A Pleasant Distraction

Falling eyelids make time freeze
Lashes smile, a subtle breeze
Orbs at rest behind incisions
But when revealed they cause collisions

I must digress to assess
How on earth one might possess
Golden locks, legs of a goddess
A countenance so bleak and modest

And as she struts past
I find that she has
A bun in the oven
A beauty so sudden

My heart is tender, calm and coy
My mind is eager to destroy
The notion of her lips so red
Grazing mine, entwined in bed

Alas, I return from the unseen
To greet the steel of my machine
This purgatory where I work
This factory where bosses lurk

Then I remember Johnny Cash
And all the great ones from the past
Etta James and Brian Jones
Malcolm X and Al Capone

And all the books I haven't read
Every author, 'live or dead
I think of them, and I can say
My soul is fine another day

 

Haiku #2

All the crickets laugh
"A seemingly small giraffe!"
From a distant path

Haiku #1

Mao's little red book
In my glovebox, have a look!
It's my secret nook

The Benevolent Mentor

An internal battle begins
White blood cells die for my sins
An ominous crash of thunder
A torment in my chest, and under

But a cool wave makes its way inside of me
And gives my soul back to Sobriety
I was sick with a fix of childish hope
Naivety the needle, desperation the dope

Where have I been since the sun went away?
In Milwaukee, to see the Ancient of Days
A weary traveler, aged beyond his years
Yet drank more life than any of his peers

He took me in, under his wing
A weathered, feathered, leather thing
And through the skies we whirled and twirled
To see the wonders of the world

Hedonistic queens of sex
The Brontosaurus and T. Rex
Microscopic Asian germs
And enormous slimy worms

Everything in its place
Grown in time and flown through space
Turkish Bath, Barcelona Beach
I shall learn and he shall teach

Grandpa Vern is a Legend

Grandpa Vern is a legend.  He has sprinted faster than a deer, won several prestigious awards for his outstanding journalism, and once killed a deadly gorilla with his bare hands.  Or did he kill a bear with his deadly gorilla hands?  The act was conducted too quickly to tell.  In any case, Vern also served an unspecified country bravely as a Kamikaze pilot during World War II.  He has been around this world, and back.  At ninety-nine years young, Grandpa Vern is still kicking, and despite witnessing innumerable nerve-wracking sporting events, his tell tale heart is still ticking.

            Regardless of Grandpa Vern’s breathtaking history of mind-boggling accomplishments, he is really just a simple man who loves and cares for his family, his community, antique cars, and the meticulous documentation of trivial occurrences on his calendar, year after year.  But the vortex of Vern’s legacy can be found in the countless gifts, vast and subtle, that he has bestowed upon his naïve kinfolk.  Now, everyone knows that Grandpa Vern has graciously made charitable contributions to the empty pockets of his grandchildren for decades, but let’s examine the inception of this compelling tale.  First, Mr. Vernon J. Cahak gave one Sally Lindsay the gift of his hand in marriage.  After several under-the-table deals with The Stork, Vernon gave the gift of Life – three lovely children, who each stopped crying at night when given a pacifier dipped in whiskey.  Through these initially offspring, a batch of an additional 9 grandchildren later sprang forth, and so far, an additional great-grandchild has shown his bright little face.  You might think Vern had little or nothing to do with these seemingly isolated incidents of procreation, but think again.  Vern’s benevolent yet regulatory hand was guiding this process, as he kindly passed the gift of favorable genes on to each of his grandchildren. 

Yes, superior genetic makeup is but one of the many wonderful gifts Vernon has given.  These specific biological mechanisms have allowed enhanced athletic abilities, impressive writing skills, patience, understanding, eloquence, humility, a good sense of humor, or simply exhibiting symptoms of obsessive-compulsive disorder.  In rare cases, such as my own, a descendent might end up with all of said dominant traits (perhaps excluding one).  However, these genes may lay dormant, and may require the powerful presence of their almighty founder in order to be expressed.  Vern’s presence, which includes exposure to his uncanny wit and wisdom, allows several units of his deeply poetic phrases, peppered with his patented profanity, to be absorbed directly into the bloodstream.  As you may have noticed by the diction and flow of this piece of literature, I have been in Vernon’s presence quite a few times over the last 27 years.  You might also be interested to know that, because of this stalwart grandfather, I was, at one point in my career, that fastest kid in elementary school.  I went on to play on the little league all-star team, and became one of the top sprinters and long-jumpers in track and field.  Again, relating to Vernonesque genes, I kept several journals when I was a child, and I have been periodically updating a personal narrative that mainly chronicles my college experience in Milwaukee.  This Microsoft Word document is now 90 pages in length, and none of you will ever read it.

When engaging in the writing process, my aim is to entertain.  But this is a serious matter!  Grandpa Vern is the reigning patriarch – the king of this family, and he deserves some respect.  He is the best father my mom has ever had, and he is my favorite grandfather on my mom’s side of the family.  Not only that, but he is a model, an archetype for all future grandfathers around the world.  Yes, even Oriental and Colored grandfathers.  He is the quintessential grandfather.  Grandpa Vern’s stealth and cunning, though notable, are no match for the community involvement, goodwill, hard work, love, care, and kindness he exhibits on a daily basis.  Though often referred to as “Grandpa Vern”, Mr. Cahak has recently earned the prestigious title “Great Grandpa Vern”, mainly due to his evident greatness.  This Man among men has provided infinite inspiration to all of us, and we love him dearly.  Grandpa Vern is a true American hero.  In a lively chant, I must declare, “Ninety-nine more years! Ninety-nine more years!”

