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Leah Remini: Bigot on a Broomstick—A Halloween Tale
Traveler beware!
The mansion on the hill is said to be haunted!
Enter if you must through the portals of the house which daylight dares not touch—the terrifying house of hate with a caretaker more gruesome than the tales told by the creaking boards and swaying empty rockers. She, the sorceress of slime, the denizen of defunct sitcom, the vampire of venom: Leah Remini. Each night at the stroke of midnight she rides her broomstick of bigotry, howling at the moon, searching, ever searching for her lost career.
To these creatures, daylight and truth are poisons for which there is no antidote.
Her failed podcasts echo through the spider-webbed corridors, her own four-letter words flitting like mocking ghosts, reminding her of sponsors—her late, beloved sponsors—fleeing, fleeing from her hate-laced broadcasts lest they, like she, be drowned in tidal waves of spittle and bile.
Some say she changes to a werewolf, the better to hunt down her imagined enemies in the shadows.
Others say the reverse: she is a werewolf who occasionally takes human form to delude and trap her prey.
Still others say that she herself hasn’t the foggiest clue WHAT she is—part-human, part-vampire, part werewolf or night fiend—so she chooses all of the above just to hedge her bets. After all, you never can be sure who to trust these days...
But this season, she is not alone. For this is the special time of year when ghosts and goblins and creatures of the night gather in unholy communion. And so each night at the stroke of 12, Leah Remini summons not merely the spectral shades of late unlamented TV shows and podcasts of hate, but special friends as well—rapist Paul Haggis; child sex trafficking apologist Tony Ortega; wife beater Mike Rinder; and all-around conman, stalker and creep Aaron Smith-Levin for a sinister feast of crow. And in the gallery, cheering them on, is spineless Nancy Cooper—editor-in-chief of the ghost of Newsweek—once a proud bastion of truth and responsible journalism, now a desiccated bottom-feeding tabloid, a changeling bearing no resemblance to its former self.
Let the orgy of horror begin!
But remember, dear reader, these are but shades and shadows and children of darkness. Daylight dissolves them. Truth destroys them. To these creatures, daylight and truth are poisons for which there is no antidote.
Our real danger, in the final analysis, comes from ourselves. If we enable these fiends, empower them by harkening to their shrieks and screams, we are done. If we douse them with light and facts, they melt like the Wicked Witch of the West.
With one difference.
The Wicked Witch was a fiction—a story made up to entertain and chill.
Remini and her crew are real. Too real to be ignored.
