Dear Pat Robertson,
I know that you know that all press is good press, so I appreciate the shout-out. And you make God look like a big mean bully who kicks people when they are down, so I’m all over that action. But when you say that Haiti has made a pact with me, it is totally humiliating. I may be evil incarnate, but I’m no welcher. The way you put it, making a deal with me leaves folks desperate and impoverished.
Sure, in the afterlife, but when I strike bargains with people, they first get something here on earth — glamour, beauty, talent, wealth, fame, glory, a golden fiddle. Those Haitians have nothing, and I mean nothing. And that was before the earthquake. Haven’t you seen “Crossroads”? Or “Damn Yankees”? If I had a thing going with Haiti, there’d be lots of banks, skyscrapers, SUVs, exclusive night clubs, Botox — that kind of thing. An 80 percent poverty rate is so not my style. Nothing against it — I’m just saying: Not how I roll.
You’re doing great work, Pat, and I don’t want to clip your wings — just, come on, you’re making me look bad. And not the good kind of bad. Keep blaming God. That’s working. But leave me out of it, please. Or we may need to renegotiate your own contract.
Best, Satan
The city descended on Bourbon Street. New Orleanians, as a general rule, do not like to go there. It is a tourist trap, too crowded and cheap. But on Sunday night it was a beating, living, pulsating mass of people, like a capital city of some country after a dictator has been overthrown.
Beer-stained, bead-scattered Bourbon Street was black and gold wall to wall — the bars on either side were half empty, playing either “Stand Up and Get Crunk,” the Saints’ current theme song, or the old standby, “When the Saints Go Marching In.”
From the balconies, in lieu of confetti, they threw cocktail napkins. In lieu of expensive Champagne, people raised the cheap stuff.
A middle-aged woman stood in a doorway wiping tears from her eyes. In the middle of the street someone was holding up a banner: “HELL FREEZES OVER”
“We won the Super Bowl, brother,” said a man in a tuxedo, leaning on his friend who was wearing a Saints jersey. “Can you imagine that after 40 years?”