I’d like to preface this entry by saying that all of your hate mail will be read and destroyed shortly thereafter. And now, letter “G” in “The Angry Alphabet” series.
Where to begin? Well, in this case, in the begining seems appropriate, no?
Let’s first figure out just what in the hell we’re dealing with. I mean, when you hear the word “God,” are you picturing this:
Or maybe this:
You say “Vishnu,” I say “Creepy.”
Or perhaps this:
“They call me ‘Zeus’.”
Or God forbid, this:
I think George B. and God were roughly the same age at the time of Burns’ death.
If God really exists, can’t we just standardize already and pick one? Look, I know pizza can be ordered with a wide variety of toppings, but at its core it’s still pizza. You know, dough, sauce and cheese. Can’t God just be pizza with the occasional thunder bolt, blue face or extra arm?
Now as someone who attended the Yeshiva Academy (yes, a Hebrew school) from pre-school through 5th grade, I can say that I’ve been exposed to my fair share of religion. Hell, I’ve had a Bar Mitzvah, fasted on Yom Kippur, and stepped on a glass at my wedding. But here’s the thing: I got drunk at my Bar Mitzvah, drank coffee while fasting, and was married by a Justice of the Peace. What’s more, the marriage didn’t take. Furthermore, I’ve got four tattoos, thus disqualifying me from burial in a Jewish cemetary.
Um, you starting to see what I’m getting at here? I have a tattoo and can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetary?! You know what else? Jews have a holiday where they hold what looks like a pussy-willow next to a lemon, and stand under a self-made, thatched-roof house while shaking said pussy-willow and lemon into each corner. Huh?! What the shit is that?!
Look, God, you’ve subjected me to a lifetime of unexplained and unjustified weirdness. What’s more, you’ve taken people I’ve loved and left the ones I’ve hated. Seriously, Dude, don’t you have some kind of filter? I mean, you’re the all-powerful, all-knowing, supremed being, right? And yet, you see it fit to take Kurts Cobain and Vonnegut yet stick us with Paulas Dean and Abdul? Seriously, you’re kind of an asshole.
Now those of you who know me understand I’ve had a tough run over the last two years: divorce, death, diabetes… the list goes on. Sorry, but it’s tough for me to get on board with that magnitude of bullshit. What’s more, plenty of people will contend that “God’s got a plan for me.” Um, what is that plan, exactly? To fuck me? Congratulations, God, a job well done.
I know some of you depend on the idea of God — that is, you put your trust, faith, hopes and fears in an unseen, unproven, magical fairy comparable to Ian McKellan in The Lord of the Rings or Laurence Olivier in Clash of the Titans. And, quite honestly, I have no problem with that. But the next time I decide to put my trust, faith, hopes and fears in the Steelers as a home dog, simply shut your mouth and let me be. My God doesn’t come in a book of psalms, he doesn’t float around in the clouds, he doesn’t cast lightning bolts or unleash Crackens, and he most certainly didn’t make the sky blue and white because he’s a Penn State fan.
After all, he doesn’t have time. He’s too busy figuring out how to burn down my house, give me rickets and have my identity stolen.
Well, that’s all for now. Until next time, have at it, you vultures!