Matthew Dolezal accepts first-prize at the Mega Ultra Superman Triathlon Award Ceremony

Ladies and Gentlemen, friends, fans, fellow participants, Fox News…

After winning the Mega Ultra Superman Triathlon (also known by the acronym “MUST”), I admit that I do feel like a superman.  Some folks in the media have argued that I might actually be superhuman, but I don't advocate bragging, so enough about my amazing physical capabilities.

Now, in a diverse audience such as this, I know some of you may be distracted by your various emotions – be they love, profound admiration, sexual desire, jealously, hatred, or even blood-lust, but if you sit tight and open your ears and hearts to my message, you just might learn how to become a better person, a stronger person, and a more successful person.  In short, you might learn how to become more like me.

Once again, I’d like to thank you all for being here tonight – it’s a real ego-boost.  I’d also like to thank several individuals who unwittingly contributed to this accomplishment through inspiration and favorable genetics.

First of all, I’d like to thank my Grandpa Vern, who began my family’s great athletic tradition with his record-breaking participation in track and field.  He always said he could “run like a deer”, and even now, at eighty years old, he can still walk like a goat.

Secondly, I thank my mother, who has always been an avid runner, and trained me well over the years.  Next, I'd like to thank my younger brother Adam for carrying on our family’s cherished athletic custom with his inspiring involvement in Cross Country during high school, though he maintained his position as "last place" during each meet.

And last, but certainly not least, I’d like to thank my wonderful sponsors, Red Bull and Fat Tire, who made this dream a reality.

Ladies and Gentlemen, I stand before you today as, yes, a mighty champion, but also as a unique individual with a unique story.  For those of you who haven’t yet had the privilege of reading my autobiography, it’s important to note that mine is not simply a story of commitment, endurance, and superior physical ability – it is also a story of overcoming adversity.

You see, when I was about three years old I contracted a severe case of asthma due to the rampant pollution of a local paper mill.  I recall many sleepless nights in the Emergency Room, and this unpleasant ailment also detracted from my performance during high school sports, karate, and snowboarding.  Being an asthmatic, I never imagined that I would one day complete a triathlon, much less earn first place in one.

A few years ago, after the advent of chronic back and neck pain, I sought help and explanation from a prominent chiropractor.  Soon enough, I was diagnosed with a ruthless defect called “scoliosis”.  Having a spine that, in alphabetic terms, most closely resembles the letter “S”, I never imagined that I would one day attain such a prestigious honor.

Then, there was college.  I would describe my college experience as a reckless four-year art binge, during which I had no accountability, and not even a brief consideration of athletic pursuit. After the heavy alcohol consumption and other unhealthy habits that animated my educational development, I never imagined I would be standing here before you today.

Though I am honored and thrilled to be here, I am not particularly surprised, for I did adhere to a strict training regimen, which included kickboxing, yoga, Tae Bo, Tai-Chi, Chai tea, and waterboarding, which was conducted by former vice president Dick Cheney himself, God bless his soul.  This training, and the voracious spirit of competition that has been instilled in me since birth, have allowed me to be successful in my journey.

Earlier, I mentioned the fact that I have good genes.  However, during most of the competition I was actually wearing shorts, though I had a custom-made aqua-dynamic scuba suit (designed by the wonderful folks at Red Bull) which protected me from the elements (including toothpick fish) during the 8 mile Amazonian backstroke, but that’s a bit of a tangent…

Regardless of my meticulous preparation, I did encounter many difficulties during the race.

For instance, while being chased by a pack of wild boars through the Cocaine Cactus Maze, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my liver, as though I had just been shanked by an unruly inmate.  But instead of throwing in the towel, I pressed on, repeating in my head, “the MUST is a must, the MUST is a must!”

Additionally, while cycling up the mighty Mt. Tambora, the heavy inhalation of sulfur and volcanic debris caused me to have a mild asthma attack.  But I didn’t give up.  Instead, I cracked a Red Bull, and repeated again the phrase, “The MUST is a must!  The MUST is a must!”  This must have helped, because I successfully applied the same method during the pyramid crawl, when my spine felt like a soft pretzel, baking in the Egyptian sun.

At last, I realized that I had overcome the ultimate adversity, as I burst through the finish line, my body intact, and my mind enlightened.  Afterward, I was compelled to kick back and relax with a nice, cold pint of my favorite beer, Fat Tire.

During Stephen Colbert’s speech at the 2006 White House Correspondents Dinner, he commented on then president George W. Bush, saying “it is the heart-warming story of a man who is repeatedly punched in the face.”  Due to my various physical disorders, I used to think of my own story this way.  But since my recent victory, I now liken my personal narrative to that of a man who has looked Life straight in the face, and given it a nice, hardy kick in the nuts.

Now, I can tell by the looks on your faces that the more astute among you have become aware that approximately 74% of this uplifting tale is indeed fictional.  Let me, then, leave you with these words of enigmatic inspiration: "If you can dream it, you can imagine it."  Thank you.

