I Have No Words (OK, maybe a couple)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Ben Stein isn't Very Bright

I was working out this morning (it's a new year, right?) and, since the children have lost/hidden my remote, I was passively forced to watch Ben Stein's documentary "Expelled: No Intelligence Allowed." I actually only saw the last 30 minutes of it, but that was enough to fuel this latest entry of gold.

So, if you're unaware, the film is a defense of Intelligent Design, the concept that life on earth was designed by some unseen hand and not the random happenings of evolution. And while many of its proponents claim it has nothing to do with religion, that's a farce. It's like a guy telling a woman her really nice ass has nothing to do with him wanting to grab it. In my opinion, and apparently the rest of the scientific world, Intelligent Design is the religious community's way of shoehorning God into our textbooks.

And, just so we're clear. I'm not 100% sold on evolution in the sense that there was a time when all scientists agreed the earth was flat or that Sandra Bullock was a reason to go to movies. Point being: what is fact one day is false the next. Ask the brontosaurus. That said, I put my FAITH in the science of evolution as a good answer to how life on this planet happens. If for nothing else, scientists don't fuck up my weekends by knocking on my doors and forcing me to hide behind my couch.

Anyway, when I turn the movie on Ben Stein (the first evangelical Jew I've ever heard of) is touring a Nazi concentration camp. Why? Because apparently Hitler believed in Darwinism and therefore exterminated millions of "inferior" people. So, there you have it, following Darwin leads to you becoming an ethnic-cleansing lunatic so evil that the sight of your mustache alone makes people pause. And with science out of the way, the only example to follow will be religion and we all know no one ever got killed or harmed in the name of faith.

(ironic dramatic pause)

But Stein's just getting warmed up. His REAL argument is that denying the discussion of intelligent design in academia is akin to the evils of the Berlin Wall. And sure enough, the movie starts flashing black and white images of people secreting over the barrier so they too can learn about Intelligent Design. One incredulous ID researcher says (I'm paraphrasing, but not much): "They've pretty much said that religion and science will always be separate. This is what the Academy of Science is saying. So that sort of ends the debate before it gets started doesn't it?!?" Yes, it does. Thank you. Religion is not science. Just like puppies aren't cookies. Maybe you like both of them, but one is for petting and one is for eating (unless you're in China).

This all builds up the climax of the film -- a rousing speech by Stein to a room full of, what looks like to me, the same defiantly-happy crowds you see at a Christian Rock concerts (their zeal is almost violent). The imagery suddenly becomes very Michael Bay-ish -- saturated colors, slow motion waving flags, Megan Fox leaning on motorcycles -- as Stein's call for freedom is, I shit you not, intercut with a speech from Ronald Reagan about the Berlin Wall. Seriously, it was like right-wing porn. It could only have been topped if Billy Ray Cyrus rode in on a deer and then shot that deer with a Miller Lite rifle. But I digress.

At the end of the day, neither science or religion do a good job of answering the question: how did it all start. I throw in with science because at least they allow for themselves being wrong. Believers are not as flexible. You cannot question things. It is, by definition, the opposite of science.

I don't know how to end this post, so I'll just stop typing.

Brit Hum-ungous Prick

If you haven't heard or seen by now, FOX News commentator Brit Hume urged Tiger to renounce his Buddhist ways and convert to Christianity so that he can, ahem, redeem himself. Seeing as the Daily Show has already done an excellent job lambasting Hume I won't take up too much of your time.



So why write anything? Because moral absolutism fascinates/repulses me. It's the reason I watch FOX News. It's the only place where you can gaurantee that an entire company is working to find the negative spin on everything THEY don't agree with. Obama saves a child? FOX NEWS: Why didn't he save three more? The economy is perking up? FOX NEWS: Yes, but hamsters still can't read. And it's all because FOX, and the "conservatives" they dance for, have a huge hard-on for Obama and the Dems. I get it, seriously I do, but that doesn't make it any less entertaining.

