Dirty Earth Baby, Part 3

Part Three: Clammy Cleavage

The marketplace of the soul in America has always been silky and smooth, especially if you buy stocks in the magical underwear business. These days, according to Pew Forum polls, a whopping 70-80% of Americans identify themselves as Christians who believe the Bible to be the word of the Creator of the Universe. When you hear it said that America is a “Christian Nation,” it’s not some vague statistic. No, it’s referring to whose blood your Grandma is actually drinking this weekend.

But the number is falling like the value of Enron stocks. Those who are unaffiliated with any religion are on an explosive rise. In the last twenty years, the number of American unbelievers has tripled to become a noticeable chunk of change. In 2007 over 15% of the nation, when asked what their religion was, kicked up their feet and responded “Nothing in particular,” and presumably went back to their slow, pointless, immoral march toward hellfire.

Those who declared “Atheist,” while impaling a wide-eyed kitten with a fireplace poker, included only about 1.6% of the population (which as a side note was similar to the number of Mormons in the country). Regardless, the body of non-participants seems to be growing fast, and not just due to the obesity epidemic.

Given nobody has done his divine duty and flown a plane into a building lately, we have access to incredible global communication and easy world travel. So some important questions rise: Why are young people dropping like flies from God’s windowsill? What effect does non-religion have upon the development of 21st century humanity?

Atheist voices are still an echoing chirp from the bottom of the birdcage. At this point, Americans would still rather stand around patting each other on the back just for having religions, since it’s in the gut of every patriot to embrace freedom to choose – as long as you choose one. If you have faith in something you’re okay. It doesn’t matter what you say, even if it has to do with an omnipresent space gerbil named Steve. The important thing is that, by God, you’re expressing your freedom of religion.

I’m this, or I’m that. I’m with these guys, I’m with those guys. I’m a Jew, I’m a Mormon, I’m a Jehovah’s Witness, I’m a Space Gerbil – check out my pointy hat and my glowy space frock. The knob on the respect-o-meter seems to jump just by being a member. When someone informs you that they belong to a religion, here is a list of what you need to do:

1. Stand up straight
2. Salute them
3. Shed your pants to reveal an unstoppable raging arousal
4. Sob patriotically
5. Sign a check
6. Give thanks to the ghost of Thomas Jefferson, who is moaning appreciatively under his space wig

It’s a different story for people who don’t have any particular supernatural beliefs; those who, like good kids being offered drugs, just say, “No.” When someone announces things like, “Er, we don’t claim to have perfect answers, but we are working on figuring them out,” he should just as well wrap his legs around his head and roll himself down an elevator shaft. Jefferson’s ghost, of course, will float beside him on the way down and beat him with his space wig.

“You don’t know? What are you talking about, you don’t know! Everybody knows how the universe began, and where you go after you die! Where’s your space frock!”

An atheist or agnostic must be a hater, a cynic, intolerant, rude, arrogant, crass, belligerent, ignorant, evil, egotistical, uncaring, heartless, mean and all-around Bad Guy. I have pulled these adjectives from a 40,000-page weekly academic newsletter put out by apologists, full of strong and valid arguments consisting of capitalized adjectives describing atheists and agnostics, such as Poop-Face and Stinky-Pants. The pages are extra sharp, to slice atheists in hand-to-hand combat if they come too close.

When someone declares that he or she doesn’t really have supernatural beliefs or special cosmic knowledge, that their Burning Bosom could be more aptly described as Clammy Cleavage, the first inclination among moderate America is to feel that this person just has a bad attitude and needs to get with the program. People give you frog eyes, cock their shotgun, tell Grandma to go back inside, and say you ought best to go back the way you came.

If it comes up, don’t say the word ‘Atheist’ because it’s laced with poison to most people. Atheists hate God, religions, their parents, Ronald Reagan and/or McDonald. Atheists are absolutely despised by patriotic God-fearing Christian Americans, even more than the shifty-eyed Muslims (and by those very same Muslims even more than that). Unbelievers have the spiritual hygiene of a trucker-motel shower plug on Valentine’s Day.

But respect people’s beliefs. This is an absolutely iron-hewn social grace. Of course, if it’s just one disease-rampant shopping-cart-dwelling bum, wearing a Mickey Mouse hat and a Christmas sweater in June while shooting streams of friendly spittle upon passersby and waving a Crayola-drawing of time-warping psilocybin-eating monkeys who fell from comets during the Ice Age – then it’s okay to point and laugh.

One man says some pretty crazy things but won’t get away with it. A large group of them, on the other hand, can say the same thing – but they move in numbers. It becomes more difficult to disagree with an idea as the numbers of adherents go up (and the federal taxes go down). If the aforementioned bum managed to establish a religion, suddenly we would all have to learn to make appreciative sounds like “Ahhh” and “Mmm” while admiring the bum’s Crayola drawing and tapping our chins thoughtfully. More importantly, children who are tricked into believing this religion should now be intellectually exempt from contents of reality which involve history or biology (which are just theories – how dare you).

