Join Me in Welcoming ... (Name Withheld)

This is sort of apropos my last post, which talked about women atheist bloggers. Of course, everything at this joint is sort of apropos every post, because it’s an atheist blog, f’cryinoutloud. It’s kind of late to point this out now if you haven’t already noticed it, but there’s a theme here.

OK, so I’m reading my way around the Atheosphere late last night. There are thirty, maybe forty, blogs that I check on regularly, but I frequently try to look at one or two with which I’m not familiar. There are lots of ways to find these new-to-me sites, but my favorite method is to click on the names of previously unheard-of commenters at other blogs I like.

One of these clicks takes me to a post on a politico-legal subject of interest to me, although I’m not going to reveal the precise details. You’ll see why in a minute. I assume the female author is an atheist, both from her comments at the blog on which I found her link, and from the subject she's discussing. And I'm right. I have pretty good A-dar.

Without introducing myself, I proceed to tell her exactly why her post is wrong. Obviously, I’ve never read How to Win Friends and Influence People. As I’ve mentioned here before, tact is not my strong suit.

Today, I get an email from this woman. I recognize the first name – which is the name she goes by on her blog – and open her note. I expect something along the lines of, “You’re a fucking moron,” although maybe a bit more creative.

Instead, I have a rather pleasant thank you for visiting her site, and an explanation of why I was wrong in thinking she was wrong. And I was wrong, because she hadn’t really said everything she wanted to in her post. The reason? It’s a family site, and she’s a recent de-convert. Nobody in her family, and that means nobody, knows. She just wanted to clue me in.

Because I'm not totally insensitive, I understand the message without her having to spell it out: Please don’t refer to her as a fellow atheist. And don’t be too harsh on religionists just yet, because she's not quite ready to jump into the fray. I write back and assure her that I would never “out” anyone. I also say that I think she should pass the word around to her loved ones, not defiantly, not confrontationally, and certainly not out-of-the-blue. But if religion comes up in the conversation, I think she should state her feelings about it.

That’s easy for me to say because I’ve never de-converted; I’ve always been an atheist. But I do have a family story which relates to this. Many, many, years ago, my younger sister decided to “out” herself as a lesbian, just to me and my wife. The problem was: we already knew. Her sexual orientation had been blatantly clear for years. Over a restaurant dinner one night, my poor sister stammered across the table that she’d “like to have a talk with us.” I asked, “What about?” She shrugged. I offered help: “What, like lifestyles?” “Yeah,” she said, “lifestyles.” I looked at my wife, my wife looked at me, and we both burst out laughing. “Listen,” I told my sister, “we don’t need a long, drawn-out, pained 'true confession' from you. We both know you’re gay. We don’t care who you fuck, OK? If there’s somebody you’re seeing regularly that you want to bring around, do it. We'd love to meet her. If you have friends you want to introduce us to, feel free.” My sister’s smile was as wide as the table, and she was sitting on the long side.

So we got to talking, and my sister revealed that she’d carried that “secret” around with her for four years, dreading the day when she’d have to “reveal” herself. I urged her to tell Nanny, our stepmother (our father was dead), our stepsister, and every old friend she had. Nobody gave a shit. She’d agonized about who-knows-how-many imagined shocked reactions for four long years, and all her fears were phantoms. Only one asshole friend, out of probably two hundred people she told over the course of the next few weeks, refused to see my sister because – and get this! – her boyfriend was uncomfortable.

The anticipated conversation my sister tortured herself most about was the one with Nanny. They got together at Nanny's house for lunch. My sister steeled herself over Campbell's chicken soup, a baloney sandwich, and ginger ale. Afterwards, she made her announcement. Nanny, who truly had no idea beforehand, thought for a few seconds about what she'd been told. Then, this is how the dialogue ended. You’ll see why I can still quote it verbatim more than thirty years later:

Nanny: To me, a man and a woman is like bread and butter. A woman and a woman is like bread and ... bread.
My sister: I guess I like bread.
Nanny: I guess you do. (Pause) You want some more Jell-O?

No heartache, no weeping and gnashing of teeth, no accusations, no nothin’. “I guess you do” and a second helping of a dessert for which there’s always room.

