Yesterday at lunch one of my female coworkers looked at me and asked:
Would it offend you if I said grace before we ate?
I paused for a second, looked around and realized that she was only asking me and not the other person at the table.
Here’s where the misconception comes in. Despite whatever you might THINK you know about me dear reader, I am not an atheist. I absolutely believe in God.
I don’t see how anyone could walk outside on a clear night, look up at the stars, and not believe in God. The vastness of the Universe laid before them and they don’t see the divine. This is unbelievable to me.
I’ve heard atheists say that everything happens because of science, not mysticism. There’s no giant man with a beard in a white robe waving his arms and causing things to happen…and to a point I agree. Yes, the Universe follows set scientific laws and principles. The laws of science are at play, and they are absolute…but who wrote these laws of science?
If you trace the science back far enough, back to the inception of the concept…who or what created that? It’s obvious to me…God did.
God is beyond understanding, beyond comprehension. He is everywhere and nowhere, everything and nothing, alpha and omega. I absolutely believe this to be true. I’m not joking and I’m not being funny. This is me being all serious and shit.
So my issue isn’t with God, it’s with man. Man is the problem. Man is who I don’t trust, and man is who I refuse to believe in. Man is not God, no matter how much he wishes he were.
As far as Jesus goes, I’m in complete agreement with Jesus’ core teachings…treat others as you would be treated. Love your neighbor as thy self, and just generally do the best you can to be the most ethical, spiritual, and compassionate person you can be. How do you find fault in that? Was he the Son of God? I certainly don’t know. But I do know that his philosophy seems to be pretty benign, which is a great place to start.
Truly I say to you, Inasmuch as you have done it to one of the least of these my brothers, you have done it to me.
Suck on that you self righteous pricks…Jesus is telling you that he’s no different than any other man, woman, or child that is, was, or will ever set foot upon the Earth. How many other religious figures preached unconditional love, tolerance, and peace? Not a ton I’d wager.
His message was so powerful, he was killed to suppress it. Anything that the establishment is that afraid of is all good in my book.
But then something happened…Jesus was gone, and it fell to his disciples to carry on the message. Of course they weren’t Jesus, and so the message…in my opinion…became more and more removed from what was intended.
See, the catch in all this is “free will”. That special little gift that we’re all given with which to choose our destinies…freedom.
Do I doubt that the men and women who came after Jesus weren’t divinely inspired to carry on his teachings? Not at all…but by the very definition of free will God would be completely unable to stop them from making his “word” whatever they wanted it to be. Either we have free will or we don’t, there’s no middle ground on that point.
They were free to do and say anything they wanted under the auspices of divine guidance. Some of them were likely sincere in trying to follow God’s will as they saw and understood it, and some of them hid behind that charade in order to impose their will upon others. God expects us to be intelligent enough to know who’s slinging bullshit and who isn’t.
The main problem with speaking for God is that you need to know the mind of God to do it…something that I fully believe is beyond the ability of mankind.
God is so vast, so complex, and so alien to us that it would be impossible for us to accurately comprehend his motivations well enough to extrapolate anything that can be construed as his intentions from them.
So in summary, yes I’m completely down with the G. O. D.
It’s the M. A. N. I’m wary of, and I think you should be too.
So please, stop thinking of me as a Satanist, Agnostic, Atheist, or whatever other bullshit label you’ve applied to me.
That’s just not me baby.
Me: Whoa, I had a really weird dream last night.
Sappy Chick: Man, me too.
Me: What was yours about?
Sappy Chick: We were watching the True Blood season finale and it was just weird.
Sappy Chick: What was yours?
Me: Well, uh…I was driving down the road and (female friends name redacted) was lying in the road. Not hit or anything, just lying in the road. I stopped the car and then spent the rest of the dream trying to convince her not to fuck me.
Sappy Chick: You win.
