The Tears of a Clown

So, it’s all bad news for Tammy Faye Bakker, the flamboyantly emotional ex-wife of fallen televangelist Jim Bakker. Apparently, her cancer has reached a stage where the doctors have given up. Naturally, Tammy Faye ISN’T giving up and has given it over to God to save her from the disease.

Uh-huh. Good luck with that. I’m not sure God will appreciate how you tended his flock.

Tammy Faye, who apparently learned the art of makeup at the knee of a bad drag queen, is an icon. An ironic icon, but an icon nonetheless. No, Tammy, we weren’t laughing WITH you.

Mrs. Bakker could summon tears on command better than any actress who ever lived. Seriously. She could crank the waterworks in the name of Jesus, creating Jackson Pollock-esque splatters of dark mascara on her squat, puffy face. She looked a lot like a bad jack o’lantern.

Her over-the-top hair and makeup have a legacy of their own. I must confess that I do, on occasion (usually after three too many margaritas) pause on the Christian TV. So THAT’S where all the circus freaks are these days! OMG! The hair! The makeup! The bling! And that’s just the guys. The women have these confections on their head that makes them look like they’re going to a party at Marie Antoinette’s.

So many of the televangelists look like they got their styling cues from 70’s TV shows. WHY? WHY? WHY? People, it’s 2007! Looking like a Bee Gee doesn’t really work, even if you’re a Bee Gee. Did you SEE Barry Gibb’s nipples on Idol last week? I nearly yakked. But I digress.

These modern-day hucksters earn MILLIONS off of their virtual “congregations.” And who are these congregants? Who would tune into these spectacles and actually think they’d been visited by a messenger of God? Probably the same people who cut their hair with a Flow Bee, buy Marie Osmond dolls and say things like, “Get off me Daddy, yer smushin’ my cigarettes.”

Of course, a televangelist dressed in Helmut Lang, or his Versace-clad wife aren’t exactly going to get rich off the intelligentsia. That’s what Popes are for. (LOVE the red Prada pumps, girl!) So I guess you play to your audience, eh?

But for those of us who actually finished seventh grade, the spectacle and unintended humor in these broadcasts cannot overcome the chicanery and con games. Every dollar these shysters take from their flock is a dollar that could’ve been spent on Pabst Blue Ribbon or a Lotto ticket. It's not right. And there's a special place in hell for those who con in the name of God.

Sorry, Tammy Faye, but I hope you’ve found a makeup that can withstand high temperatures.