Sadly, someone is pruning my jungle, here, on Garden Street. An army of leafblower wranglers below my window is revving its googolplex of gasoline-powered penis extenders in unison at 150 decibels of shock and awe-inspiring, bush-bashing reverberation. The frightened flora is fainting and falling, and my Monday morning mind is uncomfortably numb.
If these landscaping lunatics do not cease and desist, soon, I may have to check their green cards. Don’t make me call Alberto and have your sorry asses fired and deported back to Santa Paula. I am an angry blogger and you don’t want to mess with me, esse.
Good Friday was Nazi gray along the gold coast. Was this an ominous portent of things to come, typical Spring weather, or was Santa Barbara merely being treated to an early June-gloom? Much of the weekend weather was cool and cloudy with only the occasional hint of Ra. The pagans were shivering.
My son and I leisurely wandered downtown to dinner on State, Saturday night, and were accosted several times along the way by ebullient street corner pushers for Christ desiring to save our souls. Smiling at their Easter enthusiasm and seemingly sincere appeal, I turned down the dime bag of Christian crank, politely nodding “No thanks,” and said we would be unable to attend their Sunday mass psychoses.
Will I fry in hell for denying their Christian kindness? If I don’t believe in their hell, can they still make me go? Will the sins of the father be visited upon the son? And did you print all those pamphlets on recyclable paper with a soy-based ink? See, I am seeking answers, but apparently to all the wrong questions.
During the Ascension, did Jesus get double bonus miles on his Heavenly Frequent Flyer program and might he cash that in on a trip to Easter Island instead of using them for his alleged return? Does my sacrilege leave you aghast? Should I be looking over my shoulder for vigilante Christian cross-bearers who want to crucify my hairy ass? Or will you please just forgive me and pray for me – and leave me alone?
Maybe they have. Christians, that is. In fact, if you’re reading this, right now, and are a professed Christian – which I find highly unlikely that you would read my blog – then you may be sad to know that I believe the Rapture occurred, this Easter weekend. Perhaps you were left behind. Why? It was eerily quiet in town. The usual throngs of people were, well, not very throngy.
I’m pondering whether to prepare for Armageddon or take a nap. Realizing that most of the professed Christians – who annoy the hell out of me – will still be here, after the Rapture, I take marginal comfort in knowing that I can openly laugh in their face the next time they want to preach to me about saving my sorry soul.
Dear Christians, please take a hint: If I am attempting to relax with my son and eat my dinner, though I politely smile and say “No thanks,” again and again, I am not amused when you try to force-feed your dogma to me by shoving a flyer between my face and my fork at a sidewalk café. Come between me and my penne puttenesca, again, and I will take a bite out of your missionary position.
And you wonder why Christians have been persecuted? I don’t, it’s obvious, to me, but maybe Christians are oblivious. One of the reasons Rome tossed your fat asses to the lions was because you’re an irritating lot of self-righteous hypocrites who can’t seem to agree on one message. You have no actual proof of any of your doctrine and your marketing campaign usually blows.
If you want to win souls for Jesus, then you should look closely at what you’re trying to sell and readjust your approach, at least. It doesn’t bode well for your cause, if your priests, pastors and public figures are screwing the mindless sheep in your god-fearing flock, while molesting children, whoring around and generally creating a blowhard nuisance of themselves in the media. Yet, you faithfully follow their lead. Wake up.
I can forgive your being human and even forget some of your tiresome behavior, but I will never respect your message till you learn to walk your talk and clean up your collective act. You want to dictate your version of family morals and values through inferior spokespersons and politicians who rank right up there with Jonah’s whale jism according to my good book.
The Earth has had 2,000 years of Christianity and that’s about 2,000 years too many. You haven’t stopped wars, famine, poverty or brothers killing brothers. At the very least, your followers are flawed, if not your whole message. While much of it is charming and lovely when properly lived, your deluded self-importance and hypocritical use of violence and strong arm tactics tend to leave a bad impression with most people as you zealously rant and foam about the mouth in your proselytizing.
If not for the sword and the gun, how many followers would you have really converted? From Indians to natives to aborigines, you have raped, pillaged, plundered and decimated cultures worldwide in your carnivorous and cancerous commitment to Christ. Jesus H. Fucking Christ, get over yourselves. Actions speak louder than your Good Book’s words and your intolerant behavior is proof that you know nothing of god or love.