A Modest Abortion

As many of my beloved readers are aware, abortion is the most controversial topic ever, in the history of the World.  However, I have devised a solution that could potentially unite those deemed "pro-life" and "pro-choice", respectively.  As evidenced by the following text, this astute remedy is the most fair compromise imaginable, for it takes into consideration the “rights” and the emotions of each fetus, each mother-to-be (or mother-on-the-fence), and each vigorous onlooker, who, in many cases, happens to be a male without any prior, present, or possible future personal experience with pregnancy or childbirth, yet brandishes vehement opinions regarding the actions members of the fairer sex ought to take in an instance of said phenomena.
            Myriad reasons may be cited when a subject considers abortion, but in many cases, the subject, though choosing to engage in sexual activity, did not choose to become pregnant.  The microscopic unit gleefully tingling in her uterus is therefore an “unwanted growth”.  In other cases of unwanted growths, we, as a reasonable and libertarian society, allow carriers to rid themselves of their infestation.  After all, is a carrier fully to blame for this new plot development?  Should we force this striking young damsel to forever live with the result of her naivety?  If so, we should also force lung cancer patients to keep their tumors, if they had a history of tobacco use, and force women to keep their warts if they had a history of toad-kissing.  In the case of the smoker, there may have been a single cigarette that broke the camel’s back, so to speak.  In the case of the lonely princess, there may have been a deceptive bribe or a strange delusion.  In the most unfortunate case of the tragically gestating female, there may have been one too many sperm cells in that fateful load - one translucent renegade serpent had deviated from the herd, and thrust himself toward the glowing abyss, like an eager Islamic extremist quickly approaching the Holy City of Virgin Concubines.  This tenacious fellow, and many like him, have sacrificed themselves for the “good of the cause” - the initiation of an undesired expansion in an unwitting vessel.  Following the model set forth by Lady Liberty, we must allow the subject, in such an instance, to choose if (and when) she wants to basically "kick the growth out" – especially if it has not been paying rent.
            At this juncture, we seem to be faced with what non-nihilists refer to as a “moral dilemma”, since the growth has the potential to become a “human being”.  One (an advocate of “life”) may object to the aforementioned policy, but I must assure him/her that it is not as sinister as it sounds.  The growth’s very existence is not to be opposed, simply its presence within the host.  Extinguishing the growth’s life is not necessary – but its removal from the carrier’s reproductive Mecca is.  Thus, labor would be induced in a harmless fashion, at whatever time the host decides to part with her invader.
            Following its departure, the former tenant would be given access to food, shelter, health care – essentially all conditions necessary to sustain life.  The growth has thus been freed, and would be afforded the opportunity to choose its own destiny.  This could be tough for a fetus who is let go during, say, its thirteenth week, when it has determined its gender identity, but cannot yet swallow.  Figuring out how to consume the available nourishment may be challenging in this case.  On the other hand, if the carrier decides to part ways with said inconvenient bulge after six or seven months, there is a high likelihood that the growth will survive, independent of the former host (who would then be referred to as the "mother").  Such a birth-giver would realize that procrastination is not only the infamous Thief of Time, but it can also result in unspeakable responsibilities, including the upkeep of a voracious, ever-growing fleshy alarm clock.

Urban Nightfall

Ricky is a looming giant, a skyscraper of a human being, as he passes through the crimson curtain into a dimly lit gathering of strangers.  The scarcity of light reveals an emotionless visage, chiseled with mysterious darkened voids under poised, purposeful eyes.  He is a bronze statue, seemingly unmovable.  According to Dave, Ricky is a serious motherfucker.  He’s a dealer, and he’s been around long enough to know exactly what’s happening - everything that's happening.  He’s been busting his ass since thirteen and deserves some respect.  He is tough as nails, and a master of the street market.  Don’t fuck with him.

Dave met Olivia and I at Eli's Pub around midnight.  Scarlet and Greg arrived about twenty minutes later.  What an intricate and scandalous history this group of individuals has had with one another!  Greg and Scarlet are “together” now.  Scarlet is my ex.  Greg is my ex Lisa's ex.  Olivia is one of my ex Lisa’s best friends.  One could invent a system to label one’s relation to another based on past romances.  It would be ancestry for the college hipster-in-denial/ twenty-something aimless city slicker demographic.  Greg would then be closely related to me since he has likely made love to at least two of the same women I have been with.  However, I had both of them first, a fact that would give my title more prestige.  Had I engaged in sexual congress with Olivia last night, Scarlet would have become distantly related to her, in a new and improved system of genealogy for a generation that is reluctant to procreate. 

Eli's was surprisingly busy, for a Monday.  It turned out they were serving $5 pitchers of some ostensibly high quality lager, and each member of my crew quickly devoured two pints.  As usual, the alcohol effectively neutralized the discomfort caused by the stimulants.  Later, as I began loosening up a bit, a middle-aged white man entered the bar and sat next to Dave.  His alleged date, a black female, sat to the left of him, in the stool next to the wall, as though taking refuge.  After mere seconds of observation, Dave and I realized the man was unreasonably intoxicated.  This seemed agreeable, even comical, until his violent rhetoric began.  While conducting an obnoxious discourse with an unspecified audience, the man casually mentioned his desire to “kill someone” shortly before he said, “I’ve got a .45 on me…” 

I wasn’t prepared for something like this, and I hate to admit it, but I was nervous.  The kind of nervous that allows one to imagine another Columbine coming out of the woodwork.  The kind of nervous that makes you freeze because you realize that no matter which neighborhood you live in, you could be next.  The kind of nervous that empowers the infamous mainstream news media's policy - “If it bleeds, it leads”.  You could be next – the next victim briefly discussed on the nightly news - then forgotten, a mere statistic, buried in mundane paperwork for eternity.  The thought is enough to drive a semi-inebriated mind toward paranoia.  The bartender had overheard a bit of the man’s ramblings, and shot a concerned look in my direction.  I walked over to him and confirmed his suspicions.  I then slyly exited the building to call the police.  I planned to give them a “heads-up”, and tell them that an intoxicated and unstable man with long blonde hair was possibly packing heat at the local pub, and that they should stake the place out, and be ready for action.  As this thought was about to be implemented, the aspiring psychopath in question stumbled out of Eli’s Pub, and continued down the desolate sidewalk.  We were safe – for now.

