Trust Me, This is Funny

Alright, Christmas is coming and I thought I'd kick December off with an appropriate, if not completely blasphemous, joke about none other than Your Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

Ready? (At this point, any practicing Christians should start genuflecting or tossing holy water on their ears and eyes). Here we go:

So Jesus is up on the cross.

He's sweating, bleeding, crying and in general, not having the best day of his life.

John (or James -- it's not so important, really) is in the crowd who had gathered to watch Jesus, uh, die.

Racked with pain, Jesus calls out to his disciple.

"John, please. Come to me. I have something important to tell you."

Dutifully, John pushes through the crowd and attempts to get past the Roman guards posted around the crucifix but is pushed back.

"I'm sorry my Lord," John cried, as he rejoined the crowd in defeat.

Again, Jesus, seemingly on his last legs, calls out to John, pleading "My lamb, come to me, I have something important to say before I leave this world."

John steeles himself and pushes back through the crowd, this time managing to distract one guard (who had been day dreaming about a better job than watching people attached to lumber slowly die) and make it to crucifix. However, before he could get a leg up, he is knocked down by the angry sentinels who curse him.

Limping this time, John returns back to the crowd, more than a little embarrassed and avoiding eye contact.

But Jesus cares not for social awkwardness and calls out a third time to John. Though feeble, his voice is strong like James Earl Jones or Vin Deisel if they were Jews.

"John! Hurry, my time is short and I have something that needs to heard."

"Son of a BITCH!" John says under his breath, being careful not to offend Mary.

Shoveling up the last of his grit, John moves back towards Jesus. This time the crowd barely protested as he climbed through, many of them snickering as he passed. Though it should be noted that this was the first utterance of the phrase "third time's a charm" -- in aramic.

John makes his way to crucifix and confronts the Roman soldiers, this time with a large stick in his hand. It was only after the first soldier fell, the side of his face gushing blood, that John remarked the irony of beating down a man to speak to someone who practiced non-violence. The second guard, who had left his spear at home, ran.

As John reached the crucifix, Jesus' cries became more desperate, weaker.

"John, hurry, I have something to tell you."

Like a rhesus monkey, John scaled the crucifix to the "oohs" and "aahs" of the assembled mob who had not expected any acrobatics along with their ritual torture/murder.

"Quick John, please." Jesus pleaded.

Pulling himself up, John was in tears as he got closer to his teacher.

And then he was at Jesus' side, muscles straining as he clung to the wood.

"I'm here my Lord." He whispered, like a prayer.

Dazed and bleary-eyed, Jesus calls to John.

"Come close, I have something important to tell you."

John leaned in, as close as he could, sensing Jesus would not be alive much longer.

"John, I . . I . . ."

"Yes my Lord.?"

"John, I can see your house from here."

Now, at this point you are either laughing hysterically or scared that just by reading these words that you are headed for hell.

If you're not laughing, I'm used to it cause my wife didn't laugh either when I told her this same joke last week. That's right, the same woman who declared, in church no less, that she was no longer a Christian, could not dare let a laugh slip her lips in the face of pure hilarity.

Now, before you give me credit for this comedy gold, I cannot take the credit. That belongs to my dad who told me this same joke countless times over the years. In truth it only came back because the punchline is in the movie "Up" which my kids watched perhaps 15 trillion times over Thanksgiving.

So there you go, share it  . . . if you dare.

Oh yeah, MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Chic-Fil-WHAAAAAA???

Fucking Chic-Fil-A.

Oh yeah, they have great sandwiches, incredible customer service and their peach shakes were good enough to consider selling your soul. But when it comes to religious tolerance, they have a long way to go.

So yesterday, during our weekly pilgramage to Target, my wife reminded me that we needed to stop by the dollar savings section to "pick up stuff for the Chic-Fil-A boxes."

She said this matter of factly, as if I had clue the first as to what she was talking about.

"Huh?" My face said.

"We picked up these charity boxes from Chic-Fil-A that you fill up with gifts for underpriviledged kids."

Great idea, right?

Now, like most folks, I think I fit under the category of "good people." I grew up with parents who were active in giving to charity. One of my strongest memories is driving through Philly with my father, delivering turkeys and gifts to people who didn't have enough money to get them for themselves. It was a defining moment in my life as it brought home how lucky I was. It's also something I've wanted to replicate with my kids, so I saw this as a nice opportunity.

