LAS VEGAS – Famed Bavarian film director Werner Herzog popped in to the Studio Exec bungalow to give his take on the Donald Trump Hillary Clinton Presidential Debates.

Never in my life have I been witness to a scene of such obsidian darkness, primal savagery and moral corruption as that which I witnessed in Las Vegas on Wednseday evening, and remember, I worked closely with Klaus Kinski for many years, including the ones where he thought he was Jesus and wanted to wear my face skin as a cycling hat.

With the usual science fiction scenery, the flags of Star Fleet and two podiums like an interstellar quiz show, the scene was set. It is this way that US politics are decided, I understand. A lumbering seething manimal with orange hair had beeen poured into one of those rectangular metal suits, designed to disguise obesity and with slit-like eyes that did nothing to hide the alligator brain at work within, strobing over the audience, the moderator and his rival. The woman, who will most likely become the first female president of the United States, reminded me of Miss Marple from the Agatha Christie books, in the sense that wherever she goes murder is sure to follow. The man charged with keeping the bloodshed to a minimum and spittle off the screen was Chris Wallace, a ‘journalist’ from Fox News. The fact that anyone from this venal station in which door slamming is translated into English should be hired as a ‘moderator’ tells us exactly where we are in this genocidal country.

Language was torn from its roots and flung about with scant regard for sense or logic. The meaning of the words themselves ran in shame, out into the desert air of Nevada. There was talk of babies being ripped limb from limb and nuclear weapons being used on a whim, of countries being destroyed and made great again and people being shot in the streets for simply wanting to go to shops at the bottom of those streets. And yet none of the politicians suggested moving the shops to the top of the streets to reduce the risk! There was a ‘Nasty Woman’ and a ‘Puppet President’ and in the end everyone looked appalled at themselves and yet remarkably happy at the same time. I looked down at my hand and found I had accidentally driven a three inch nail into my palm so that the agony would distract me from the spectactle I was unfortunate enough to witness.

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In which our guest contributor Austrian film director Werner Herzog describes his uniquely idiosyncratic Christmas experience.

As Christmas approaches, I feel increasingly like I am trapped in one of Prince’s later more superfluous albums just before he felt it necessary to change his name to some strange hieroglyph that I still have difficulty pronouncing. I refuse to believe in a God who would have the bad taste to be born in the middle of Winter but at the same time I am overwhelmed by the opportunity to exchange unpleasant gifts with people I have spent my life pretending to like. This year however I have been perturbed by an occurrence.

My next door neighbor Mr. Hunter White has put up a nativity scene on his garden and has a model of Santa climbing a rope ladder into his bedroom window. There are also lights of many different colors that flash according to their own whimsical sequence. The effect on the whole is exquisitely ghastly and makes the whole of my frame shiver with nervous exhaustion. I have spent every night since he put the display up standing on my lawn and gazing at it and trying to make sense of the slapdash composition. Mr. White asked me last night if I would stop and I told him ‘I am afraid that would be utterly impossible.’

From this my neighbor who, despite the kitsch of his garden and house display, is not without some sensitivity, asked me if I disapproved of his Holiday Decorations. I respected his question and told him candidly I did not dislike them, but for me they uttered a truth to my soul that was too terrifying to fully comprehend and it was for this reason that I stood night after night in my own silent vigil trying in some way to unravel the mystery.

‘It’s just supposed to be pretty,’ he said.

But I could tell he wished me to expand and so I pointed to the Santa climbing the rope. ‘Look at the old man, Santa Claus, itself a derivative of Saint Nicholas, in some countries known as Old Nick, and as old Nick in his scarlet red garb, a figure who represent none other than the Devil himself. Climbing into your window. A smart devil. He will kill you and your wife first and then will be able to murder your three children at his leisure, before than partaking of the repast you have no doubt left out for him.’

‘Oh,’ said Mr. White, his complexion now perfectly suiting his snowy surname. ‘I might take that down then. But the nativity, that’s a nice scene?’

‘No, my God! That’s the worst of all,’ I cried.

‘How do you mean?’

‘The baby Jesus is born in a manger and the Maghi and Shepherds look on. But those Maghi have informed Herod of the prophecy and Herod in an attempt to forestall a threat to his own power will murder every male baby in Galilee. That baby has – by his birth – killed thousands of babies.’

‘But it isn’t his fault, he’s a baby.’

‘He is a GOD! How can it not be his fault?’

The next day the Nativity scene had been dismantled, Santa packed away and the sound of the children weeping and Mr. and Mrs. White arguing could clearly be heard above the sound of Lovesexy, Prince’s tenth studio album. Merry Christmas everybody. Merry Christmas.

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