The next person to exit was my Olivia, the princess of the wind.  She put a spell on me long ago.

"Let's go home."

How could I refuse?

The next morning my alarm went off at 8:51.  Liv had class at 9:00.  She sat up for a moment, emitting that delightfully displeased purr that signifies a sour attitude.  She curled back up with me, squeezing me tight, making the other sound – that satisfied one, the one she sometimes makes in the middle of a dream. 

“You’re so much better than school,” she murmured, about 70% asleep. 

I set the alarm for 10:30 so she would have ample time to get to her second class.  At 10:29 I reached over her, over those childish moans, and turned off the alarm right before it was scheduled to commence its piercing racket.  I know how much she hates it. 

“It’s time to wake up,” I said, in a soft, comforting tone.

“You’re so much better than an alarm clock.”

And alarm clocks are so much better than babies.

The Doctrine of Doubt

With the chaos of daily life in modern Western civilization, the consideration of a deep philosophical question like "What is the meaning of life?" seems quite low on one's list of priorities.  There are countless tasks I must complete each day in order to maintain my socio-economic and cultural status.  After realizing this cycle appears infinite, one assumes his/her "purpose" is to be a cog in a machine - indeed, the word "career" seems to have replaced "purpose" in our society.

But eventually, there is a break - you have a moment of time that has not been reserved or booked or clouded with efficiency, and you look up at the stars and wonder what it’s all about.  This is inevitable.  Our brains are machines of curiosity.  We wonder and speculate, and then, if our curiosity gets the best of us, we begin to investigate.

How did this all come about?  What is my purpose?  What will happen after I die?  I used to have simple and comforting answers to these questions.  “God created the earth and its inhabitants in seven days.  My purpose is to worship my creator, and spread the good word of His son, who died as a sacrifice so that we can have eternal life.  If I have faith in Jesus Christ, who is the way, the truth, and the light, I will go to heaven when I die.”  This explanation was sufficient for almost two decades of my life, but eventually my mind started to wander.  I became a bit more inquisitive.  I had more and more time to look at the stars and ponder. 

I began to ask myself questions like, “How can God be a single entity, yet also three?” “If everything is predestined, how can we also have free will?” “If god has chosen souls in advance for heaven, why would he create people just so they can go to Hell?”  To these sorts of questions, I would always get a response like, “He is God, and mere mortals cannot understand his infinite nature.”  That explanation is adequate, but if that is the case, why do we claim to know when he has answered a prayer?  And how can we have the ability to determine which parts of the Bible should be interpreted literally, and which are metaphorical?  I wanted to find out more about God, but I wondered how much I could trust Man in this pursuit.  How do I know that what I’ve been taught and raised to believe all of my life is actually true?  What if I had been born in Pakistan, or Saudi Arabia?  Would I be an adherent of Islam today? 

Founding Father Thomas Jefferson once wrote, “Question with boldness even the existence of God; because, if there is one, he must more approve of the homage of reason, than that of blindfolded fear.”  So I decided to investigate.  As I searched, I began challenging myself, and my presumptions.  I later realized that instead of finding justifications for my faith, I only found more questions.

Devout Christians often claim the Bible is God’s word, and thus “inerrant”.  After examining the canonical gospels, however, one might beg to differ.

The most minor issue with the New Testament has to do with a number of discrepancies between the gospels.  For instance, Jesus’ famous “Sermon on the Mount” takes place on a “plain” in the book of Luke.  Matthew recounts eight beatitudes, while Luke only mentions four.  Matthew places the raising of Jairus’ daughter from the dead in a different location than Mark and Luke.  Matthew, Mark, and Luke place the cleansing of the Temple at the end of their gospels, while John places this event at the beginning of his.  There are myriad other similar examples, but let’s move on. 

Throughout the book of Matthew, Jesus makes it clear to his followers that the “Son of Man” will arrive very soon.  However, there is no indication that this event transpired within the set timeframe (or at all).

Matthew 10:23:
“…I tell you the truth, you will not finish going through the cities of Israel before the Son of Man comes.”

Matthew 16:28:
“I tell you the truth, some who are standing here will not taste death before they see the Son of Man coming in his kingdom.”

Matthew 24:30-34
“…the sign of the Son of Man will appear in the sky, and all the nations of the earth will mourn.  They will see the Son of Man coming on the clouds…he will send his angels…they will gather his elect…I tell you the truth, this generation will certainly not pass away until all these things have happened.”

If the gospels accurately depict the life of this Christ character, why do the Epistles of Paul (written before the gospels) contain no mention of Christ’s virgin birth, his miracles, his parables, his sermon on the mount, or the Lord’s Prayer?
If these attributes were known in the first century of Christianity, Paul would have been the one to know them.  Paul does not even pretend to have met a savior such as Jesus Christ, and knows nothing of his teachings, since he does not include a single sentence quoting Jesus in any of his writings.

Christ was said to have been a Jew living in Palestine during the first three decades of the Common Era, thus he and his followers would have spoken Aramaic.  Why then were the gospels written in Greek?  Authors far removed from the purported events must have written these accounts.  Indeed, the authors of the four canonical gospels are not known, nor is the time or place of their authorship.  There is no mention of these documents in the historical record until 150 years after the events they describe allegedly took place (the first mention of a canonical gospel – John – was by  Theophilus ofAntioch in 180 AD).  Even if Mark was written shortly after 70 AD, as many apologists claim (though there is no evidence of this), there is still a 40-year gap between Christ’s alleged death, and the first written account of his life.  This means that no account of Christ’s life in the Bible was written by someone who had met him, or even seen him.  All accounts of his life and teachings are based on hearsay, and 18 years of Christ’s life are missing from these writings.