Needless to say, I was excited -- an emotion my children never see on their dad's face while shopping. Their reciprocal excitement from being ENCOURAGED to buy as many toys as possible was only equalled by their stunning disappointment that these toys weren't actually for them. Welcome to charity girls, smells good don't it?

So after that spirit-crushing trip, we returned home with a couple bags of stuff and started filling the boxes like middle-aged Santas. It was really . . . nice. It was warming to think $35 could cause some kid to dust off a smile he hadn't used as much as he'd like -- even if it was just for one day and even if it was just over a coloring book and a toy dinosaur.

While I was filling one box, I happened upon the sheet that accompanied it; a blue worksheet intended for my chidren to fill out. it asked their names, what they like to do, their favorite this and favorite that. Then, about half way down the page, there was this bold question/assumption:

"I love Jesus because . . . "

And then there were three blank lines after it, like there's a bunch of 8-year-old religious scholars who can expound on the significance of a magic Jew who lived before Dora or even, gasp, the Electric Company. At most, I would think a kid would finish the sentence with "because he turned Christmas over to Santa Claus."

And what's with this "love Jesus" stuff? Maybe Jesus and I aren't that cool. Maybe we're like "work friends" or just neighborly. You know we wave when we see each other but we don't know each others last names (which isn't saying much because no one seems to know Jesus' last name). Either way, I don't know that I like Chic-Fil-A rushing Jesus and I into some serious thing. I mean back off, will ya?

I digress.

What really pissed me off was not the pint-size preaching, it was the assumption that my giving had something to do my supposed love with Jesus (again, we are NOT going out, OK?). If I knew I had to be "This Religious" to ride this ride, I would have gone to a different park. But, seriously, this isn't really about me, specifically. I don't practice any religion, so I know Chic-Fil-A doesn't even consider me, but what about the millions of Muslims or Hindus, or, uh, what do they call them, you know Jesus' mom and dad were . . . oh yeah, JEWS! What, they don't find happiness with a #1 combo with those fucking tasty waffle fries? Do THEY have to go steady with Jesus in order to fill a couple of boxes with middle-class regret in the shape Transformer pencil sharpners to gain Chic-Fil-A's affections?

I know you're thinking, "dude, just leave the question blank."

Sure, that would be the "rational" thing to do. Besides, Chic-Fil-A is an openly-Christian business (they're closed on Sundays). But this is about principle. There's principalities to be considered.

Soooooooo . . . . we left it blank, but I desperately WANTED to write something very snarky in there like
"I love Jesus because he doesn't care if I'm a Christian, and neither should you" or "I love Jesus because he knows all the winning lotto numbers."

Truth is, I'm not going to stop going to Chic-Fil-A, not unless I want my children to slit my neck in my sleep, but I just wanted to point out our society's bias towards the faithful. It may seem harmless or even cute, but to me it's bigotry. Deep, golden-fried bigotry that goes great with lemonade.

Pray for Me

My youngest daughter, Avery, goes to church twice a week now.

Well, technically it's not church, it's a pre-school IN a church. You know, like those KFC/Taco Bell abominations that seem like both a good idea and a bad joke simultaneously.

To be sure, while the school itself is not a CHRISTIAN school, they do touch on religion with the kiddies. In fact, Avery now insists that we pray before each meal. It's this adorable clappy-sing-song thing that she does with this huge grin. The words are something like "Give thanks" clap-clap "to the Lord" clap-clap. Of course, Avery has added her own lyrics which involve imaginary friends, her toys and the dog she and her sister are literally praying for. Speaking as the resident Almighty Father, I can tell you at this point THAT particular prayer probably won't be answered -- that is unless I'm miraculously cured of pet dander allergies.

Anyway, I bring all this up to say that I personally have very sucky prayer-etiquette.

I attribute that mostly to the fact that I do not actually pray -- a direct by-product of not believing in God. Or at least, a god that answers personal requests like a middle school DJ. "Hey can you play, 'Please Pay My Mortgage?' or 'Please Kill This Guy Driving Like an Ass hat in the Fast Lane.'



So, this brings me to lunch last week with a co-worker. On our way to Chic-Fil-A, he's telling me this very engrossing story about a woman he's seeing that he shouldn't be seeing. It's all illicit sex, failed relationships, doomed psyches -- like a theater version of "Maury" -- so naturally I'm fully committed to the story.

