Bono & Merkel- a match made
in the deepest pits of Hell
I'm a big fan of the film Bedazzled, both the Cook/Moore original and the Fraser/Hurley remake (shut up). Both films riff on the old Faust routine, the proverbial --or actual, in this case-- deal with the Devil in order to show you that the house always wins and you always get the shite end of the stick. Natural facts, is all.
The takeaway in Bedazzled is that the Devil isn't just enormously powerful, he's actually the greatest legal mind in history. There's a reason Satan is introduced in the Book of Job as the "Adversary," or essentially, Jehovah's Attorney General. He knows the Law like nobody's business and he's here to make sure you choke on it.
So open wide, Bucko.
It doesn't matter how clever you think you are there's always gonna be a line item on page 5,682 of Appendix Z, written in maddeningly ambiguous language, that will piss all over your hopes and dreams.
Another one of my favorite films is The Devil's Advocate (no, seriously-- shut up), the 1997 potboiler that pits a scenery-gobbling Al Pacino against an overmatched and somewhat bewildered Ki-Anu Reeves, with a young and pert Charlize Theron caught in the middle, much to her misfortune.
In a climax so over the top it practically bounces off the Chrysler Building, Pacino's Satan unloads on Reeves with his great secret-- he doesn't make anyone do anything. He just puts that delicious cheese in the trap and lets all the hungry little rats discover it on their own. He insists that he loves humanity, only problem being that we shaved apes are too stupid to play his kind of chess. Kind of like we're forever Charlie Brown and he's forever Lucy. Fer.
The reason I bring this all up is that Paul David Hewson--better known to the world as Bono Vox, lead singer of U2-- made his own deal with the Devil back in 1980 or so, when he chose riches and glory over the Gospel.
This certainly isn't a value judgment on my part, it's just how he frames it himself.
You see, before the release of their first album, 3/4s of U2 were mixed up with Shalom, a Charismatic Christian sect (or cult, whatever floats your boat) run by an ex-SAS paratrooper (if memory serves) named Chris Row.
HERESY AND HYSTERIA
For those of you who can't tell one batch of holy rollers from the next, Charismatic Christianity is pretty intense and often intensely sexually-charged. It's a Mystery cult in all but name, essentially a stock-and-barrel rebirth of the old Attis Mysteries. Only without the mushrooms and sex orgies. Openly, I mean.
Some Charismatic services--like the Holy Ghost rave-ups in Pentecostal churches-- make most rock concerts these days seem pretty tame. Which is probably why Fundamentalists and Evangelicals tend to hate Charismatics, seeing their churches as estrogen-drenched pits of heresy, hysteria, wife-swapping and sodomy.
The thing is they're pretty much correct in that assessment. And by correct in that assessment, I think I mean "jealous."
One of my old girlfriends used to take me to Charismatic Catholic meetings at Sacred Heart and they could get pretty intense. My Jewish pharmacist--who was like a father to me, only without the booze and abuse-- converted there after his wife's cancer went into remission after attending those meetings. I have heard that a fog of estrogen has amazing medicinal properties. On Science Today, or something.
And since this is my life we're talking about here, a terminal fugue-state in which Death and Chaos seem to have been constantly hovering overhead since birth, my very first Charismatic meeting came a few hours after I watched police divers pull the body of a 15 year-old girl out of the water and onto the beach of the Quincy Dam behind the South Shore Plaza.
I believe it was the last day of school and she drowned after getting her leg caught in the branch of a sunken tree. Not a great start to the summer. But as much as I hate to admit it, the trauma kind of amped up the experience.
And true to Charismatic form, that girlfriend in question was one of the most elementally sexual people I've ever known (she went to prom six-months pregnant...with another girl). She still is, in case you were wondering, and still attends weird, tonguesy kind of churches. The last time I saw her (back in 2014), we had a really intense discussion about UFOs. Really enjoyed it.
BUT I DIGRESS...
My point is it's not like U2 were sitting around with the hairshirts and cat-o-nine-tails, moaning into the gloom over their sins. But neither was it like rocking in the free world, with dollars falling from the heavens and young American nubiles throwing themselves at their feet.
Charismatics can get pretty wild (wife-swapping, the DL, etc) I've heard tell, but it's an all-or-nothing deal. It's not like being a Presbyterian. When you're a Jet, you're a Jet all the way. Backsliding only goes in one direction.
This lifestyle can get so intense that U2 were seriously considering chucking in all that rock-combo business and throwing down for the Paraclete, even after their first album made a big buzz in the States.
But this fallen, irredeemable world is Satan's Kingdom-- or the Archons', if you prefer-- and Island honcho Chris Blackwell almost certainly threw big devil-dollars in U2s faces in order to lure the young Dubliners away from the Narrow Gate.
Especially seeing how Blackwell's top earner (Bob Marley) died from a mysterious bone cancer while U2 were barnstorming around on their first US tour.
