet desperation. For their efforts as willing victims of war, she always says Thank You.

"God wants good things for me, I'm loved so much for my faith! The more you have, the more godly you are. Look at my monstrous mansion!" She giggles marvelously delighting in the bounty of billions of sadistic slaves toiling in doomed duty of planet servitude. But to find a dangling thread from her tailored shirt is cause for wailing without hope or hindrance of worldly injustice lamenting lands and peoples lacking her integrity, godlessness in the unenlightened hinterlands.

"Look at the soul God has bought for me! The sun rises for us, the chosen ones. If it were not good, it would not be allowed to be - just like the tax bill!" she observes from the perch of her tilting San Fransisco condo. In the living room resides a mountain of gold ingots descended from Moses; an irrefutable wealth in the eyes of Man. She places her hands and knees on consecrated Berber in impassioned supplication. "Forgive me, holy ingots, for I have sinned, holding pure thoughts that would destroy this wonderful world. In God's gold we trust!"

"My love of God will never die! I relentlessly ensure the maid polishes the silver to the highest standards. My will be done." Her Facecrook page lays littered with morality bites to be digested for lesser lives - while implying her previous conquering of such - as AI software diligently scans in the background for forbidden bare breasts to keep the world pure. Her skyline savior bursts in lighted glory as sewers fill with homeless vomit. The Son also rises in hidden waiting pounce.

"Breathe deep my gathering gold. From my comfort throne thorns of the world are the devil's demise. A Rolls-Royce soul parts the unwashed masses in revered awe. Sweatless saints are carried by stained sinners to a place of virtuous vice. I rule in contaminated contentment with my radioactive Rolex, voting jaded Jesus into office to preserve the reverence of my reign. Reject the Maker whose art is in heaven, hollow be Thy name, revelation devastation is Thy game. I ask you: in a world that lives to screw, what else can one do?"