We order as he continues his story, toning it down so the other patrons don't assume we are complete perverts, get our food and take our seat.

Mind you, just as we are spreading out our deep fried meals on the table, we had enterted the part of the conversation where I offer my pearls of wisdom.

"Honestly dude, I think you're making a big mistake."

My co-worker, usually open to honest criticism, sat, saying nothing.

In fact, his head was down.

"Hey, are you . . . "

Still no reponse.

Aw shit, I thought. Is he crying? Did I say something wrong? Maybe I've drudged up some painful memory which is about to come spilling out all over his waffle fries.

"Hey!" I said a bit more forcefully.

This time a response, a raised hand -- palm facing me.

So I paused. The words I had prepared next stopped, amassed on the border and awaiting orders.

Seconds later, he raised his head, smiled and said "I'm sorry, you were saying . . . ?"

And then it me. Prayer. Dude was praying while I was talking.

It's moments like these that I think of three things:
1. I have no prayer ettiquette. I assume when you're talking about wanton sex, that you're not gonna stop mid-sentence to chat it up with Jesus. So naturally, I don't assume I'll have to hold my tongue either. Not to mention, I'm kinda hungry.
2. Just as a matter of convienance, and I'm just throwing this out there, why don't you pray WHILE you eat. I don't mean talking while you chew (that's gross and dangerous). I mean pray . .  . with your mind. What, you don't think Jesus can read minds?
3. What does the person praying think about me? Clearly I'm powering through my nuggets without even a nod to the J-man, so clearly I'm a dick right? 

From where I sit, praying over food is usually about appreciation which I totally dig. Appreciating that I can eat and have food are things I got from my parents. Not only did they make me aware of children who had less, but my parents repeated a verse from their own Good Book. Let me see if I can recall it. Ah, yes it goes  -- "You don't own shit so be happy for what we give you." And that pretty much did it. Every time I looked at shit -- be it toys, clothes, a slice of pizza -- I would remember that said shit was temporary and that I was lucky to have it. Lesson learned, done and done.

Hey That's My Line!

If this post were a movie, it would start with a prologue, a provactive scene that makes you wonder what the hell happened before it.

How about this:

INTERIOR. DAYTIME. MASTER BATHROOM
"Daddy, I don't want to be a Christian."

Nice huh?

It was Sunday, exactly five months after my father died, and I found myself in a church for the first time since . . . I wanna say two years ago. Ironically, it was the exact same church, a real coincidence for a heathen like me.

My mother-in-law, and a room full of others, became deacons on Sunday and we were there to support her. And by "we," I mean my brother-in-law AND my mom (and of course my daughters and wife).

We arrived late (shocker) and sat damn near the back (bonus!). When we came in the choir was just quieting down and the shouting was just about to start.

Now, while I am intellectually curious about religion and Christianity, I find church to be pretty fucking boring. I mean not at first, but c'mon after two hours, even sex gets tedious. And normally, I'm the only heathen in the place so I have to keep my smart-ass remarks to myself or risk embarassing my wife as she does her best to fit in. But Sunday was different.

First off, I was sitting next to my mother, who despite an entire childhood in church, is as Christian as a bag of nickels. She provided a constant streams of jokes as we looked at the church clothes (does Jesus WANT women to dress like shit?), the minister's insistence on sounding like a balloon losing air whenever he used a word ending in "s." ("rest" becomes "resssssssssss," "pass" becomes "passssss," "ass" becomes "assssssss" not that he said that but thinking about it just makes me laugh). So, all in all, a good time as we did very little to hide the fact that we were only there to pass judgment and laugh.

However, what was different was that my wife was seemingly . . . .with me. Normally, I percieve her to be a bit embarrassed. She's the big sister who has to bring her little brother to the party when she knows all he's going to do is make an ass of himself and probably piss on the couch. But Sunday was different, she seemed detached from church in a way I had never seen. Comforting to me, it was slightly sad that she had let go of any possibility of feeling at home in a church. Naturally, I blame myself as does my mother-in-law -- I assume. But in my personal narrative, SHE is the one who likes, if not tolerates, church, while I am the one who shuns it like the latest Soulja Boy song.