Anyway, getting back to our recent de-convert, I returned to her “family” blog and looked over some of the stuff she’d written. She was careful in her phraseology, but the negative attitude toward religion, I felt, was loud and clear, if somewhat obscured. Still, I think, somebody, somewhere in that group of relatives, already knows she’s left the flock.

But she’s terrified that she’ll shock the ones she loves. I know that this is a common fear. But, as I wrote to her: It's amazing how many de-converts don't discuss their new worldview with their loved ones because they're trying to avoid emotional blackmail. That avoidance, though, is also a form of emotional blackmail – and you're the one blackmailing yourself.

I told Ms. D-C that I was going to write a post about our email interchange. I invited her – actually strongly encouraged her – to comment here, and share her experiences with us. I know that quite a few of my friends in the Atheosphere have gone through de-conversions themselves, and I assured her that she’d find plenty of supportive pals, all kinds of advice, and lots of understanding, not only here at No More Hornets, but at any of their blogs, as well. She wasn’t sure she’d participate, but I hope she does.

I’ll say once again: I’ve never had to go through that experience. Everyone I’ve ever known, family, friends, casual acquaintances even, has been aware of my godlessness. But I can empathize and sympathize because my sister told me horror stories about the many nights when she couldn’t sleep, when she had the cold sweats, the midnight headaches, and the early-morning panic attacks.

I don’t think it’s worth putting yourself through that.

What About Darla?

In a thread on my previous post, A. mentioned his fiancee. He said: She finds the atheist blogging thing difficult enough to understand as it is. PhillyChief responded: One thing us guys here have in common at least is having women who don't get why we care enough to blog about this stuff.

Now, this exchange reminded me a little too much of Alfalfa and Spanky extolling the He-Man Woman Haters Club. So I'm going to respond. But first, I'm going to make a few observations, and weave in a short personal story.

The comment threads on most blogs that have an open policy – as I do – tend to go astray. My regular readers and I usually try to find a way to re-introduce the topic at hand, but there’s also a lot of good-natured, unrelated banter and teasing between us. Often, we refer to one another’s previous posts, not necessarily with full explanations for casual commenters who may not know exactly what we’re talking about.

I think our comment threads point out one of the main differences between publishing an ezine and a blog. When actually posting, we’re putting our ideas out there for the world. If we refer to someone else’s take on the same subject, we include a link for everyone to see, and, often, a brief summary of what the other person had to say. Our articles are styled to be accessible to everyone, with no prior background necessary.

But when commenting, we’re more freewheeling. We’re continuing a dialogue that has been going on for some time. Often, we twit one another over previous disagreements we’ve had, or support one another’s ideas without having to restate them in their fullest form. I like that. The Atheosphere is not a group of strangers; it’s a community. Some of us have gotten to know one another, at least in our blog personae, pretty well; we’re friends. When you get together with friends of long standing, you sometimes shorthand your mutual references.

I’m always happy when a new reader decides to plunge in and join the group. We’re most definitely not exclusive. Newcomers are welcome to join in the ribbing and the general tone. Folks who comment here have pretty thick skins I like to think; if they don’t, they’ve probably come to the wrong place.

So last night, my wife, who’s far more sensitive to mockery than I am, was looking over one of the threads here, and she said, “It’s like a men’s club. Just a bunch of guys getting together to trade ideas and rag on each other.” Now, my wife knows me very well, and has gotten used to my “style” of using humor to try to make important points. When she says “joking around,” she’s doesn’t necessarily mean that we’re being frivolous. In fact, she immediately qualified what she said: “I’m talking about the tone, not the content. It’s like old male buddies hanging out in a bar.”

However, what I objected to in her comment – aside from the word “old,” which I’ll let pass – was the idea that my blog is a men’s club, a bunch of guys. First of all, I believe that the Atheosphere is gender-neutral. The sharpest writers in it come from both sexes. Secondly, if it were a “men’s club,” how dull would that be?

