Jesus Is Dead (But So Are a Lot of Other Nice People)

You may be shocked, saddened, or horrified by the title of this post, which is perfectly understandable.  If so, I forgive you.  Even though I don’t believe that Jesus is or was the son of God (funny how so many people say that, considering he introduced himself as the Son of Man, which is no big deal, since every other male human is too–or else every other male human is also the son of God, in which case he was likewise being redundant–must run in the family, considering his dad used to say “I Am That I Am,” which just sounds like bad grammar to me, later corrected by a certain naval consumer of spinach known to anthropologists as Popeye, who declared, “I Am What I Am,” or “I Yam What I Yam,” if you want to get all phonetical and shit.

I’m not trying to say that Jesus’ nonexistence is a good thing, or even necessarily a bad one.  I just like facts.  Why?  Because they’re true.  Don’t you?  Understanding, appreciating, and agreeing with facts keeps people out of trouble.  If you don’t believe me, I’ll give you an example:  If you drive your car very fast into a tree while not wearing a seat belt, you will probably die.  Helpful information, don’t you think?  Here’s another one:  pining for someone who stopped loving you a long time ago is a complete waste of time.  I wish I’d figured that one out fifteen years ago, so I wouldn’t have wasted ten years trying to disprove it.  Finally:  drinking a large amount of alcohol gives you a massive hangover.  Although I consider myself a generally intelligent person, I’ve repeated this experiment literally ad nauseam and still haven’t learned my lesson.  Maybe I should turn myself into A. A. and become a mensch for a change.  If I can buy into the whole “higher power” shtick (not a fact, as far as I can tell–but then again, what do I know?  I’m only human; hence, I don’t know shit from Shinola, my ass from a hole in the ground, etc.), I’ll be good to go. . . to hell.  Just kidding.  I think that A. A. is the greatest thing since sliced heads, or bread, whichever the expression is.

You may be wondering why I sound so ebullient this morning.  The reason is–and I thank God for this–my wife Jina is away at a Christian retreat to brainwash teenagers–Hallelujah!  Praise the Lord!  Another beer, please!–so I get to use the computer with impunity, and don’t have to listen to Korean actors perform in soap operas in the background or hear that cheesy dickless goofball singing some half-assed ballad in the soundtrack; instead, I can enjoy the Caucasian-American (vs. “white”) noise of the equally white refrigerator, whose brand name happens to be Dios (see?  I do believe in God after all; I hate to admit that I love food, considering it tastes great and keeps me alive, even though it has the nasty side effect of giving me the shits–hey, nothing’s perfect), sample the hair of the dog that bit me, and munch saltines for their immeasurable nutritional benefits (easier than washing and cooking the rice, which I promise I’ll do later, even though, to quote the late-by-suicide-seventies-comedian Freddie Prinze, “It’s not my job, man,” which is strictly sexist bullshit in this case and meant merely as a joke, no offense intended to Freddie the Deddie, whom I can’t help but envy for his nonexistence, much as I sometimes love life, especially when I’m asleep, which is sort of like a dress-rehearsal-in-pajamas for death, which too many people are afraid of, even though it’s an all-expenses-paid vacation package and a one-way ticket to either heaven or oblivion, whichever you believe in, whose only side effect is the fact that it never ends, unless you’re into reincarnation, which is a load of crap as far as I’m concerned, and not a good thing either if you’re either a Buddhist or a Hindu, and even though I consider myself a watered-down version of the former, I refuse to believe in such poppycock because, as I mentioned above, when I was a few minutes younger–ah, those were the days–I like facts; more than that, I believe in them–sorry if that makes me a blasphemer, an infidel, a heretic, or any of those other bad words my wife likes to use when she’s trying to stop me from using what she considers bad words, even though I think they’re good, and good for you, too).