Most people would say the band made the right decision, seeing how things panned out. But there's no doubt it left them with nagging feelings of guilt, especially young Bono.
This guilt, of course, burned like a homing beacon to Attorney-at-Law Devil E. Satannas, Esq., and he came a-calling with his top-shelf, can't-miss grift: world-saving.
So after galloping around telling interviewers how corny and square bands like The Clash were with their soft-boiled socialist politics, Bono immediately stepped right into Joe Strummer's Doc Martens and started penning his own "anthems," mostly vague and uncontroversial toetappers about world peace and no-nukes and so on. Don't bomb us, Mr. Reagan, tra la la, hey.
As it happens, Bono and the band continued to profess their religion and seemed able to chase the guilty's away with some newly-minted World Council of Churches social gospel sloganeering, reading straight out of the Rockefeller hymnal. Everyone wins.
But at some point it all went pear-shaped and Bono morphed into the Oligarchy's go-to court jester. Since, I don't know, 1993?, there hasn't been a neo-colonial con Bono didn't sign off on, a pseudo-cause for which he paused, a globalist gambit he didn't ambit.
Admit it; when you think of that sickening puddle of one-worlder shills the media is constantly trying to ram up our collective pisshole, you can't help but see Bono in his hepatitis-yellow shades, mugging and preening and photobombing.
As if he's some kind of postmodern John, baptizing all the corruption and deception with his all-powerful Bono-sauce. And it was fun while it lasted, certainly.
It always is, until the Devil sends the bill.
And boy oh boy, should our Paulie have read the fine print. This bill comes with a motherfucker of a past-due notice.
Now, I don't know if our Bono ever really believed that these foundations and charities that the filthy rich park their beer-money in were ever anything but rawboned shucks and grifts. You get the sense that he's so smitten with the waft from his own taint that he just might have.
Or maybe this is my own youthful churching, assuming the best of everyone. Gets me into trouble, that does.
Because the Devil isn't just the world's greatest legal mind, he's also its Master Salesman. Ol' Nick may well have strung poor Paolo along the Road Paved with Good Intentions until the Irishman found he was in over his head in brimstone. We're not well-acquainted enough for me to say.
But you know how it is; a compromise here, a compromise there and all of a sudden the Devil's up in the foyer, eyeing which heirlooms he'll haul away first.
Satan's a closer, doubt it not.
But since I still cherish the memories of my pre-War love affair with U2 (and my like-affair with the Eno-era), I don't want to think Sir Bono let the rot set in so deep on his watch.
I want to believe that Lord Vox was off in his 12th Century Norman Castle in County Cork (or whatever), gazing with rapt adoration into the mirror and planning his next world-saving press junket or writing his next immortal pop classic.
But that nonsense, that's Children of God-level shenanigans here. This is MI6 honeytrap shenanigans, even. Yeah, I always want to believe the best of everyone until I find out it's always the worst.
But as if that weren't wince-toast enough, ol' Bono then did the most chuckleheaded thing you can imagine in the Twittermob Era; the dumb fuck apologized. Not only apologized but queefed out the lamest, saddest, cringiest apology you've ever heard.
We are all deeply sorry. I hate bullying, can't stand it. The poorest people in the poorest places being bullied by their circumstance is the reason we set up ONE.
So to discover last November that there were serious and multiple allegations of bullying in our office in Johannesburg left me and the ONE board reeling and furious. You question the whole reason you're doing this.
And as if there wasn't enough blood on the tracks, the poor bastard admitted fault and foreknowledge:
My team and I heard concerns about low morale and poor management in this office but nothing along the lines of what emerged recently.
I was assured that those concerns were being dealt with – clearly, they were not. I'm thankful that Gayle Smith, ONE's new chief executive (former US Agency for International Development boss), has taken swift and decisive action to address what had gone badly wrong.
Although the bullying allegations centre on an individual (an accomplished female executive formerly of the African Development Bank and the World Bank), the head office failed to protect those employees and I need to take some responsibility for that.
Who the hell is advising this guy? Peter Griffin? Maybe I was wrong about the flagellation.
Bono here might as well have drenched himself in fresh chum and gone for a few laps in the shark tank at the New England Aquarium.
Proving yet again he's no Dylan, the Great Wordsmith pinched out one last wincer:
In fact, if they would agree, I would like to meet them and apologise in person.While ONE isn't funded by governments or the public, we should still uphold the highest standards the public would expect.Mother of Fuck. Why didn't you just leave the combination to the vault in the mailbox, Bono? You may as well by the time this mess is over. Because this tweet here pretty much spells out how your employees feel about the situation....
Maybe you can meet with the disgruntled employees after you fix your wife's boyfriend's supper, Bono. He's in the mood for a french dip tonight and sincerely hopes the pullout couch isn't too uncomfortable.