So, in response to A., Philly and my wife, I’m going to take this opportunity to celebrate – through some links – the women who sometimes hang out in this particular godless nay-borhood. I’ve already mentioned a few of these recently, but I’m going to list here, in alphabetical order, some women whose blogs I read regularly. If you haven’t checked them out, I encourage you to do so. And I defy anyone to show how, in any way, these women are less thought-provoking, profound, skeptical, aggressive, nasty, witty, companionable, and universally relevant than their male counterparts.

I’ve limited this list to only those women who comment here, whose blogs are active, and who write well. Here it is:

Babs
C.L. Hanson
Enonomi
heather
Lynet
ordinary girl
sacred slut
tina
yinyang

All in the “club,” as far as I’m concerned – and not a he-man among them.

Quazy Quistian Question # 2

A few weeks ago, I set myself the mission of asking Christians the most inane queries I can think of about their religious beliefs. Try as I might, I had difficulty writing a second installment. I just couldn’t come up with anything dumber to ask than: Why did Jesus need to die for our sins? Why couldn’t he just say:

OK, people, listen up. Remember all those bad things you did, the ones that were gonna send you to hell for eternity? Well, f’geddaboudit. Phffft. Gone. Kaput. They’re off the slate. You don’t have to bother to thank me, although a few bucks in the plate would probably come in handy.

Somehow, that question didn’t seem quite as ridiculous as what I’d had in mind. Fortunately, though, my life provides ample examples of preposterousness. All I have to do is be patient.

And so, this evening rolled around. My wife and I went to a wine tasting at what our locals consider a decent restaurant. Where I live, a decent restaurant is any one that doesn’t have a clown character as its representative.

Anyway, we paid twelve bucks apiece for samplings of seven mundane wines, a few little cubes of Kraft cheese, and an antipasto that was heavy on the peperoncini. Now, don’t get me wrong: I love peperoncini in their place. But they’re not really the ideal accompaniment to a wine tasting. Hot pickled peppers tend to clash with any liquids that aren’t made from olives.

One of the offerings on the pouring cart was a white merlot, which, despite its name, was pink. In my opinion, pink is to wine as white is to chocolate. As green is to beef. In the food world, only M&M’s are color-transcendent. All other foods ought to stay in their own corners of the spectrum.

So there we were, sipping on our pink wine, nibbling on our peperoncini, and trying to decide which of the processed cheese cubes would be the least tasteless, when, suddenly, Jesus popped into my head. This wasn’t so remarkable, since almost every time we have cheese of any kind, I feel obliged to say, “What a friend we have in cheeses.” Then I usually launch into a series of the world’s worst dairy-and-religion puns, only one example of which should suffice.

It is easier for a Camembert to go through the eye of the needle, than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of Gouda.

Take it from my wife: You wouldn’t want to be there when I get started.

Be that as it may, the combination of Jesus and wine and bad puns immediately brought to mind the miracle at Cana. According to the gospel of John, Jesus arrived at this fancy shindig only to discover that there was no wine left. So, rather than running out to the nearest liquor store, he got a few servants to fill some pots with water, and presto – let there be White. Or Red. Or maybe Pink.

I know that some fundamentalist teetotalers dispute this. They insist that the word for wine in Koine Greek can also be translated as “grape juice.” I know zero Koine Greek, so I’m not equipped to enter that linguistic controversy. I will say, though, that it’s impossible to imagine the son of god and his followers getting their robes in a twist over being stiffed out of their Welch’s.

Also, according to John, the “governor” of the feast noticed that this particular whatever-it-was was of superior quality to the whatever-it-was that had been served earlier, before Jesus and his thirsty band had arrived. In my experience, grape juice is pretty much grape juice; I’ve never noticed a dramatic difference from one brand to the next. Superiority of quality isn’t really an issue.

Plus, of course, a wedding at which only grape juice was served would be pretty fucking dull, even if the bandleader was the Messiah.

Therefore, I’m gonna stick with the idea – believed by most Christians – that Jesus turned the water into wine. But what kind of wine? Hmmm, this was a Jewish wedding, right? But no, it couldn’t have been Manischewitz, because nobody, not even the most orthodox and soused of Chasidim, would ever rave about the relative quality of that.