Just a couple of hours ago I found out that legendary illustrator and storyteller Joe Kubert had passed away at the age of 85 years old and I cried. That’s right, I’m not in the least bit ashamed to admit that to you. I cried when I read that one of my childhood heroes had died.
Some of you might think this to be a little strange, or perhaps even a little overblown. How could the death of a man I never knew, and never even got the chance to meet, affect me to such a degree? That’s kind of silly, isn’t it? I mean, all he did was draw those silly “funny books”, right?
The answer to that is I honestly cannot imagine my childhood without men like Joe Kubert. The work he produced had a much more profound impact on my life than most of you reading this will ever fully understand.
To put it bluntly, my childhood wasn’t great. I grew up with a mentally abusive and alcoholic father. Someone who seemingly did everything they could to make everyone around them as miserable as humanly possible, and then sat back and enjoyed the discord and sadness he caused.
At home there was sometimes literally nowhere to escape. I was ridiculed, marginalized, insulted, and terrorized at virtually every opportunity. I lived in a perpetual state of fear and anxiety. My Grandparents and my Mother did what they could to protect me, to offer me some sort of shelter from my Fathers disdain, but they couldn’t protect me all the time. As I grew older, his resentment of my existence grew, and he became even more vicious and cruel.
School offered me no refuge either. I was constantly teased and bullied because I’d spent every waking moment at home on the defensive. Everyone knew I was weak and small. I wasn’t as emotionally strong as the other kids in my class, and I was an easy target. All I heard from nearly everyone in my life was that I was nothing. That I was stupid. That I was ugly.
At one point in middle school I actually contemplated suicide, something I’ve never ever told anyone before. My Mother is finding this out for the first time at literally this very instant.
For me refuge was found in the pages of comics and books, and I read nearly nonstop. In the safety of my locked bedroom I would swing through the alleys of New York with Daredevil and Spider-Man protecting the citizens of the city. I would swashbuckle through the French Countryside with The Three Muskateers Athos, Porthos, Aramis, and their young friend D’Artagnan, and I could taste the sweetness of Edmond Dantes revenge as The Count of Monte Cristo.
This was my Fortress of Solitude. This is where I was safe and no one could hurt me. I poured my heart into worlds where I could live out fantastic adventures, and experience the actions of great men…of heroes.
It was here that I was touched by the souls of men like Jack Kirby, Joe Kubert, John Buscema, Stan Lee, George Tuska, Roy Thomas, and Carmine Infantino.
Without the work of these men and the stories they told I cannot imagine what my life would have been like as a child. They’re an essential part of who I am. Without their influence I cannot say what kind of person I might be today. These are people who showed me what life could be, and how I should try and live it, and for that I will be forever grateful, because without them I might not be alive today.
To this day, whenever I’m fortunate enough to meet one of these childhood heroes I always…always…tell them how much their work meant to me, and how much I sincerely appreciate what they did to lift the spirits of a sad and lonely little boy.
So while I may never have known Joe Kubert, it doesn’t mean that the little boy inside me can’t genuinely feel the ache of his loss. My deepest and most heartfelt sympathies go out to his friends and family.
I just wanted to say thanks for everything Joe. Your work lifted me up and gave me hope when I needed it the most. I don’t know what greater compliment I can possibly give in honor of your memory.
Nothing to say really, just felt like trying out my WordPress iPhone app.
Loki and Domino say hello!
Look, I don’t care about the Masters.
Not even a little bit.
So having to sit and hear people talk about this “cinderella story” (Caddyshack homage definitely intended) all day long is busting up my mellow.
The whole idea of golf bugs me. You go into a field and hit a ball really hard. Then, you walk after it and hit it again. You continue to hit it with lessening force, or different clubs, until you eventually just barely tap it into a hole in the ground.
Then, you pick it up and hit it really hard again…rinse and repeat.
Oh yeah, and the idea is to score as close to zero as possible.
Ok, so first off no sport should be dependent on getting FEWER points than your competitor. That’s just crazy. So golf and tennis are not sports. They just aren’t.