There is no mention of a Jesus of Nazareth who was called “Christ” from any of the nearly two-dozen historians who lived or traveled in the Mediterranean region during the time Jesus is said to have lived (though there was later a popular forgery, but for concision’s sake, I won’t get into that).  This is odd because he was allegedly quite popular, often preaching to large crowds, and having a very controversial execution, according to the gospels.  After Christ’s death, the following event takes place (in Matthew): “…many bodies of the saints…were raised, and coming out of the tombs after his resurrection they went into the holy city and appeared to many.”  This zombie-related incident was not recorded by any historian.  The same can be said of other Biblical events that would have been witnessed by many, such as Herod’s mass slaughter of infant males.

Like myself, Robert M. Price was a Christian fundamentalist for a large portion of his life.   His interest in apologetics eventually led him to receiving his MTS degree in New Testament studies, and later his Ph.D. in systematic theology from Drew University in 1981.  After several years of pastoral work and teaching, Price enrolled in a second doctoral program at Drew, receiving his Ph.D. in New Testament studies in 1993.  But the more he learned, the more he discovered “that traditional Christianity simply did not have either the historical credentials or the intellectual cogency its defenders claimed for it.”  Price explains: "...Thus I forswore the harmonizations used by apologists to keep the Bible sounding inerrant and authoritative.  I concluded that my faith must in the end be sacrificed to keep myself honest with the text.  Otherwise, if I twisted the text for the sake of my faith, what could my faith possibly be worth?"

Besides historical improbabilities, inconsistencies, and other major errors, another cause for skepticism is the “hero archetype” that Christ fulfills.  There are dozens of pre-Christian pagan messiahs with whom Christ shares many traits.  These include Attis of Phrygia, Buddha, Dionysus/Bacchus, Hercules/Heracles, Krishna of India, Mithra of Persia, Quirinius of Rome, Jao of Nepal, and many others.  For instance, Horus of ancient Egypt was born of the virgin Isis-Meri, accompanied by a star in the east.  He was a child prodigy, teaching in the Temple at age 12.  At age 30 he was baptized by Anup, and began traveling with 12 followers, performing miracles such as walking on water, exorcising demons, and raising Osiris from the dead.  Upon his death, he was buried for three days, and then resurrected.  His followers called him “Anointed One”, “Good Shepherd”, “Lamb of God”, “Lord of Lords”, “King of Kings”, etc.

Justin Martyr, one of the first Christian apologists, wrote the following:

“And when we say also that the Word, who is the first-birth of God, was produced without sexual union, and that He, Jesus Christ, our Teacher, was crucified and died, and rose again, and ascended into heaven, we propound nothing different from what you believe regarding those whom you esteem sons of Jupiter.” (Apology I – chapter 21)

“And if we even affirm that He was born of a virgin, accept this in common with what you accept of Perseus. And in that we say that He made whole the lame, the paralytic, and those born blind, we seem to say what is very similar to the deeds said to have been done by Æsculapius.” (Apology I – Chapter 22)

But this vehement advocate of Christianity also had a simple explanation for all of these antics: It was the Devil’s fault…

"It having reached the Devil's ears that the prophets had foretold the coming of Christ, he set the Heathen Poets to bring forward a great many who should be called the sons of Jove.  The Devil laying his scheme in this, to get men to imagine that the true history of Christ was of the same character as the prodigious fables related of the sons of Jove..."

In its context, this could be a valid excuse.  However, this explanation cannot be found anywhere in the Bible.  If god is omniscient, and he wants us to believe the Bible is his word, why didn’t he include some text clarifying these matters?  Why did god feel it was necessary for his son to fit the savior archetype so well?  It would have cleared up a lot of confusion if he could have simply stated why pre-Christian myths feature saviors possessing the exact same supernatural attributes as Jesus Christ. 

Where is the evidence of omniscience in scripture that apologists claim?  There is no mention of the discovery of electricity, or DNA, or the various technological advances that would take place, such as the development of automobiles, or satellites, or the Internet.  There is no cure for cancer.  A mention of any of these or similar topics would lend credibility to the claim that the Judeo-Christian scripture was divinely inspired.  In reality, everything in the New Testament could have easily been written by a man living in the Middle East during the first or second century CE.

*

It can be said that the Bible’s claim to inerrancy is problematic, as is its historicity. “Okay, fine!” one might say, “These so-called ‘holy books’ are just a bunch of plagiarized mythology carelessly throw together and given a historical backdrop.  But they still contain wonderful moral precepts like the Golden Rule.  I mean, where would we get morality if not from religion?”

Is the Bible really a reliable guide to morality?  Many would agree that the Old Testament can be counted out as a candidate, since God advocated the death penalty for the most mild of offenses, allowed fathers to sell their daughters into slavery, allowed masters to beat their slaves, encouraged sectarianism, and implemented genocide on a regular basis.

But the picture usually painted of Jesus Christ (in Sunday school and in mainstream discourse alike) is that of a great moral teacher who healed the sick, advocated on behalf of the poor, and resisted an oppressive and unjust Roman empire.  However, when reading the gospels objectively, one would not find consistent moral teachings and actions. In one breath, Christ would say, “Love your neighbor as yourself,” and in the next, “I have not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I have come to turn a man against his father, a daughter against her mother…a man’s enemies will be the members of his own household.” He goes on to say, in Luke 14:26, that “if anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children…he cannot be my disciple.”  Before Jesus is crucified, a woman pours ointment over his head to prepare him for burial (as was the custom).  This bothers Jesus’ disciples, who think it is a waste of money, which could have been given to the poor.  Jesus responds, “…you will always have the poor with you, but you will not always have me (Matthew 26:11).”  Also in the book of Matthew, Jesus compares a foreign woman to a dog, curses a fig tree, and recommends castration to his followers.

