Gold, Standard

“The Superman exists, and he’s American!”

-  Alan Moore, Watchmen

Yup. There it was. Mr. Gold on the cover of US WEEKLY. The cover of The Boston Globe. Mr. Gold, as he graces the top story on whatever outlet you consume. The cover of this rag outta Seattle. This one, outta Chicago. His beaming mug dazzling you from the TV set or YouTube home page. He tops the headlines in your feed. Time’s ‘Man of the Year.’ Time’s Man of the Century! Jon Gold, who can see the neutrons you’re a composite of, who can the see the neutrinos as those neutrinos sail through you. You know what his deal is, don’t you? Smartest man, fastest man, a man of near-infinite mind – hell, he’s got the whole John Galt spiel from Atlas Shrugged committed to memory, all sixty pages, and he’s ready to whip it out wherever he sees the scourge of the Red menace.

It’s true, what they say. He even has it cast in gold. What I mean is, he has a solid-gold copy of Atlas Shrugged – he tracked down an original 1957 print, and with his mighty-man powers transmuted that door-stop of a novel into a dashing brick of pure, solid gold. Chrysopoeia, at the palm of his hand. Wouldn’t the pious spirit of Nicolas Flamel be proud? You see the clips everywhere, by god. How he swings that thing. It really is something, isn’t it? Watch how he hurls the Freedom Brick to crack the skull of another commie and shatter his teeth, watch how his teeth fly outta his skull. Watch how he flashes us another shit-eating grin, a brilliant, dazzling A, the same color as his Freedom Brick flashes on his broad, heaving chest as he hits us with his patented “The world you desire can be won, it exists, it is real, it is possible, it’s yours!” A for Atlas? A for Atom? A is A my ass. And do not get me started, man, do not- rainbows out the ass, lazer beams out the eye, both of them, that bloated head a psychic vibrator – the man sucker-punches suns! Do you understand? Mr. Gold sucker-punches suns to scatter together new constellations. A new constellation with your name written on it, all so he can drag you to bed, and from bed to the floor. If you listen close, the wind carries whispers, his whispers, and what it whispers is “I am a golden god...” Yup. A greater, golder god that can outshine Robert Plant. At noon, he’ll shag ass off the shag carpet where his date is often cleft in two from the twat up, her parts pure pulp from the signature pile-driver he rains down on her, and heroically stumbles to his marbled balcony. “Awaken, you great noon!” he commands as he throws open the French doors. A glowing sun outta dark mountains, and all that jazz. The man of Metropolis who stole our hearts. I love him, you love him, but mostly, you love him. His heroic golden dong hovers above every man, woman, and child on Sunset. The paparazzos swarm the sidewalk below. He Vogues for the volk. His Charles Atlas pythons take up the cover spread of Sports illustrated when the next issue hits. I know I harp about these rags that eat him up as though this were the Donner party, but what d’ya know? The other day I was flipping through one of these sensationalist “I-got-knocked-up-by-Bigfoot” sorta tabloids, this “I-got-anal-probed-by-Nosferatu” kinda gunk, and I’ll tell you what I see. I cut out, I got the clipping right here. What the clipping claims is, there’s some sorta lab tucked away somewhere – Colorado, Wyoming – someplace, where the spooks store Mr. Gold’s golden sperm, keep it on ice like, and plan to muster a bigger, better Generation Kill, like. And, oh hell, I’m this close to buyin’ it. ‘Tin soldiers and Nixon’s Comin’’ as that song goes.

Can Mr. Gold walk on water? You bet he can! Water into wine? Water into whatever you want, baby! His face on billboards, bumper stickers, his face between your wife’s thighs. Really, we should all eat out more often. Speaking of, Chinese takeaway boxes? Mr. Gold, he’s there. The McFondle’s wrapper when they revive the McRib? You got Gold! Take a peek at the back of any carton of fries, and see his printed football-star grin. He - hold up - he did WHAT?! As we speak, he’s dashed off to the moon and with the beams from his eyes scorched a selfie on the lunar surface, not far from the Sea of Tranquility.

Some of you might remember how, The Day The Earth Stood Still, how Lock Martin, Gort that is, how Gort melted those tanks with his space beam? Us, we have Mr. Gold for that. Mr. Gold, the one-punch arm of America’s pissing war with China, with Mother Russia and Kim’s fun-sized hermit kingdom.  

I don’t know what sorta slick-haired Bill Backer there is behind the scenes drumming up all these ads, all these publicity stunts, the slogans, “Go for Gold!” or “The Gold Standard.” Whoever this mad man is, brought on to shill for our sharp-dressed neutron bomb, brought on to patch up America’s tattered glory, man, oh man, this – oh for the love of – this just came across my desk – that our very own Mr. Jon Gold has swept through the paltry Martian atmosphere and summoned forth a copper statue of himself, right from the Martian soil. It is an Art-Deco piece with angular lines, which Mr. Gold then transmuted into his namesake...

Oh, hell. L’Age d’Or, folks. May it never end.

The man with the golden gun, the golden apples of the sun, and other lovely nonsense to please the man with the tight stretch pants... 

 ...So there you have it. There he is. Mr. Gold. The great golden ass. ‘The ass arrives; beautiful, and most brave.’ And as to where asses are needed, Nietzsche waxed “If we wish to move the crowed to cry ‘Hosanna!’ we must ride into the city upon an ass.”