By the way, they're fresh out of Astroglide; be a dear and fetch some more at the chemists? Cheers.
And even more unfortunately for our Bonster, this ain't even his first rodeo with this ridiculous con his grifter chums are running for him. Look for that little headline up there to come back and bite poor Bono.
Worse still, the dictator-coddler that Bono tapped to helm this sham dropped some 24-karat feministing on Twitter, just before the world learned she was lording over the whoring of her female employees to the Jr. Assistant to the Associate Water Commissioner of Nowherenia Province.
That, just a few weeks before Bono cringe-bombed us with a week-late "shithole country" mic-drop while he and the boys lamed up the airwaves with their latest Lo-T bopper, titled who gives a fuck.
They probably thought the giant eyes ingratiated them with the Jay-Z set, and threw in Non-Binary Mithras as a shoutout to MC M-Double-B and the gals at Kappa Beta Phi.
The irony here being that Bono shoots out all the right goodspeak at the same time his little vanity operation is squeezing workers-- particularly disadvantaged women-- in those self-same countries by doing crap like screwing them on taxes and trying (?) to whore them out hither and yon.
Now, Trump certainly tends to rankle and offend and tick folks off with his pig-knuckled Queens-English and Atlantic City argot, but Bono and his UN-Davos-Bilderberg chums are the ones who are actually taking the shits.
And now they want the rest of their world in their outhouse.
See what I mean? Fine print, Paulie D, fine print. That Devil will give ya a right curbing if you don't pay close attention. And he's a real knife-twister with the irony.
Loves irony, he does.
So, you may be asking, who's on the board of this Bonodoggle? Oh, just the usual hustlers and pirates. Two in particular stand out...
...namely porcine-erotica afficianado David Cameron, the political genius who oversaw the dissolution of Great Britain. That's Sam Cameron, Dave's partner-in-crime, proudly waving the Orange around in the air like they just don't care.
Grab a rope and they'll pull ya in, they will.
And then of course there's Ron Perelman, the mastermind who drove Marvel Comics into utter financial ruin and nearly took comics and superheroes down with him. Here's the Perel-y Dewdrop dropping one on Halle Berry, who looks utterly thrilled by the attention.
But even with that august company there are still a few circles to descend before we reach bottom...
I'm trying to work out the math here- so U2 maybe signed their first pact in 1979, when they were up-and-comers. Then they re-signed in 1998 when the execrable Pop laid a big goose egg.
So yeah, if we assume ol' Nick goes by the Metonic Cycle, I'd say their contract was up for renewal round about November of 2017.
So yeah, if we assume ol' Nick goes by the Metonic Cycle, I'd say their contract was up for renewal round about November of 2017.
And maybe the lads got a bit too big for their briefs and decided to sign with Darth Soros instead. So maybe ol' Beelzebub didn't appreciate the competition--or maybe the Sith Lord is too demonic even for him-- and the Lord of Things That Fly let loose a couple swarms on Bono's picnic.
Hence the Irish press-- the bloody ingrates-- took aim at U2s legendary and longstanding tax evasion, sensing metaphysical blood in the water.
Maybe more so now that new U2 album is underperforming, with only 250K sales so far, reportedly. Joshua Tree probably sold 250K over a weekend back in the day, yo.
Maybe next the press will train their sights on Bono's cozy relationship with the United Nations, whose systematic sexual abuse of children is so egregious that there's even a wikipedia entry for precisely that. Wikipedia not being exactly keen for manning the stanchions against organized pedo rackets, I might add.
(While we're on the subject, Bono, maybe you can explain this one sometime. No rush, it's just that I really love this album but probably on account of I originally got it with the non-creepy-icky cover art).
And my oh my if the floodgates aren't opening on all this fake-charity rapeyness and various- and-sundry One-Worlder devilry.
Don't get me wrong, I'd love to buy the world a Coke and teach it to sing in perfect harmony, too. Who wouldn't, right? It all looks so enticing on the commercials.
Only problem is that Bono's drinking buddies aren't really concerned with universal love and brotherhood and partridges in pear trees. "Diverse" is just a word they use to describe their portfolios.
No, the Davos-Bilderberg agenda is "Grab it All, Own It All, Drain it All," as the great Jack Kirby once darkly prophesied. And your middle class delusions are getting in the way of their profits.
Yeah, I realize I'm not even a smear on your Berlutis but I'd advise you to back the fuck away, Bono my boy. Take the money and run. Go on. Get back, get back to where you once belonged.
Don't let it get all sad and arthritic like the Stones.
Plus, the Devil's dogs have got your taint-stink in their noseholes and there may well be more bottom to plumb down there in Hell. Hey, just sayin', is all. I'd want someone to warn me.
PS: Drop by on Saint Paddy's if you like and we can continue the conversation, Bon-Bon. The corned beef and cabbage is on me. You bring the brews. I have some mint Clash boots you probably haven't heard yet.