Needless to say, the aforementioned information (which is just the tip of the iceberg) has contributed to an erosion of my faith.  I find it confusing when others still believe so vehemently, even claiming certainty, that the Bible is the perfect message of an omniscient deity.  However, this phenomenon of irrationally persistent belief has been studied meticulously.  In psychology, "confirmation bias" is a tendency to search for (or interpret) new information in a way that confirms your preconceptions.  As professor Tim van Gelder puts it, "...One of the most obvious manifestations of belief preservation arises when we consider whether a claim merits our acceptance. When we have a pro-attitude to the claim we tend to actively seek evidence confirming or supporting the claim, and fail to seek evidence going against it. That is, in our search for evidence we try to bolster our beliefs rather than challenge them."  Psychologist Robert E. Ornstein once observed, "Conceptions often act as barriers to understanding."  He further explains, “It is quite difficult for us to alter our assumptions, even in the face of compelling new evidence.  We pay the price of a certain conservatism and resistance to new input in order to gain a measure of stability in our personal consciousnesses."

*

Either Yahweh created the universe, or he did not.  Either he inspired the Judeo-Christian Bible, or he did not.  Both cannot be true.  If the Bible contains errors, then it is not the word of an omniscient god, but of Man.  If it is the work of Man, then it is open to interpretation.  If it is open to interpretation, it is open to analysis.  Upon analysis, I found countless errors, inconsistencies, and mythologies.  Any Christian would agree that these problems occur in other religious texts as well.  Absolute truth exists, though it is not always accessible.  There are some questions we will never be able to answer, and that vulnerability scares many of us.  But pretending to be certain in the face of mystery does not make us correct.

After the aforementioned realizations, I was no longer safe in the comfort of my dogmatic shell.  I could no longer have simple black and white explanations for the intricacies of existence.  I could no longer let theologians and priests think for me…
I must state plainly that I am not claiming to be certain that Yahweh does not exist.  Far from it - certainty requires proof, and proof is hard to come by.  In fact, the only thing I can prove, beyond any doubt, is that I exist.  I am constantly experiencing my own consciousness.  Whether the sensations, memories, and events I experience are illusions or not, I cannot be certain.  Instead, I will opt to act according to the consistencies I have observed around me.

Conclusions are formulated by analysis, by weighing evidence.  Many conclusions are temporary, and can be altered according to new information.  In the case of religious dogma, my reasons for doubt significantly outweigh my reasons for belief.  But uncertainty isn't acceptable for some people - they fear death.  They need an absolute explanation, even if there is no evidence to support it.  "Someone, hurry up and answer me!  I just want to be comfortable and docile, and follow orders!" scream the bewildered masses.  Most people seem to accept the supernatural explanations that are most popular in their region of birth.  Americans are overwhelmingly Christian.  Iranians are overwhelmingly Muslim.  Vietnamese are overwhelmingly Buddhist.  Why doesn't the same thing happen with fire?  Why is there such a global consensus that fire is hot, and that it can burn things?  It is simply because the existence, properties, and effects of fire are testable.  There is no way to test the existence of an invisible entity that does not leave footprints, or DNA, or any evidence of its presence.  There can therefore be no proof that these entities do not exist.  No one can prove that Yahweh does not exist, just as no one can prove Zeus, Santa Claus, and the Flying Spaghetti Monster do not exist.  Again, the evidence that they are only mythological characters outweighs any other unfounded claims.

Well, now that I have to think for myself, make my own decisions, and accept responsibility for my own actions, with no divine assistance, I’ve got some very profound philosophical questions to answer…

What is my basis for morality? Well, first of all, the “moral teachings” of Christ that would actually be accepted by today’s progressive standards (love, generosity, equality, etc.) were also written about by secular philosophers like Plato and Socrates centuries before Christ’s alleged existence. These are clearly not his own ideas.  Plato and Socrates were mere humans, making moral observations without even pretending to receive divine consultation.  It seems that morality is innate – derived from human experience, observation, and remarkable intellectual capacity to imagine the situation of others.  This is known as “empathy”.  From this perspective, one might observe: “To cause, proliferate, or contribute to human or animal suffering is immoral.”  Does someone need to believe in a specific supernatural entity on insufficient evidence in order to conclude that torturing children is morally wrong?  What is morally upright then? To help others, to love others, to live in harmony - refraining from murder, theft, etc.  A general moral outlook would suggest that we should seek to understand, empathize, and co-exist with everything around us – all life on earth.  After all, there is lots of evidence that earth exists, and no evidence that heaven or hell exist.  I think Earth should be a higher priority.

Another question would be, “Where do I find happiness?”  I must admit theism offers quite a bargain in this department.  As I recall, no matter how bad things got, I could always take refuge in my imaginary friend.  And no matter how many naughty things I did, I could always transfer the burden of guilt to his shoulders.  Happiness can be different things to different people, but I am personally glad to be autonomous, and delighted when others can live happily and peacefully, free from arbitrary constraints.  I am also happy that I no longer fear a cosmic dictator who has me under constant surveillance, legislates against certain uses of my genitals, and threatens me with an eternity of torture if I question his infinite love.  Fear can cause a lot of anxiety, not to mention irrational submission.  Aside from conquering fear, I also enjoy creative expression, free inquiry, traveling, visiting with friends and family, music, learning, etc.  I also appreciate the small things in life, like taking a walk, or cooking.  John Lennon would say, “Happiness is a warm gun.”  I would say it’s a warm burrito.

