I really don’t like Mike Johnson.

But you hardly know him, my friend objects. He hasn’t been Speaker a month. Before then, nobody had heard his name. Aren’t you being hasty – and unjust? Cut the guy some slack. This isn’t like you, Mister On-the-other-hand…

You’re right, I don’t know him – officially. But oneirologically, I do. Almost as well as I know myself. I have seen him in my dreams.

You’re kidding, right?

No. You know how you know a coiled rattlesnake is dangerous, even if you’ve never seen one? Do you cut the rattlesnake slack? You don’t. You look around for a shovel to bash it.

He’s a politician, for pete’s sake. So he waves a Bible around. He’s not the first. Remember Trump in that photo-op?

Trump’s bad enough. Mike Johnson’s worse.

Worse? Because he and his son pledge to monitor each other’s porn usage?

That’s a symptom, but no, I knew before that. From his face. So calm. With that little smile. An altar boy. Perfect. Knows all the answers – because he knows the Answerer-in-Chief – personally. The other politicians you can see being politicians, putting on their clown suits and playing the clown. Even the worst of them – Gaetz, that Marjorie woman, McConnell, Cruz – they’re performing. Trump will say anything – doesn’t even pretend he’s got goodness on his side. But Mike Johnson – he knows everything – and pities you – because you don’t – and never will – because he’s in cahoots with God and you’re not. The smug smile of a theocrat. No ifs or buts. And if he has to massacre you and trash democracy, too bad, but he’ll sleep like a baby, because God told him to. And if he gets crucified, that’s OK too, because it will be for God he’s suffering, a privilege really.

You know all this from a smile?

I could be wrong – but it’s the rattlesnake test. Want to give that rattler the benefit of the doubt?

My friend looks at me as if to ask, “Are you OK?”

We’ve little experience with theocrats in America, I press on, trying to explain. But I knew one growing up. My dad was a theocrat. Officially no, we were Episcopalians, the most skim-milk religion, ever-so-polite. Dad, though, was rigid, righteous, never asked questions, just decreed, this was right and that was wrong. Our people were best – and others to be pitied for their exclusion from our perfection. And if you disagree, son, we’ll just have to beat some sense into you – with a belt – or maybe this time, a hairbrush. Hurts me more than it hurts you. But you will learn.

Jeez, you’re getting all emotional, observes my friend, feeling awkward.

I hate superiority, hate it, that assurance you’ve got it right, and pity the rest. That never listening, never acknowledging anybody’s right to disagree. Superiority was bred into me. I’ve spent my life, it feels, trying to rinse it out, learning to listen. Mike Johnson has no doubts. He’s Robespierre. If God told him to erect a guillotine outside the Lincoln Memorial and lop his enemies, well, you do what God says – and this hurts him more than it hurts you. God has told him to make America a Christian nation – and by Christian, he doesn’t mean Catholic or Methodist or Episcopalian – he means his brand, the only true one, God told him. Nobody is more dangerous than the person who knows for sure, who cannot be swayed, who’s willing to die for his beliefs – or to kill. He’s no politician, Mike Johnson, he’s an ayatollah in a suit. Watch him – he’s trouble.