They’re Washing My Brain, May I Have Yours?
Waking from his nightmare vision of the coming zombocalypse, my internet boyfriend tried to share his sense of horror and relief. He often dreams of apocalyptic threats, but found the zombie nightmare unusually evocative.
I shared his horror, but I’ve been watching too much Glenn Beck to experience his relief.
My Beck-binges wouldn’t matter if I didn’t always believe him. Unfortunately, I find myself shaking in my combat boots at least once per broadcast. Perhaps I can blame my fondness for conspiracy nuts and willingness to consider their arguments, but I blame Beck’s utter sincerity. Who can doubt his commitment to America when he starts tearing up and shouting? It takes more cynicism than I can muster.
The sense of impending doom is worst when I watch alone. Once, after a particularly gruesome broadcast, I became convinced that America’s children were in real danger of being locked in a gymnasium and tortured by terrorists seeking to destroy us all. I almost called my mother to see if my cousins were in school before I checked the broadcast and realized that the ‘information’ was four years old.
Watching Glenn Beck is a lot like watching a horror movie. His hatred of me and my kind (we’re the PPP, Progressive PC Police!) just upsets me more. You know how the promiscuous girl gets the goriest slaughter? Yeah, that’s me. I die painfully in the imminent apocalypse whether it comes at the hands of America-hating terrorists or America-loving Beck followers.
Why does Glenn Beck hate the PPP? We get upset when he implies that Obama is unfit to govern because he’s black. The argument runs something like this:
(1) President Obama is black;
(2) He was raised by communists/Marxists/socialists who believe that the “the white man” is responsible for every minorities problems;
(3) Obama referred to his grandmother as a “typical white person”;
(4) President Obama blames white people for all of his problems;
(5) President Obama resents white people too much to govern a majority-white country.
The unfortunate stereotype that black men always die first in horror movies mirrors this argument. Let’s not forget that the black protagonist of Night of the Living Dead, the standard against which all zombie movies are judged, made it into the final frames. Perhaps this stereotype persists because too few black people make into horror movies to begin with. We won’t know how they fare until they’re put through the same torture as everyone else (which is to say, all the white people).
So why do I believe him anyway? I doubt it’s a survival fantasy, because again, my relative promiscuity doomed me long ago. Ultimately, I believe him out of good old-fashioned paranoia; his sincerity validates my belief that there’s someone out to get me. What’s your excuse?