Your children are NOT special

To: You
From: Guess
Date: Duh
Subject: [Insert 30 seconds of thinking up a vapid subject line.]

Goddamn I hate kids. All of 'em. They stink, they're dirty, and they make my life a living hell. With that said, I had another dream last night. It went a little something like this:

I open my eyes and I'm in line at the grocery store. In front of me is God, and he's taking forever (I'm still trying to figure out why he was buying Vagisil and cranberry pills). I could feel the stares from the two people behind me, so I turned my head and acted like I was looking at magazines to get a peripheral look at them. Holy shit! It was George Carlin directly behind me, and Pat Robertson, who was reading the latest issue of Us magazine.

I hear Patty (as I like to call him) murmuring, "Thank the Lord, Jesus Christ, Britney finally broke it off with Kevin. Let us pray." He squinted his eyes, looking more like he was trying to figure out the square root of 4,063 than trying to contact God.

"You're a fucking idiot," said George.

"Excuse me, sir. I'm talking to God right now. If you don't watch your mouth, I'll damn you to hell and eat your wife and kids," Patty snapped.

God got over the embarrassment of his apparent yeast infection, turned around, and seemed to enlarge to the size of Goliath, with fiery eyes and diamonds for teeth. "I command thou to cease this nonsense," He roared. "Bitches."

I had to stop George from bull-rushing God. His face was blood red, and I probably could've seen steam fuming from his head had I looked closer. He's one of those extremely angry atheists. (I can understand his contempt with people like Patty and, of course, God himself, but one thing I've learned from being an atheist/agnostic is that the more severe anger you display, the worse it is for you. I usually tell people, I think it's cool that you're religious, or at least I can accept it. Over 85 percent of Americans are. When you show that you're upset over their beliefs, all they'll do is tell you that you need Jesus (or religion, in general) in your life. That's the point I reach when I feel the need to slap someone. Believe it or not, there are intelligent Christians that simply have chosen to believe in a superior being but also understand why others may not concur, and they accept it and decline to badger you with their ideas.)

"But he was being mean," pouted Patty, on the verge of tears. "Can't you do something, like, maybe, make a tornado ravage his hometown and kill his wife and family. That would teach George a lesson not to mess with You."

God replied, "Goddammit, Pat. You see, you're the posterchild of exactly what not to be for the Christian faith. You're judgmental, and you hold everyone in the world to implausible standards that you, yourself, fail to uphold. You can't expect me to act like your big brother, beating up people because they called you names, or serve as your version of karma to inflict pain and suffering on people unwilling to succumb to your orders and your interpretation of what the status quo should be."

"Damn. I must say I'm surprised," George said. "I guess it's just your followers I can't stand. Is that beer I see in your basket?"

"Who says I can't get fucked up every now and then, George?" God said, sounding a little perturbed. "You're fixated on the stereotype of the God-fearing American, and you, in turn, end up portraying the run-of-the-mill atheist, pissed off at the world, jealous that those Christians are happy all the time, yet happy because you think you're smarter than them.

"You do realize, George, that, in the same way I made beautiful flowers and allowed the invention of automobiles, I also let man find a beautiful plant called marijuana and invent beer and LSD and so forth. ... You humans kill me. Shit."

Coincidentally, it just so happened that I had ridden to the grocery store in a car, smoked a joint on the way, drank a 40 oz. of Old English and swallowed a five strip of acid before I came in. God sounds like my kinda guy.

... The moral of the story/dream is this: I have fucked up made-up dreams; AND God, Allah, Krishna, Jesus, Mohammad—they're only what you make them to be. That's why I don't buy it. According to scriptures from the past and the preachings of today, Christianity's God seemed like he went through that phrase after you break up with someone special. First, he was nice and let everyone do as they please and live as long as they wanted (the phase where you act like nothing's wrong). Then, all hell broke loose—floods, plagues, dead babies, you know, bad shit (the phase where you just fucking snap and love to see other people suffer). Now, he's to the point to where he just doesn't give a fuck. But then he does, right? Free will? ... With a plan, I guess?

The ulterior moral could be that it's all a crock of shit. Yeah, that's what I'm sticking with.

I'm thinking about some weird shit right now. I'm gonna take a nap.