8/28
For the first time in his career, Glenn Beck’s mouth was shut, at least in a metaphorical sense.
In a real sense, Glenn’s mouth hung slack, saliva oozing from one corner. The look of numb dismay on Beck’s pudgy face resembled nothing so much as an unintended mocking impersonation of the imbecilic multitudes standing before him. Said multitudes now stared into their idol’s glazed eyes, wearing their own looks of anticipation giving way to confusion.
Silence. Dead air. If the media was a church, this was a sin–the only real sin. How long had it been? Thirty seconds? Forty-five? It felt longer. Much longer. God, Beck thought, I never took those stories seriously. Beck twitched, cold sweat pooling under his body armor, imagining he could feel Abe’s marble glare piercing through his scalp.
Say it.
At last, Beck broke his silence. “I…uh, that is, I…”
Say it.
“Sorry, folks…just, uh, lost my train of thought, bear with me here…”
Bullshit. Stop being a pussy and say it.
“I don’t, uh…”
Say it or I MAKE you say it. You know I can, Glenn. You know a lot about me. At least, you keep saying you do.
“But–”
SAY IT!
Beck sighed. “Oh, okay.” He took a breath, bolstering his nerve.