The Conference

 A few years ago I visited a museum exhibiting work by the late Mark Lombardi, a conceptual artist who researched “the political and social terrain” that surrounded him.  Over the course of several years, Lombardi mapped his findings in an aesthetic manner, providing a concise and intriguing analysis of the most complex business transactions in recent history.  His subjects consist of both individuals and groups who have had economic ties to war, tyranny, exploitation, imperialism, and other forms of social injustice.  The diverse gamut of perpetrators includes notorious criminal groups such as the Italian Mafia, “morally upright” public personalities such as Reverend Pat Robertson and ex-president Ronald Reagan, and everyone in between.  These are the true bad-asses of the world – the ones who should be on every “most wanted” list from here to Timbuktu.  Lombardi’s final collection of diagrams, entitled “Global Networks”, were drawn out on enormous sheets of paper, revealing intricate constellations of corruption, as though the financial connections depicted are as significant as the vast galaxies of the universe they seem to emulate.  Regardless of their relevant insight, these ground breaking banners still lack a crucial aspect necessary in understanding modern capitalism, specifically the link between the Business World and the Underworld.

*

             It was a silent and frigid winter night when I first noticed the eerie red glow that mysteriously illuminated the 42^nd floor windows of the downtown Knosol Bank Complex.  Initially I dismissed the strange radiance as just another part of this high-tech world that I would never be old enough to understand.  But this odd light captivated me deeply, even to the point of insomnia.  Its elegant yet authoritative aura instilled an insatiable force of curiosity in my soul – a curiosity that only desperate measures could quench.  While lying there motionless, wide-awake in my bed, I suddenly devised an ingenious strategy – a strategy that was just crazy enough to work.

            I awoke the next morning with a twinkle in my eye and a bounce in my step.  I was under the influence of a fresh perspective, and my countenance resembled that of a fearless child about sprint into an unsuspecting street for the very first time.  In hindsight I have realized that the whole scheme was dangerously naïve. 

            I promptly hailed a passing cab and soon arrived at a local thrift shop.  Wasting no time, I purchased a pair of black khakis, a plain white long-sleeved button-up dress-shirt accompanied by a black suit-coat, and a pair of snappy black loafers.  I strolled out the door and headed down the block to the nearest barbershop, where I was afforded a Slick Business Executive Cut for only $9.99.  Due to my high morale, the barber received $2.50 in gratuity.  I walked outside and lit up my last Parliament Light, putting it out of its lonely misery.  I pulled out my cell-phone and called my faithful comrade Stewart Thompson, a city renowned computer nerd and willing participant in select illegal acts involving computers.   You might call him a “hacker”.

            Pigeons scattered as I made my way toward a dilapidated apartment on 35th Street.  In this neighborhood, the thunder of indiscriminate gunfire was just as common in broad daylight as it was during the wee hours of the night.  Stewart answered the door wearing red sweat pants and an ancient AC/DC T-shirt decorated with random holes and spots of white paint.

            “We need to discuss exactly how the hell you expect all of this to go down…” 

            A few strands of dark, greasy hair fell from behind his ear and slid along the thick frame of his glasses.  He quickly tucked them back where they belonged.

            “Just trust me,” I said with an ear-to-ear grin of confidence, “you’ve got nothing to lose.  Besides, have I every gotten you into trouble before?”

            “No, but this is serious shit, man!  If we get caught, we’re as good as dead.  The fucking FBI will be on our backs!  Maybe worse!  Maybe the CIA, or NSA!  Maybe FEMA, or COINTELPRO, or other acronyms we’ve never even heard before!” 

            The history of crimes perpetrated by Stewart and I began about three years ago, when we ordered hundreds of dollars worth of merchandise from eBay using a credit card Steward’s girlfriend found while bussing tables at Jim’s Bar & Steakhouse downtown.  Many of these lightly used items were instrumental in propelling our marginal criminal enterprise into the big leagues.

            “Relax, man.  You know I’m a genius.”   

            Stewart’s apartment was filled with copious amounts of wires, hard-drives, scanners, and other computer equipment.  I gawked at several gadgets that were so technologically advanced that I would never have even dreamed of their existence.  Stew has always been the technician. 

We discussed my proposal in great detail for about an hour, and before I knew it, Stewart was hard at work, hacking into the Knosol Bank database.  With beads of sweat accumulating on his forehead, he paused every few minutes to sip his coffee.  Stewart, the real genius, was in the process of obtaining classified information regarding upcoming events and meetings that were scheduled to take place on the upper floors of the Knosol Bank Complex.  I knew I had to get to the top of the building, to get to the bottom of this.  The table shook and coffee spilled as Stewart slammed his fists down and let out a howl of victory.

            “HA!  Take that!  The oldest password in the book!” 

He was glowing with arrogance. 

At last, we had gained access to various private memos.  After browsing through a few, I noticed one that caught my attention.  It read:

            18 February

WTO Conference 

7:00 PM 

42^nd floor

            A brief description of the conference followed, including the names of every individual who was scheduled to attend.  Since the topic of the conference was “Recent Developments in the North American Free Trade Agreement”, high-ranking executives from the largest American corporations were scheduled to attend, as well as the president of the World Trade Organization and the CEO of Knosol Bank.

            As Stewart printed the precious memo, I grabbed my thrift shop bag and headed to the bathroom to put on my new budget business attire.  Stew then directed me toward a solid white wall, where he had set up adequate lighting conditions, and took a mug shot of me using his (stolen) digital camera.  This image would soon be used in the making of a false identification card, a process The Technician was quite accustomed to.