Likewise with religion. I am fascinated by people who - having never met Jesus or anyone who knew him; having never lived in other parts of the world; tried different religions or have never died - can definitively say that Christianity is the best religion going.

Look, I love Reese's Buttercups. And for the last 35 years of my life, I have yet to find anything equaling its in-your-face deliciousness (yes, Cinnabon, I love you too but eating a desert the size of a baby's head is . . . disconcerting). Neverthless, I haven't tried ALL candies and can't proclaim from the top of Mount Hershey that Reese's Buttercups are the Alpha and Omega of sweet treats. I mean, I would if they discovered Mount Hersey -- and I could get to the top without all the hiking and sherpas and frostbite -- but for now that is only a fantasy. Much like the supposed contest between Christianity and Buddhism.

So to Mr. Hume (who is now claiming he's being persecuted because of his Christianity -- for FUCK'S SAKE), I get it, you dig Jesus. So does most of the country you broadcast in. But if Tiger is a buddhist, let him be (if anything, he appears to have more Mormon tendencies). Besides, if Christianity really had the redemptive power you claim, why haven't you or any of your fellow "journalists" forgiven Bill Clinton?

Party Pooper

Well, it's a new year and I STILL have not been struck down by lightning (much to the shock of many of my Christian friends). Take THAT vengeful God! Anyway, onto the first post of 2010.

Last Thursday, as I did my damned best to get out of the office in a respectable manner (you know, without sprinting at full speed to the front-door), I asked my co-workers the same question everyone was asking:

"What are your plans for New Year's Eve?"

Being an old, married father of two, my New Year's Eve plans are . . . they're not plans. New Year's Eve in my neck of the woods is a lot like Friday night only  . . .  actually there's no "only." My New Year's Eve was EXACTLY like my Friday night. But you  know, that's cool. Seriously, I dig being at home with my family eating pizza, plumbing the DVR for what I've missed and occasionally sneaking down into the basement for a little "tickle the joystick" with my mistress; madame Xbox 360. Call me crazy, but it's a little slice of heaven I look forward to every week.

Anyway, while some of my co-workers told me about nights out on the town, more than one said "I'll be in church."

In church for new year's.

Granted, I'm aware that church is open for new year's but so is 7-11, so simply having the lights on doesn't seem like the most compelling reason to go.

And it wasn't like these people had lost a bet. Like "I'll pay you $100 if you touch that road kill that touch your tongue." "And if I don't?" "The you have to spend new year's eve  . . . . in church."

Seems fine for shut-ins and people over 70, but I'm talking single people in their 30's. Let's say you're not a drinker or a fornicator and hate clubs, cool. What about a good movie (Sherlock Holmes is good) or invite you and your non-drinking, celibate, dorky friends over to play Warcraft (seriously, what else would that bunch be playing)?

I dunno, going to church on new year's eve just feels like throwing in the towel a bit early, no? Like, fuck it, I'm not doing anything with my life now, might as well start living like my grandparents.

Again, it's not like I was knocking back Cristal with Diddy in the Hamptons (actually, I would not want to do that), but still.

Perhaps the problem is I've never had fun in church. I take that back. I've never had intentional fun at church. I usually end up enjoying myself quite a bit, but that's usually a defensive mechanism for being trapped in the three-hour screaming sermon delivered by a man with suspiciously too-long nails.

Often I feel that church is that TV show that other people just rave about, but every time you catch it they say "oh that's not the best episode." At this point, I just agree to disagree. Church is my "Two and a Half Men."

But maybe I'm missing out. I mean, Jesus turned water to wine so there's probably lots of drinking going on. And who knows, maybe there's like a Ten Commandments drinking game; take a shot if you covet my wife. I mean those folks in Sodom seemed like a lively bunch, so maybe I don't know what I'm talking about.

Ultimately, I guess if everyone I know and love is at church for new year's eve, I'd be there, too. But if everyone I know was in church on new year's eve, I'd be like "you know there's a 7-11 open just around the corner. Let's fill up on ring dings and read Black Men magazine till our eyes bleed."

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.