I was raised a Southern Baptist. The more I studied the teachings of Christ and the people professing to follow this mythic deity, I realized how ignorance, fear and myopia enslave the masses. Thus, I studied all the world’s religions and discovered the common denominators, discarding the egocentric bullshit.
Red-faced, apoplectic, fire and brimstone rhetoric might work on a lobotomized farm animal, but I just don’t get that worked up over Christian constipation and consternation, especially when I didn’t reach across the table for a helping. If I don’t sit down to break bread with you, then keep your jaunty jingoism and fervid fantasies of the hereafter to yourself.
When I see that you’re actually helping the here-Now, I’ll consider listening to your tawdry tales of the hereafter. Christians preach brotherly love, then vote for Bush who believes an Apache helicopter and an M-1 tank are the eucharist of his compassionately divine foreign policy. He’s a lame duck, lame-brained, Valerie Plame-outing fucktard who professes to be Christian to get your sorry votes.
And the mindless sheep keep sipping at the o’erflowing wine trough of ignorance, which is blood-red, these days. If you turn that back to water, then you may color me impressed and I’ll call it a miracle.
As my son and I walked back from dinner, Saturday night, passing the Courthouse Sunken Gardens where they were preparing for the Sunday Easter service, I was grateful for such a beautiful city space that allows the community to gather. Even though I don’t believe what Christians believe, nor practice my spirituality in a similar fashion, I have faith that our community is mostly peopled with intelligent and tolerant minds who allow and embrace diversity.
I’ll forgive the errant few who lack the social awareness, etiquette and skills that are required for a civilized society. The occasional flyer in my face, during dinner, is far less obnoxious than an AK-47 or M-16, of course. I wonder, though, how thin is the line between a joyous thrust for salvation, here in Paradise, and a zealous thrust for democratization in Fallujah? And on which side of the pamphlet do you stand?
Santa Barbara’s efficient city gnomes put up a thousand seats, one day, and took them down, again, on another, so a traditional message of redemption and resurrection could be shared amongst a community. With no apparent grumbling, regardless of their varied personal beliefs, the enigmatic gnomes set, lit, then dismantled the stage, once the message was shared. The flock returned home and the gnomes disappeared.
Thank you, gnomes. Now, could you go to Iraq and work your magic, there? Get in and get out quickly, quietly and discreetly, so life in the fertile crescent can be resurrected and the people’s sins can be washed away. Take plenty of bleach, because blood is difficult to remove. Watch out for IED’s and wear your Kevlar skivvies. One roadside bomb could fling a pair of gnome balls from Baghdad to Bermuda.
I do not stand on street corners, proselytizing and preaching, telling people to read my blog. I do not molest young children in my care. I am not so arrogant as to assume that I know anything about god or the hereafter to the degree that I would take up arms and force it down anyone’s throat.
So, I cannot be a Christian, it seems. I’ll remain a pagan and wonder why those who profess to follow Christ are destroying our planet, its people and the remarkable poetry of all their diverse cultures with such a vengeance. Those who smite in Allah’s name are no better. Both are children and fools.
If you don’t like the picture I’ve painted of Christians and you claim to be one, then you should consider hiring a better PR firm. The one you’ve been using for the past 2,000 years seems to have dug you into a wee bit of a hole. You might try Mel Gibson’s public relations people, but I hear their hands are pretty full, right now. Have you checked with Michael Richard’s publicist?
God is all and god is dead and god is light and god is dark and god is truth and god is lies and god is east and god is west and god is allah and god is jehovah and god is muhammed and god is male and god is female and god is santa and god is satan and god is evil and god is great and god is good and we thank her for this food and dog is christ and god is buddha and god is shiva and god is george burns and god is love and god is hate and god is bush and god is hitler and god is loving and god is fucking and god is white and god is black and god is rainbows of skin tones and god is laughter and god is tears and god is old and god is new and god is here and god is now and god is serpent and god is lightning and god is nature and god is science and god is physics and god is math and god is music and god is my ass farting and god is nothing and god is everything you think god is not.
So, shut your goddamn mouth about what you think god is. I am – as are you. Now, let’s try and get along, but don’t fuckin’ bore me with your fearful narrow mind.
The Kat
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