In the beginning was the Word,
and the Word was with God,
and the Word was “accessorize.”
I am equal parts holy relic and regional pageant tiara. I am crucifix and courtroom bling. I am a sacrament. I am a statement piece.
I am forged of divine gold sourced from the sacred hills of Medjugorje. I was purchased at a Miami-Dade jewelry store that is really a front for a Medicare fraud scheme. As God intended.
I sit just above the sternum, where Christ’s unblemished mercy meets freckled cleavage. I hang, heavily and blessedly, where divinity schmoozes décolletage on the clavicular altar of Florida’s own Evangelical Barbie.
I repel Stephen Miller. I have felt the breath of Bret Baier. I have grazed Ron DeSantis’s nipples during an awkward hug at a prayer breakfast fundraiser. RFK Jr. has used me to draw fault lines in the finest Colombian snow of West Palm. Lindsey Graham clutches me during thunderstorms.
Yeah, though Pam spills Red Bull
and vodka on me with alarming frequency,
I shall not tarnish.
My luster shall endureth
the prosecutions of Tesla vandals
and the titillating Luigi Mangione.
For I am polished in the blood of the Lamb
and misted with Bumble
and Bumble Spray de Mode Hold Hairspray.
I emit Christ’s transformative love, especially under soft Fox News lighting. I radiate Christ’s redemptive mercy. I reflect the glint of the inferno that is the Department of Justice.
My chain is twisted like scripture in a campaign ad and as delicate as an invertebrate GOP senator’s hydrostatic skeleton. My clasp is more secure than the Mar-a-Lago document vault.
I do not tangle. I dangle like an executive order over a large “law” firm.
I am bigger than Kristi Noem’s little rose gold cross. Also, rose gold!? Ew. 2014 called. It wants its signature precious metal back.
And Jesus said,
“I was a stranger and you welcomed me.”
and Pam said unto He,
“Not without three forms of photo ID and documentation.”
She pairs me with off-the-shoulder blouses and unconstitutional executive orders.
I do not judge. Only God judges. I just work with a blazer to draw the eye downward so Pam looks taller.
I once was lost in a tanning bed but now am found, smelling of amazing grace and coconut frosting.
I am Pam’s covenant and her camouflage. She toucheth me mid-interview, and I amplify her piety like a holy satellite dish.
I am bigger than Kayleigh McEnany’s cross. Her cross sayeth, “Ecclesiastes and Etsy.” I sayeth, “A reading from the Gospel according to 👊 🇺🇲🍺”
“Prepare ye the way of the Lord.”
And Pam replied, “Okay, but make it a toll road.
For wide is the gate and broad is the shoulder cutout blouse
that leadeth unto the donor dinner.”
I am luminous in the flicker of boardroom lights as Pam declared, “Blessed are the shareholders, for theirs is the kingdom of privatized incarceration.”
Karoline Leavitt’s cross? It’s like Pinterest and Proverbs meet Ruth’s Rhinestones. Me? I’m like, “Hold my beer, Beelzebub. I’m about to cast out some demons (and by ‘demons’ I mean a busload of toddler asylum-seekers).”
I am shiny. I am gold. I am shiny gold. I glisten. I sparkle. I shine like heaven’s all-Caucasian air traffic control towers readying me, “Glory One, you are cleared for takeoff.”
And when Pam ascends to heaven (or the Sunday slot on Newsmax), I shall rise with her, gleaming beneath the stage lights.
I am spiritually aerodynamic.
I will be blessed. I will bedazzle. I will be subpoenaed.