Now, what I could go for golf wise would be a few simple adjustments to the rules.
Allow me to present : Cinlach Golf…
Rule #1 : Strokes don’t count.
Took a 148 on hole #7? Who gives a fuck!
No, instead my version of golf will be timed. That’s right…you’ve got to beat the time your opponent laid down at each hole and the person at the end of 18 with the fewest amount of time spent wins.
No dilly-dallying around, measuring shots, picking up grass to measure the wind…no, just hit the fucking ball already. You’re already 15 seconds behind prick!
Rule #2 : You get one ball…ONE.
Lose the ball, lose the game. Period. No excuses and no crying.
Smack the ball into the pond? Well unless you want to forfeit the game I’d suggest you sack up and get to wading. Oh yeah, by the way the clock’s ticking asshole. You’d better get those pants legs rolled up quick.
If you lose the ball entirely then your opponent wins.
Rule #3 : Drinking is not only allowed, it’s mandatory.
Have a beer! No seriously…drink one. Watching you piss your pants on the 17th green is infinitely more interesting than watching you hit the little while ball.
And that’s it…no other rules. None.
Want to cork your club to get better distance? Fine by me pal…knock the shit out of that thing. Whatever floats your boat baby.
Want to shoot heroin while snorting cocaine and getting a lapdance from Jenna Jameson in the middle of the fairway? What do I care. You’re the one with the drug habit and countless STD’s from Tito Ortiz…have a blast pal.
The only other thing I can think of to make the game more interesting would be to randomly mine certain areas with tripwires and pressure grenades.
“And Tiger Woods walks up to the 6th green to…KABLOOOMM!!”
Of course that would be hell on the spectators…constantly peppered with bloody golfer bits.
What about topless waitresses? Now we might be on to something.
First, let me preface this by saying that I haven’t watched Lost since the end of Season Two.
“Why did you stop watching?”, I can hear you asking breathlessly. Well, I’ll tell ya why. Allow me to do so via an examination of the differences of approach that would be evident if I were Jack Shephard.
What follows is an approximation of a situation I happened to catch while Sappy Chick was catching up on Season Three on ABC.com.
Ben, the leader of “The Others”: Jack, I want you to give me the phone that the skydiver gave you. Do it because my people have Sayid, Bernard, Jin, and Sawyer.
Jack Shephard, resident dumbfuck: What’s to keep me from just snapping your neck?
Ben, speaking into the walkie-talkie that Jack has stupidly given him: Zeke, unless you hear my voice in one minute I want you to shoot the hostages.
Hostages via walkie-talkie: Jack, you fucking dimwitted fuck! What the hell are you doing? You would fuck up a wet dream Jack! Do you hear me, you would fuck up a wet dream!
Jack: I won’t do it. I’m getting my people off the island. All of them.
Ben: All of them except the four Zeke’s about to shoot in the face, that is. Thirty seconds left Jack…tick tock Clarice.
Jack: No!! I won’t do it!
Ben: Times up Jack.
Walkie-Talkie: Jack you fucking douchebag! BLAM!
So at the end of this scenario Jack attacks Ben and punches him a few times, knocking him unconscious.
Now for the sake of arguement, let’s say that the above scenario plays out exactly the same, only this time…it’s me and not Jack Shephard on the island.
Just fucking work with me here…
So, after savagely beating Ben into unconsciousness, I pick up the walkie-talkie…
Me: This is Cinlach. Can you assholes hear me ok?
Zeke: We can hear you Cinlach. I bet you’re shitting on yourself now aren’t you. Just come on back and we’ll all be friends again.
Me: No…I don’t think so. If we come back you’ll just kill us. You’ve already shown you’re willing to be murderous ratfucks several times over already. Besides, I like being out here hours away from your redneck ass.
But I will tell you what I am going to do instead. Would you like to know what I’m going to do now Zeke?
Zeke: Uh, wait…so you’re not gonna come back in?
