Glenn Beck sat at the head of a long table, enjoying a fine, populist cigar and a very expensive glass of humble whiskey, all paid for with money that he had earned by pulling up his Italian leather bootstraps. His fellow dinner party guests were finishing the last bites of foie gras and caviar and lobster and other delicacies. It was a peasant’s meal, really, if you thought about it. Because peasants were always very hungry, and Glenn Beck had eaten a lot, the way that a very hungry person would.
“Glenn, give us a blustery, unfounded opinion that you seem to think is filled with jokes but actually has no jokes in it,” someone said.
Glenn Beck began to talk about the way that politicians were dismantling the United States. His face flushed red and he banged his fist on the table and in keeping with the request, he made absolutely no sense. At one point, he began to cry like a baby, and then he burst into laughter at something that was definitively unfunny. Something to do with the Afghani opium trade’s funding of the Taliban as they hid in the dangerous mountains of Waziristan.
“That’s good,” Glenn Beck said, “I should save that for my next simulcast comedy show.” And then Glenn Beck peed his diaper.
“I made a pee pee,” Glenn Beck said casually. And then Glenn Beck spent another half hour just stringing words together.
Most of the people at the dinner party had returned to their own, private conversations. But Glenn Beck, consumed with a manic, childlike energy, and a manic, childlike intellect, continued to spout off incomprehensible, enraged rhetoric. He was an American hero. Salt of the Earth. He rubbed greasy fingers shiny with duck fat against the imported silk of his $1,000 necktie. His belt, made from the skin of an endangered animal, strained at the waist of his tailored, English slacks. He could smell the dirt of the farmlands even here, in midtown Manhattan. The sun beat down on his brow as he sweated his good, American sweat from the toils of his labor. Of course, the sun did not beat down on his brow as he was in a private dining room in a three-star restaurant with a month-long reservation list. But he could feel the sun the way that the American people who needed him felt the sun, those solid, hearty people who were too dumb to know anything but were lucky enough to have him explain it to them. And he would! Right here! And anyone who was not able to hear it could catch up later, at one of his comedy shows, because he did comedy shows now, because apparently he’s a comedian now. Or his TV show. Or his radio show. Who keeps giving him all these fucking shows? Glenn Beck didn’t know. Who kept giving farmers all those plants? It’s the same thing.
And then Glenn Beck pooped his diaper.
Glenn Beck was happy to sit for hours in a pee-soaked diaper saying whatever came into his head whether it made sense or not, but Glenn Beck was a man, and Glenn Beck would not sit around in a poop filled diaper. “I MADE A POO POO!” Glenn Beck shrieked, and then Glenn Beck began to cry.
His 24-hour diaper nurse picked Glenn Beck up in her arms and carried him to the women’s room. Glenn Beck, a full grown adult man, should use the men’s room, but there wasn’t a changing table in the men’s room. And this was a fancy, expensive restaurant of the people, so you could pretty much do what you wanted and no one would say anything to you, especially if you were a down-to-Earth celebrity.
Glenn Beck did not stop crying as he nuzzled his mucus-y face into her (surprisingly strong) shoulder. He did not stop crying as she laid him down on the changing table and gently slid his pants to his ankles. Glenn Beck cried as his 24-hour diaper nurse removed his soiled diaper, wiped him clean with Wet Wipes, which she carried with her at all times, for her job, as Glenn Beck’s 24-hour diaper nurse. He did not stop crying as she carefully, so carefully, slipped a fresh, clean diaper under Glenn Beck’s bottom, undid the tape strips at the side, and secured Glenn Beck’s brand new diaper in place. As the 24-hour diaper nurse pulled Glenn Beck’s pants back up and fastened them at the waist and tightened the exotic, semi-precious belt, alligator tears poured from Glenn Beck’s eyes, and he wailed with an animalistic intensity that only hinted at the great wealth of stupidity within him. Even as Glenn Beck was led back to the table, clean now, no poop or pee in his pants at all, he blubbered and spittle foamed in the corners of his mouth and his nose opened like a slow running faucet of thickest snot and his red eyes squeezed out insincere, self-absorbed tear after insincere, self-absorbed tear. Everyone at the table avoided eye contact with Glenn Beck for a full hour and a half as the crying continued until finally, after an additional half-hour of attention seeking sniffling and snot-on-sleeve-wiping, Glenn Beck let out a loud, infantile laugh, farted, and continued on with his self-serving monologue of empty political demagoguery.
This process repeated itself four times throughout the evening.