“Well if the Smiths and the Johnsons are performing crotch-chafing midnight dances and howling at the moon around a bonfire, we better take the kids and appreciate it. It’s what the founding fathers would have done (especially that Randy Jackson – he’s my favorite).”

We tend to weigh our trust in ideas by how many other people approve of them; numbers of people in that organization give it more value and merit, and every participator is an advertisement of safety and respectability. I was driving down the road the other day and I saw a sign, which opened up my eyes.

“McDonalds: Now Serving 5 Billion.”

A warm, comforting glow enveloped the car and made me so interested that I steered off of the road and directly into building. Aside from the charges of manslaughter and driving while under the influence (having chosen the wrong time for a peyote-induced cosmic voyage, which is a perfectly normal tenant of my new faith, Zoromonkeyasteroidanism), I did eventually receive a glorious McGriddle.

My point is clear: The level of social reinforcement of an idea is a natural incentive to believe it’s a good one. If the yammering street bum in San Francisco pulled the exact same McGriddle out of his slimy kangaroo-like leather fanny pack and said, “Trust me – It’s fucking delicious,” I probably wouldn’t eat it.

There was a time in history when numbers meant everything. It wasn’t about ideas, it was about sheer power. Take for example the Zorro-like ways of the Spanish Inquisition. They were veritable experts at cutting things up, like people. There wasn’t really time for aboriginal heathens to say, “Hey, man. Look, you guys. Hold the phone. I know you’re pretty convinced that an invisible god wants you to ream my intestines out into this bowl, but there’s quite a few of us who don’t completely agree. And, well. Maybe we should sit down at Applebee’s and talk things over first.”

No. The Inquisitors would frequently reply that there wasn’t an Applebee’s for miles, and it was easier just to get down to the reaming. But things have changed since then; luckily we live in an age when, in most of the world, we can have this discussion on neutral grounds, without anyone getting bent over the bowl.


Dirty Earth Baby, Part 2

Part Two: A Flying Fat Man with Three Ho’s

An unreceptive attitude toward religion continues for a long time in childhood, because kids have more productive things to do than talk about God, such as involuntary urination. My young life had no need for a heightened understanding of the Ultimate Reality. For what purpose did I need God? I had a real father who not only would occasionally take me fishing but also never said Thou and hardly ever demanded a goat sacrifice.

I had little time for guilt, repentance, and tips on life-direction from adults who claimed to be in connection with the supernatural. The most important part of the day was spent in deep academic study, researching synonyms of lesser-tanned body parts, learning how to combine them with the last names of teachers or hurling dirt clods at moving objects and perfecting audio re-enactments of major gastrointestinal malfunctions. Such was life.

Generally in childhood, life is as it is. Kids are curious and investigative. At that age, we see mystery all around in nature (admittedly, because we’re stupid), but more importantly we still have a sense of wonder without having much need for any kind of emotional salvation. Those italicized qualities of mind seem to be what Einstein was going on about when someone asked him if he believed in God years ago (later in life he reportedly grumbled something to his wife at breakfast about how he never should have brought it up dammit, and pass the toast).

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Dirty Earth Baby

Part One: Gentle Gentile’s Genitals

I’ll tell you the truth. According to priests, my birth wasn’t really anything special. I have to confess, my mother wasn’t even a virgin.

Like most babies, I had no visible halo. I wasn’t born in a manger, but in a hospital in Salt Lake City with a bunch of other burbling infants. I didn’t look anything like a little angel, unless little angels are cross-eyed hams who can’t control the release time of various body fluids when held above the facial area.

It seemed from the start that I was just another human being. I brought no great ideas about God to share with the universe, and I still don’t have any. In fact, in the beginning I had no ideas at all. I greeted strangers not with salvation, but with salivation.

I exhibited no signs of Divine origin, though I would frequently discover exciting new bodily sounds and scents, and would attempt to point them out victoriously to Mom. Though I found these feats to be magical, she was rarely impressed, and never even once considered my astonishing performances to be Miracles. To my disappointment I was never brought any gold, myrrh or frankincense (though someone may have lit some incense).

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The life and times of Satan

I was troubled the other day by one of my friends who though unreligious had an abiding belief in demons and ghosts. I have found the best way to fell a tree is to strike at its roots and so I researched into the subject of demons and in more particular the great demon himself, Satan.

Known by many names: Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, The Great Serpent/Dragon , the Morning Star, The Fallen One, and the Prince of Darkness, has played a central role in the development of the major three religions and thus the history of the world. Satan’s roots began in the Torah and are of particular note in the Book of Job. Hebrews didn’t see Satan as an evil demigod but rather saw him as a prosecutor of the law. For all intents and purposes the Hebrew word from which Satan is derived literally means adversary or prosecutor. The Hebrews viewed Satan as an agent for God who held the power of good and evil. Just as prosecutors are agents of the state. He was merely fulfilling his duty as prosecutor when he accused Job of being pure only on account of being spoiled by God.

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