Me: Oh hell no. I’m not that stupid pal. No, instead what I am going to do is repay the kindness you’ve shown my people. Now, I will concede that you’ve killed four of mine, and I only have one of yours to kill. But I think that quality is better than quantity.
Zeke: Oh fuck…waitaminute.
Me: No. There’s no more waiting and there’s no more bullshit mindgames. You have fucked with me for the last…fucking…time.
I am going to kill Ben. I am going to kill this piece of shit deader than fuck. By the time this is over, if you ever manage to find the remains of his body, you will regret fucking with me for as long as you live.
When, or if, you find what’s left of him you will THANK GOD that it happened to him and not to you.
Zeke: Oh shit…don’t do it.
Me: I’m going to do it, and I’m going to let you listen in. Now I’m not sure how much battery life this walkie-talkie’s got, but I’ll bet it’s more than enough for me to get my motherfucking point across to you dirty sons of bitches.
I’ll bet that at night, when you hear some wild animal scream in the jungle, you’ll think about me, and all the horrible things I’ve done to poor ol’ Ben here.
First, I’m going to break his ankles. Don’t want him running away on me now…that’d ruin my fun.
Second, I’m going to break both his knees. Just to be sure he doesn’t somehow manage to crawl away to safety, and mainly because I like the idea of making this maggot hurt as much as possible.
Then I’m going to break both arms, and all the bones in his hands…just to be triple sure.
Now here’s where the fun begins Zeke. Are you still there buddy?
Zeke: I am…please, don’t do this.
Me: Shut the fuck up. You telling me what to do has come to a fucking end. Now I’m telling you. Kill everyone if you want to…we’re all mostly likely dead anyway, so what difference does it make if you kill us or if something else does. Dead is dead.
Speaking of dead…let’s get back to Benjamin here.
Once I’ve taken away all his flight options I’m going to go to work on him.
See, I’m not sure if you assfucks realized this, but I’m a surgeon. Which means I have a VERY detailed knowledge of the human anatomy. That also means that I know lots of things that can go wrong with someone without them dying.
Lots of ways.
I plan on telling you all about them, as I subject Ben to torture that would make Hitler cry for his mother.
You’ll hear Ben’s every agonizing scream over this walkie-talkie…until either it dies or I get tired of playing with Ben. Whichever comes first.
I want to thank you for the mercy you’ve shown my people. A bullet is a nice quick way to die. Unfortunately for you, I’ve no more charity left in my heart. I’m through playing with you people. Now it’s time for me to show you what happens when you push beyond where you should.
Zeke: You’re a savage…
Me: I am now…thanks to you. And just think, I haven’t even STARTED on Ben yet.
Zeke: I can’t listen to this.
Me: Listen or don’t. It’s still going to fucking happen.
Now, here’s how you break an ankle. See, the trick is that it’s structurally weak if moved contrary to it’s designed path. Say for instance if you grab the toes and pull forcefully at a right angle to the leg…like this.
Ben: OH SWEET FUCKING JESUS ON A HANDMADE ROCKING CHAIR WITH A BEAUTIFUL ANTIQUE CROCHET PILLOW!!
Me: Don’t pass out on me Benny, you and I are just getting started.
Oh yeah, by the way Zeke…if you’re really lucky you and I won’t see each other again. If you’re not, we will.
Think about Ben here and do be sure to keep watch over your shoulder.
You know, after writing that I think it’s entirely possible that I have some pent up anger somewhere…
But you get the point.
I got tired of watching Lost because I got sick and tired of seeing the same dumb shit happen over and over again.
The best way to make sure some overly-educated prick with a jungle fetish doesn’t continually fuck you over and threaten to kill you every other day is to forcibly remove the aforementioned overly-educated prick from the gene pool.
But hey, what do I know…I’m just the guy smart enough not to end up stranded on a tropical island with a bunch of freakin’ science nerds gone all “Lord of the Flies”.