I’m impressed anew at the shortsighted intolerance, lack of empathy, and transparent political immaturity of our more vociferous “us-mongers.” Phoboholics for Us. I wanted to say, “Phoboholics for America,” but they dislike America, for the most part. They only champion the most comfortable notion of Us.
Ironically, Phoboholics everywhere are scrambling to sound tougher than ten-year-olds while being weaker than seven-year-olds, popping flag-boners while eating Chick-Fil-As in the lobbies of Hobby Lobbies and then pooping in those Starbucks cups. I don’t approve. What’s so difficult about simply pooping in one’s pants like the babies of previous generations? Plus, remember, who is the guy who has always refused to go to Chick-Fil-A because the name is too gay? This guy. ME, queerbaits.
Test people at the border and admit only Christians? Really? Got telepaths on your team? As an atheist, I can attest, it’s not that hard to fake Christianity. I’ve done it, death row inmates do it—hell, most Christians are doing it right now.
If I had my druthers, I’d only admit atheists. I’d send fundies of every stripe on to the godforsaken “holy land”—which is where they ought to want to be anyway—to just crusade and murder and murder the shit out of each other. Burn black churches, puree infidels into spiritually nutritious smoothies, whatever floats your faulty, scripture-addled minds, all ye faithful. Leave the atheists here to measure oceanic acidity or whatever horrible rationality they’re always spitting like venom into the face of God in their fetishistic obsession with looking at nature objectively.
Truly though, I’ve learned to live with religious people. I married one. Several Christians take care of my child all the time. It’s not that crazy. I just have to step back and hope they don’t get raptured while driving Penelope to the brainwash! Just kidding. They don’t believe that Star-Trekky “Beam me up, Jesus” bullshit. I hope. I feel like I can count on them to have massive strokes or hemorrhagic seizures while driving my daughter, none of that angel-wings nuttery. With luck, I’m the one in greatest danger of dying for the Christian dream this and every holiday season, by falling off a building while hanging and repairing Christmas lights for the glory of a higher power bill. And if I do go splat, I swear to God, I’ll—do nothing. I’ll be dead.
The astonishing thing is that so many people are so excited to kill and to die over a bunch of poorly translated fairy tales, and not even the good ones from decent countries, such as The Little Mermaid. I mean, I swore allegiance to Marvel Comics back in junior high, but even I am not willing to kill a fat man wearing a Batman shirt. I won’t even bludgeon a Muslim woman for reading Aquaman in public without her vulva properly squished for Mohammed, or whatever the faithful are doing these days. I will proudly gouge no one’s eyes out for the gratification of any imaginary supervisors. Hell, I’ll even read a Superman comic, if that’s what it takes.
But, you may retort, in your bland stupidity, “Christians are being hunted like gays and gay vampires here in Obamerica!” Why don’t you just come over to my residence so I may beat your fucking ass, pussy? Better yet, read and comprehend the previous and following sentences, guaranteed to set your weak mind on the proper course: the true account of my last Saturday encounter with some of the last few Christians that have not been whipped and Obaminated to tidbits in their pews for their wealth, freedom, and cultural predominance.
Two Jehovah’s Witness gentlewomen rang my bell. Penelope, obliviously toddling offspring that she is, refused to look up from her commie-pinko PBS Kids indoctrination cartoons to open the door she isn’t strong enough to open. Even my “Christian” wife shunned them. It fell upon me to answer the door with my godless anatomy. I chose to use my hands, rather than my prehensile atheist unmentionables. Door open, they dared speak to me in their churchy lady clothes, a mere arm’s length from my slumping, moldy jack-o-lantern still waiting to be composted, which will add nutrients back into the soil without my giving any credit to the lord for His creation. Now the clash of civilizations would begin.
Would the Jehovah’s Gentlewomen be raped? Would they be hunted like gay dogs? Would I use my diabolical atheism to abort their precious stem cells? I’ll never tell, but I can tell you, I gave a silent, inner groan when I saw what they were. But in my exasperatingly consistent way of conserving dignity, I let them spiel, pretty much. I expected them to say something about ISIS in Paris, but if there’s one thing Jehovah’s Peeps are consistent about, to their credit, it’s international goodwill. They’ll even use and compliment a Jap-made Kubota tractor, if you can get them out of their churchy clothes to do a lick of fucking work.
Penelope waddled out to bring the cute, so I had to set a decent example of sociability. I did give them a glimmer of a hard time when their lead gentlewoman spake along the lines of, “It’s a beautiful day, but you know there’s a shortage of good news in the world.”
Me: “No! I’m remodeling my bathroom, and it’s looking really good!” to which I wanted to add, “Plus, have you seen all the porn you can punch up for FREE now?” and then to their mortified faces, “Ah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya!” For once, I was thinking of that stuff in time to actually say it, not post-encounter, but holstered my heat. I kneed pajamaed Penelope back inside the door to conserve heat as well as dignity.