            On the morning of the 18^th, I awoke with butterflies in my stomach – big ones, trying to burst right through, like an impatient fetus.  Every muscle in my body was tense and knotted.  I tried like hell to think of any reason to abort the mission, but it was no use.  It was too late.  I had come too far to turn away at the last second.  I am no quitter – I am a fucking champion.

At 6:53 PM my loafers greeted the monotonous cement stairs leading to the Knosol Bank Complex entrance.  My laminated ID card was clipped onto the left front pocket of my suit coat.  It claimed that my name was Jeffrey Carlson, and that I was a journalist with a prominent news organization.  The ID appeared to be legitimate, as did my hair-style, my loafers, and of course, my thrift shop outfit. Using the sly social skills I had developed throughout many years of practicing deception, I easily gained access to the private elevator.

I reluctantly pressed the highest button on the right – the one labeled “42” – the one containing my destiny.  My palms began to sweat profusely as the elevator rose steadily toward the great unknown.  The butterflies were now fiercely jabbing my internal organs while frolicking in my stomach acid.  I could feel my armpits getting warm and damp.  Though my anxiety level was quite high, a strong adrenaline flow suddenly commenced, supplying the shred of confidence necessary to continue.  I felt euphoric and invincible, as if God were on my side.  Inevitably, my brief vertical journey decelerated and finally came to a halt.  I took a deep breath as the mighty elevator doors heaved apart, revealing the 42^nd floor.

Immediately, I was subjected to a sight that could have made Ron Jeremy impotent, a sight that could have made Karl Rove honest, a sight so ghastly, it could have made Ed Gein cringe.  Boiling blood pumped violently through the veins in my forehead like a desperate jailbreak as my wide-open eyes stared, paralyzed with fear and disbelief.  There before me was the source of the fascinating red illumination I so diligently sought – none other than LUCIFER, PRINCE OF DARKNESS AND KING OF THE UNDERWORLD!

Satan was lounging in a hot tub in the center of the room, surrounded by several demon prostitutes who were massaging his entire body with Saudi Arabian oil and feeding him a variety of poisonous grapes.  This was not your average hot tub.  Instead of bubbling chlorine water, it was filled with Liquid Cash.  Satan grunted, and one of the prostitutes promptly bent over, her shimmering scarlet ass facing him.  Using a rolled hundred-dollar bill, Satan proceeded to snort a heaping line of Pure Columbian Cocaine off the arch of the prostitute’s back, instantly moaning with pleasure and splashing in the Liquid Cash.

Surrounding the hot tub was a circular table made of red marble.  Around this table, in large leopard-spotted reclining thrones, sat all of the men whose names appeared on the memo.  Then I witnessed an astonishing spectacle: Seven winged demon prostitutes suddenly appeared above Satan, hovering, while strumming mini-guitars, which spouted purple flames in unison.  When the first chorus commenced, the tune became clearly recognizable – “Highway to Hell” by AC/DC.  I wondered if Stewart would want to rock out, were he here, standing next to me, watching this gruesome display.    

In a powerful flash, I saw Satan emerge from the hot tub, roaring with three hideous voices.  The words were indistinguishable - maybe Latin - but it was clear that he meant business.  Ten twisting horns sprouted from his scaly noggin, each bearing a platinum crown with the name of a large corporation engraved into it.  In one swift mechanical motion of glistening crimson he twirled around toward the south wall, where a line of businessmen stood, cowering in fear.  Each of these stalwart gentlemen was a high-ranking executive at one of the corporations flaunted by Satan’s horns.  In a dreadful rumble that shook the glass and stopped the heart of every mortal present, Satan bellowed, “There is a great opportunity to gain wealth through destruction.  Who among you will join me?”  

The conference had begun...

*

                    

   

Larry

Three more weeks
Of living in my own filth
There's no time to feel the breeze rush through my Rock Star hair
Only time to procrastinate
After attendance I'll sneak away
To complete my list, or disregard it
Larry's beard is thick
And his forehead shimmers in the sunlight
He will know I am missing
I don't know the date
But I can feel summer in my bones
Three more weeks until freedom
I bit my lip and the blood tastes salty - like life!
Short hair, bikes, beer, _____, and loose women
Three weeks until perfection!
Larry will ride a giant airplane
And listen to jazz
He'll kick back and smoke a spliff
In a hot tub in Italy
He'll take photographs of historical landmarks
And scandalous women
Three weeks until intoxication
I'll throw up on my list
Because I won't need it anymore
I'll get a slick haircut
And go to the bar
There I'll find a beautiful princess
Smashed like a mirror
I'll cheer her up and bring her home
To my warm bed, safe and sound
The next morning we'll go to the art museum
And eat at the cafe
Then we'll take a walk along the lake shore
I'll work and eat and read and think
I'll chug a beer and breathe a sigh of relief 
In three more weeks
I just want to sleep

I rest under the tree's dazzlingly spontaneous branches, seated on its largest root - reluctant to be completely submerged in soil.  It provides minimal but sufficient comfort.  Cars speed past in an order that defies nature.  They make haste, while I make peace.  It is a sunny March afternoon, but the temperature is less than agreeable.  I have not fully awakened, and desire a boost of energy.  I decide to retreat from the solid root, which is now causing discomfort to my tailbone, and walk to a local coffee shop.

In a "coffee bistro", the distractions are endless.  There are couches stationed in every corner, elegant light fixtures, and various publications scattered throughout the table tops.  The benign conversations of patrons subdue 80's pop music competing for attention.  The first sip of coffee burns a small area of my tongue.  I am completely removed from nature.