In case you’re wondering I forgot what I was going to say before I got so rudely interrupted by Mr. Parentheses up there.  I apologize with groveling obsequiousness.  I bow so low that I can kiss the floor–or the sidewalk, if you prefer, even though that will force me to have to go outside.  At least it’s not as cold as it was a couple of days ago, in which case my lips would stick to the pavement and the fire department would have to come and pry them off by gingerly pouring green tea on my face, keeping their fingers crossed in the  hope that I didn’t get addicted to the stuff, an order even taller than the ironically nicknamed Wilt Chamberlain, a man who claimed to have bedded several thousand women in his heyday (sic?).  Let’s hope for the women’s sake he used protection, and that he was nice and gentle to them at the time, since he reserved bragging rights for exploiting their souls, spirits, and bodies for the sake of his colossal ego, not that a lame-ass like me wouldn’t have done the same, so pathetically needy is the male desire for gratification, affirmation, and confirmation of masculinity and/or machismo, as if it were something worthy of worship instead of the instantly and easily recognizable disease that it so obviously is to anyone who’s paying attention, in other words, most women, and some men, children, animals, flowers, trees, tables, chairs, etc.

“Et cetera” is a great word when you’re an incurable windbag.  The only problem is that a lot of my students, who suffer from the opposite problem of diffident taciturnity (hello, thesaurus!) use it a little too frequently in their writing.  What’s more, they don’t know how to pronounce it.  When reading out loud, most Korean students here in Korea (I have to specify that because the ones who go and study abroad tend to be quicker on the up-take) pronounce it “E-T-C,” as if it were a frickin’ acrofrickinym.  What would the letters stand for?  “Except To Claim,” “Endlessly Tedious Calculations,” “Effervescent Testicular Coconuts.”  Who the frick knows?  The reason I’m not indulging in the so-called “F” word is not out of squeamishness, but because I’ve heard that when used in a computerian context, it can attract viruses.  Otherwise, I wouldn’t necessarily have a problem with it, even though it is probably the most flamboyantly overused word on the planet, after “Okay,” “Awesome,” and “Coke.”

At least it’s not a motherflippin’ acrofolkingnym.

Now, to return to the conceivably inflammatory (though not entirely meant to be, at least not according to Dr. Jekyll) title of this entry:  I realize that some of you may be irrevocably attached to the idea of Jesus as an immortal figure, and I respect your right to believe that he (or He, if you prefer) is.  All I ask of you is that you likewise respect my right to disagree and make fun of such an absurd concept, and that we can love one another in a non-dirty way as fellow human beings just trying to make sense of our world and decrease the level of sorrow and suffering in our own lives and those of our fellow creatures.  If you think I’m a mean-spirited Christian-hater, or Satan himself, think again:  after all, I’m married to a Christian, whom I still love (although not all the time), and I also love her equally Christian family, along with the Christian members of my family, along with every other Christian I’ve ever met (ambiguity intended).

Like many of you, I just don’t like being told what or how to think, or what to believe in, or what to do.  It’s a weakness of mine as a not-too-distant cousin of our tree-swinging cousins, the chimpanzee.  I also reserve the right to believe that we’re cousins, and that maybe we shouldn’t be letting them go extinct through deforestation, global warming, the bush-meat trade, and all that jazz, not that we should be shepherding the extinction of more distant relatives either.  I confess that I’m troubled by my wife’s insistence that we humans are not animals because I believe it smacks of speciesism.  Maybe it wouldn’t matter so much to me if she didn’t get so mad about my attachment to the idea that yes, we are fricking animals, and who gives a hoot, and I like being an animal, goshflunking darnit (please excuse my emasculated outburst of Tourette’s syndrome).

Her anti-animal creed may be the same force that makes her sister, whom I also love dearly as a fellow sufferer of life’s wondrous torments, say that I shouldn’t try to be a vegetarian, as if condoning the mass-slaughter of animals were A-OK and something to be proud of, instead of the unconscionable disgrace that it is, let’s face it, especially since there probably is no God, which means we actually have to use our consciences to increase the common good instead of genuflecting, muttering some gibberish to an imaginary dictator, and pretending it’s hunky-dory to preside over a global slaughterhouse, voting with our shopping carts and credit cards.

All I can say is, if there is a God, I hope He cares.  Somebody might want to.

 

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