Fortunately, they agreed that a successful bathroom remodel is a good thing, but stopped short of laying some hands on it, unless that Watchtower they gave me was meant to be bathroom reading. Then I got the fuck back to work.
Ironically, Phoboholics everywhere are scrambling to sound tougher than ten-year-olds while being weaker than seven-year-olds, popping flag-boners while eating Chick-Fil-As in the lobbies of Hobby Lobbies and then pooping in those Starbucks cups. I don’t approve. What’s so difficult about simply pooping in one’s pants like the babies of previous generations? Plus, remember, who is the guy who has always refused to go to Chick-Fil-A because the name is too gay? This guy. ME, queerbaits.
Test people at the border and admit only Christians? Really? Got telepaths on your team? As an atheist, I can attest, it’s not that hard to fake Christianity. I’ve done it, death row inmates do it—hell, most Christians are doing it right now.
If I had my druthers, I’d only admit atheists. I’d send fundies of every stripe on to the godforsaken “holy land”—which is where they ought to want to be anyway—to just crusade and murder and murder the shit out of each other. Burn black churches, puree infidels into spiritually nutritious smoothies, whatever floats your faulty, scripture-addled minds, all ye faithful. Leave the atheists here to measure oceanic acidity or whatever horrible rationality they’re always spitting like venom into the face of God in their fetishistic obsession with looking at nature objectively.
Truly though, I’ve learned to live with religious people. I married one. Several Christians take care of my child all the time. It’s not that crazy. I just have to step back and hope they don’t get raptured while driving Penelope to the brainwash! Just kidding. They don’t believe that Star-Trekky “Beam me up, Jesus” bullshit. I hope. I feel like I can count on them to have massive strokes or hemorrhagic seizures while driving my daughter, none of that angel-wings nuttery. With luck, I’m the one in greatest danger of dying for the Christian dream this and every holiday season, by falling off a building while hanging and repairing Christmas lights for the glory of a higher power bill. And if I do go splat, I swear to God, I’ll—do nothing. I’ll be dead.
The astonishing thing is that so many people are so excited to kill and to die over a bunch of poorly translated fairy tales, and not even the good ones from decent countries, such as The Little Mermaid. I mean, I swore allegiance to Marvel Comics back in junior high, but even I am not willing to kill a fat man wearing a Batman shirt. I won’t even bludgeon a Muslim woman for reading Aquaman in public without her vulva properly squished for Mohammed, or whatever the faithful are doing these days. I will proudly gouge no one’s eyes out for the gratification of any imaginary supervisors. Hell, I’ll even read a Superman comic, if that’s what it takes.
But, you may retort, in your bland stupidity, “Christians are being hunted like gays and gay vampires here in Obamerica!” Why don’t you just come over to my residence so I may beat your fucking ass, pussy? Better yet, read and comprehend the previous and following sentences, guaranteed to set your weak mind on the proper course: the true account of my last Saturday encounter with some of the last few Christians that have not been whipped and Obaminated to tidbits in their pews for their wealth, freedom, and cultural predominance.
Two Jehovah’s Witness gentlewomen rang my bell. Penelope, obliviously toddling offspring that she is, refused to look up from her commie-pinko PBS Kids indoctrination cartoons to open the door she isn’t strong enough to open. Even my “Christian” wife shunned them. It fell upon me to answer the door with my godless anatomy. I chose to use my hands, rather than my prehensile atheist unmentionables. Door open, they dared speak to me in their churchy lady clothes, a mere arm’s length from my slumping, moldy jack-o-lantern still waiting to be composted, which will add nutrients back into the soil without my giving any credit to the lord for His creation. Now the clash of civilizations would begin.
Would the Jehovah’s Gentlewomen be raped? Would they be hunted like gay dogs? Would I use my diabolical atheism to abort their precious stem cells? I’ll never tell, but I can tell you, I gave a silent, inner groan when I saw what they were. But in my exasperatingly consistent way of conserving dignity, I let them spiel, pretty much. I expected them to say something about ISIS in Paris, but if there’s one thing Jehovah’s Peeps are consistent about, to their credit, it’s international goodwill. They’ll even use and compliment a Jap-made Kubota tractor, if you can get them out of their churchy clothes to do a lick of fucking work.
Penelope waddled out to bring the cute, so I had to set a decent example of sociability. I did give them a glimmer of a hard time when their lead gentlewoman spake along the lines of, “It’s a beautiful day, but you know there’s a shortage of good news in the world.”
Me: “No! I’m remodeling my bathroom, and it’s looking really good!” to which I wanted to add, “Plus, have you seen all the porn you can punch up for FREE now?” and then to their mortified faces, “Ah, I’m just fuckin’ with ya!” For once, I was thinking of that stuff in time to actually say it, not post-encounter, but holstered my heat. I kneed pajamaed Penelope back inside the door to conserve heat as well as dignity.
Fortunately, they agreed that a successful bathroom remodel is a good thing, but stopped short of laying some hands on it, unless that Watchtower they gave me was meant to be bathroom reading. Then I got the fuck back to work.
