By Christopher Hitchens (posthumously and hypothetically)

In the pious circus of American politics, where scripture is brandished like a cudgel by those who’ve barely cracked its pages, Chaz Stevens has emerged as a gleeful ringmaster of reason.

His latest act takes us to North Dakota, where Senate Bill 2307—a work of legislative theatre cloaked in the moral garb of “protecting children”—sits on the Governor’s desk like a loaded trap. This bill empowers the state to purge public libraries of materials deemed “sexually explicit,” a category defined so broadly that it could snare anything from Judy Blume to human anatomy textbooks.

Stevens, a Floridian provocateur with a taste for righteous mischief, smelled blood. With a legal scalpel honed by years of challenging authority, he applied the bill’s test not to some progressive novel or gender-themed graphic memoir—but to the Holy Bible.

His reasoning was disarmingly simple: If violent, sexual, or obscene content warrants removal, then Genesis, Ezekiel, and Psalms more than qualify. Lot’s daughters? Incest. Leviticus? Cannibalism. Ezekiel? Equine erotica. Psalm 137? Infanticide. All there, chapter and verse. By the standards of SB 2307, the Bible isn’t just offensive—it’s Exhibit A.

To its defenders, Senate Bill 2307 is a noble shield for young minds. To Stevens, it’s a flimsy veil for dogmatic control—and he’s not one to let such contradictions slide.

This wasn’t a tweetstorm or a protest sign. These were formal filings—submitted with precision and daring, forcing officials to confront the logical conclusion of their own law. His filings weren’t protests. They were pressure points.

If North Dakota wishes to apply this statute faithfully, it must either remove the Good Book or admit the whole exercise is a toothless charade, a grandstand play for conservative approval. Pick your poison, as Stevens wrote.

Of course, Stevens is no stranger to this brand of civil disobedience by paperwork. He’s the architect of beer-can Festivus poles erected beside nativity scenes. The man who mailed Arabic “In God We Trust” signs to Texas schools. A persistent gadfly who knows exactly which tripwires to trigger—and when.

By consolidating bureaucratic logic and weaponized satire, Stevens has turned hypocrisy into a spectacle. A veteran of civic mischief, he forces laws to confront their own absurdity with relentless, hilarious consistency.

His style is brash, his prose incendiary, and his intent uncompromising. Some call him a provocateur. Others, a nuisance. But whatever you call him, Stevens has mastered the rare and essential art of making the powerful answer their own damn questions.

And that’s the rub. Because for all the noise about morality and decency, the defenders of SB 2307 didn’t think anyone would dare shine the spotlight inward. They never expected the test to be applied to the texts they revere most.

Turns out, nothing exposes a law’s weakness faster than enforcing it universally.

In an age where dogma dons the mask of virtue, Chaz Stevens wields the mirror that forces power to face its own absurdity. And for that, the republic owes him a mischievous salute.