Hey there you’re that weasel hanging around Saint Peter’s Gate. You sell your friends into moral servitude and say it’s grace. Then you pray with their enemies and prostitute their faith. A king’s kiss-ass court jester, making funny faces, pretending you can get by with make-believe until the mirror makes you explain. So you address it with charm and think you don’t look any more insane than the people you like to frame. Oh, you can’t be blamed—too much of a coward. You got all the crippled front and center for the firing squad. “Good God!” you say, and applaud as the first hand reaches for salvation, then give an alibi to confrontation. You weren’t abandoned, but you used the Lost Orphan Act your whole damn life to get by on everything you lacked. All the while, your family sleeps in the trenches because you sold them into slavery and tell tales of how you escaped that too, with great bravery. In all fairness, I think you are a saint yourself the one who gets the messiah nailed to a pole, then cries over his body to steal a piece of his skin and sell it at auction while swearing he pardoned your sin. In the sincerest hour, on the darkest night, I write this not to be clever but to say: I see you, man. One thing should be understood: For every laugh you gain from another’s failing state, you get spit out by angels in the book of hate. So be the weasel at Saint Peter’s Gate. Just hang around.