Glenn Beck in Teabag Heaven:
Glenn Beck settles down to finally sleep. It had been a long day, an exhausting one, promoting his 9/12 Project, imploring people to protest the modest tax increase on the wealthy by joining in the April 15 tea parties all around the nation, calling for active but polite revolution, walking that high wire that he knows he's on as the leader of a burgeoning faux movement, balancing precariously between being a demagogic violent cult leader and a blustering buffoon, with people around him willing his fall to one side or the other or some merger of the two. Yes, after a day of that, Glenn Beck returned home for his night time routine: he smoked a little crystal meth, beat his kids for telling him not to beat them again, tied up his wife on the bed, shoved an enema up his ass and took a shit on her before jacking off in her hair, weepingly apologized while he untied her, downed a few Ambien, and headed to his office to watch burn victim porn until he could stagger over to the couch and collapse at last. It's the little things that get him through the days.
His dream is so very joyous. It is already Wednesday, and Beck senses that he's in Boston, surrounded by his followers, some merrily dressed in 18th century costumes, big titted women in bustiers and giant skirts, men with little pony tails or in white powder wigs and long coats, some imitating the founders - dressed as Thomas Paine or Ben Franklin - and others, an entire crowd, old and young, fat and skinny, holding signs praising Beck, demanding more teabags for justice, and there's Bill O'Reilly and Bill Hemmer and Sean Hannity, winking at him, telling him that it's okay that he's the star now. There's a giant banner that reads: "Teabagging for America." It had to be teabags. They're easier to carry than loose tea.
Humbled, a few tears coming down his face, he hoists a teabag into the air. It's Celestial Seasonings chamomile because, to Beck, in his dream there's something almost intolerably effete, no, faggy about it. Everyone, even the Fox people, raise their teabags. At the end of the wharf, where the original Boston Tea Party site is still being refurbished, Beck faces the water and says, "This is for you, Mister President. We teabag you in the name of the citizens of the United States," and he casts his teabag into the harbor. He turns back, ready to watch the others do the same, but when he sees the crowd again, a very, very different scene is laid out before him.
Instead of the proud 9/12ers, Glenn Beck sees dozens and dozens of people on their knees. Standing over them are ludicrously dressed men, in leather bondage gear, in perverse variations of button-down coats and breeches. There's obvious cross-dressers standing there. And all of them, every man standing, has his balls out. Not just out, but in the slurping mouths of the men and women on their knees in front of them. There's Neil Cavuto, with John Hancock's nuts bobbing in and out of his agape, lapping facehole, jacking himself off. O'Reilly's trying to tell Paul Revere how to put his balls in, but the old silversmith keeps shoving them in to shut O'Reilly up. There's Greta Van Susteren, bouncing up and down on a propped up dildo, sucking the twin orbs of a man in Betsy Ross drag. "Oh, God," Beck thinks, "oh, dear God, this is not what I meant at all." Crying now, he falls to his knees, yelling, "Please, stop the teabagging."
The sobbing Beck feels something rubbing on the top of his head and hears a voice saying, "Yef, yef, yef." Beck turns around, leans back, and sees a man in Revolutionary War-era garb with a large nose and short wig with his ballsack in his hand. He says, "Aye, Beck, your pointy hair feelf wonderful on my tefticlef. Thefe are the timef that try men'f foulf, you know."
The look, the use of "f" for "s." It dawns on Beck. "Thomas Paine?" The man bows, his nutsack swinging in front of Beck's face.
Paine gestures to his cold balls. "Fir, thif if a teabag party, if it not? Then thefe bagf are for you, fir."
"But, no, I can't..." Beck looks over and sees Sean Hannity fairly gobbling the balls of Benjamin Franklin. Catching him staring, Hannity gives Beck a thumbs up and goes back to work denuding Franklin's balls. Beck understands: this is what he has to do to make America safe.
So he gets his knees in a comfortable position and grimly, slowly, begins to lick Thomas Paine's balls. And, strangely, Beck discovers it's kind of fun, with Paine's hard cock rubbing the side of his face. Yes, yes, Glenn Beck decides that he likes teabagging. He likes the feel of patriot balls in his mouth. By god, he really loves balls. And he can feel himself getting an erection. This is great. A totally new sensation. And when Paine grabs him by his hair to make him slow his slobbering down a bit, Beck almost comes without touching himself. Indeed, this is a party now. A real teabag party. When one is concentrating on pleasuring a man's nuts, one forgets all about taxes. The only cause is seeing how hot you can get those boys.
Beck's alarm goes off. He thinks for a moment about the comfort of having a mouthful of balls. He twitches a little, having to keep the meth desire in check for the day, and decides to get moving. Reality is reality, after all, and he's got a whole nation waiting for his orders.