Here's how I know. My favorite/most feared part of every church visit is the call for new members. You know, when the minister asks if anyone wants to come to Jesus in front of a room of strangers. Even in my limited church going, I have never actually seen someone take up the offer. Anyway, I ALWAYS feel like the minister is talking directly to me. And I nurse this fantasy that I will somehow be singled out by the minister who will call me down to the pulpit where I deliver a heathen manifesto with the same heartfelt fervor as Linus' speech at the end of "A Charlie Brown Christmas."

So when the minister asked everyone to turn to someone and ask them if they could walk with them to the pulpit to accept Jesus, I just KNEW someone would turn to ask me. But such was not the case. The woman in front of us, stereotypically large, turned to my wife and asked "can I walk with you?" I froze. My wife graciously took her hand and gave her the foreigener smile, the one that says "I don't really know what you said, but I'm willing to play along." The woman repeated her question "can I walk with you?" To which my wife answered, "Oh, no that's OK," and pulled her hand away. The woman, not knowing how to take rejection, smiled politelty and turned back around.

Wow, right? Granted, my wife is not one for public displays of, well anything, but her refusal to accept Jesus as her savior was significant. Naturally, I was both jealous and relived that the woman had not turned to me. I don't have enough words for the scenario I had cooked up had the woman actually turned to me. Suffice to say, it would have been mortifyingf to all parties involved.

So, fast forward to this morning. I ask my oldest daughter what she thought of church to which she answered. "It was nice but . . . "

"But what?" I ask.

"But there was one thing I didn't like. They were too loud."

"I see." I restrained my glee.

"Daddy, I don't want to be a Christian."
Shock gave way to one question.

"Why not honey?"

"Mommy said that you said you don't want to be a Christian, so neither do I."

Warms the heart, no? And yet  . . .

"Honey, daddy's 35 years old and has had a lot of time to think about these things. You're only eight, so you may change your mind."

BOOM! Didn't think I'd say that did you? Well I did. And it's the truth. While I'm in no hurry to make my children card-carrying Christians, I'm not ready to snatch away any hope of it either. They are simply too young to know any better. Besides, so much of Christianity is a fairy tale, I don't see the harm in letting them believe, if only for a little while longer.

Guess What Tomorrow Is?

Tomorrow at this time, I'll still be in church.

Yes, you read that correctly, church. The big C. God's crib. Casa de Jesus.

See, my mother-in-law will be inducted as the first female deacon of her church and we've been invited to commemorate the occassion at her church.

So this is just a prelude, a trailer to what's coming. Rest assured, I'll fill you in on all the details tomorrow. Actually, probably more like Monday. Anway, stay tuned.

Twitter is for Sinners

I'm not one for trending topics on Twitter. I mean I DO have my own mind.

Nevertheless, I noted that the FIRST trending topic (that is the topic most people are tweeting about) was titled: "NO GOD."

So naturally I clicked to see what people were saying.

Before I reveal, I made the assumption that it would be filled with people raving against the poor atheist who started the trend. I guessed I would see several calls for Jesus and or God to strike them down, give him boils and impound his Saturn.

Um . . . no.

Here's a sampling of what was there:

beyonddieties wrote: "No god? Finally, a little respect for the athiests xD responsibility! rationality! logic! your own judgement!no sexism!no racism!"

Andrew_Vienne @infocyde wrote: "There is no god." is a null hypothesis, just like "There is no invisible dragon." Burden of proof is on those who say it exists.

and finally, gblas wrote: "Si dios vive en mi, espero que le gusten los tacos." Which roughly translates to "Yes, God lives in me, but then is released after a meal at Taco Bell."

After reading this, I've come to two conclusions:

1. Atheism is indeed coming out of the closet
2. Black folks were not aware of this trending topic otherwise my mother in law would have emailed it to my wife as further evidence why our children need to be in Church.

Where the Hell Have I Been?

My last post was in August, so where they hell have I been?

No good answer.

Well, actually, my boss got canned so I've been bustin' up the chifferobe at full speed at work, so I've been a bit distracted.

But that doesn't absolve my guilt.

Here I am punching buttons for the man and you're sitting there with nothing to read, nothing to share with your friends.

My poor, poor reader. (I assume there's at least one of you other than my wife).

So here's my pledge, my fucking scout's honor that I will drop at least one weekly load of my incredibly interesting life right here.

Ok, are we cool?

I mean, if this was a real conversation we'd hug it out and then segue to talking about what happened on Fringe.

But since it's not, I'm gonna say this conversation is over.

STAY TUNED!!!!