I am going to say something that might seem out-of-pocket. This is not a hear me out—not exactly.
But the makers of the Minions know what they are doing. They must know that someone out there—not me!—wants to intimately know a minion. And when you say that out loud, people recoil and wonder how you could ever say such a thing, as though the thing we all know was your idea. Again, this is not about me, but we know—and they, the creators of the Minions know—that someone out there is fantasizing about Minions. Someone had to draw that round, rain jacket-yellow ass. And the—are those?—tennis balls to fill out the top minion's bust. The black latex gloves. A human mind made these decisions. And the bare foot with three little toes? Proof, perhaps, that i am not the target audience but furthermore, of the sickness of the minds behind the perverse scene.
We are sinners in the hands of an angry, angry God. His love, boundless as it is, only multiplies his disappointment. For what is left to love? What could possibly overcome the transgressions we have wrought with the agency he gifted us? Let go, i say, let us fall into the roiling pit below. And cover your ears against our foul cries. We call not for our mothers nor for thee but for the warm, vinyl-gloved hand of our goatish creations. Our last gasp would make stones blush.
Charismatic preachers may sweatily exhort us to reach for Jesus. Too little, too late. If Jesus was supposed to die for the sins of our lecherous species, as some kind of mollifying sacrifice, i fear he may have died in vain. For as great as his love for man may have been, evidently, it could not fill the capacious abyss of our wickedness. The poor guy simply could not have fathomed the depths of man's lasciviousness from his vantage in ancient Roman Judaea. There was only so much trouble a person could cause there. The technology of the erotic was rudimentary and social organization was simpler. Ignorance limited the imagination and parochialism limited the contagion. Since then, we have been innovating ways to toe the line between forgiveness and ultimate destruction. We may have innovated three toes too far.
Flood it all over again.
The angel Gabriel regrets defiling his holy countenance with the gaze of such wretched mortals. Abraham, ruminating, runs his fingers over the axe. Krishna advises Arjuna to surrender. The turtle turns over, spilling the Earth. Prometheus, frowning, returns the torch to the hearth of Mount Olympus. The Buddha, our great enlightened teacher, paces slowly to his fig tree, brow furrowed, and never speaks another word.
—Lucas