Jesus must have made some pretty decent stuff; the water-into-wine trick was considered a miracle, don’t forget. And let’s assume it was something red, maybe even made, appropriately enough, with water from the Red Sea. And remember that later in his life, Jesus, himself, equates his blood with wine (almost certainly not grape juice). So I’m pretty sold on the idea of a red, unless his blood was pink like white merlot, or overly oaky like a California Chardonnay.

Let’s go with a fine red wine then. I’m guessing that the Christ would not have settled for anything short of a first growth Bordeaux, say, a Château Latour or a Mouton-Rothschild. The Romans ruled the land, so an excellent vintage Barolo is not out of the question, but somehow that doesn’t strike me as sufficiently impressive to make it into the bible. Of course, it could have been a great Australian shiraz, or a California zin (red, not white!), or even a rich vanilla-y Spanish rioja. The truth is, there’s a lot of terrific wine out there in the world, and god’s palate works in mysterious ways.

Even so, with all the noble grapes that abound, there’s still plenty of swill lurking on wine store shelves. Like pink white merlot, for example. Some of the stuff is lousy because it’s not produced to the exacting standards of oenophiles (that’s wine-lovers, for you Bud drinkers). But a lot of the crap that passes for wine is made from grapes that are just plain inferior.

And that got me thinking. Assuming, as many Christians do, that god stamped his idea of perfection on each thing he chugged out during the creation, why aren’t all grapes equally good? I can understand that he might have said to himself:

Well, variety is the spice of life. (Which reminds me: I’d better get some cinnamon and cloves going somewhere.)

But why would he bother to plant those grape species that aren’t even fit to make raisins? Why, in fact, is there such a large discrepancy in quality between different variants of essentially the same food plants, from grapes to lettuce to corn to coffee beans? How come some are considered by gourmets to be far more desirable than others? Why are some fruits too sour for people to eat, and others succulent and sweet? Why don’t all vegetables grow with butter already on them? And what’s the deal with poison mushrooms that look exactly like the ones you throw on pizza? And most of all: Could it conceivably have been in god’s plan for mankind to discover white merlot?

Quazy Quistian Question # 2:
Why did god create food plants with such gross inconsistencies in quality? Explain your response.

Not Rational

John-Evo has been selling rationality big-time over at Evolutionary Middleman. (I’m not going to link to any particular post except this latest one, because you really ought to be reading everything he has to say. Even if you don’t agree with all of it.)

Now, we atheists pride ourselves on being rational, but what do we mean by that? Is it possible that there can be two, or even more, different versions of rationality? Does a purely scientific rationality always trump the others? What about common sense and practicality? Where do they come in?

I’m not inclined to use this blog as a place to talk about my personal problems, but I do have an example from life that — although trivial in the grand scheme of things — I think illustrates very well the question I’m asking.

Last year, late at night on November 30, one of my cats started struggling to breathe. It looked like it was going to be a losing battle for her. My wife and I felt that if we didn’t get her immediate medical attention, she wouldn’t make it to the morning. We rushed her to our local animal emergency clinic, where she was put into an oxygen tent and given a battery of fancy tests. The doctor came back about an hour later with a dire diagnosis: our pet had lung cancer. The X-rays showed it clearly. The other tests confirmed it. The doctor’s considered advice, based on the scientific evidence and long experience: euthanize her immediately because it would be cruel to stand by and watch her suffer.

But my wife and I were not feeling very rational at the time. We insisted on bringing her home and taking her to our own vet.

Our vet is an old-fashioned, tobacco-chawin’ kind of guy. He’s definitely not someone who would strike you as being on the frontiers of science, although you might want to join him for a beer. His office is filled with all kinds of quasi-religious embroideries spouting “uplifting” nonsense about how your pets will be waiting in heaven for you when you die, how “dog” is “god” spelled backwards, that kind of drivel.

But he’s pretty practical. When I showed him my cat’s X-rays, he agreed that she was probably on death’s door. But he asked me one important question: what was her quality of life like? Then he followed with what passed for diagnostics: Before the episode the previous night, had she been eating and drinking normally? Could she still urinate and defecate without any problems? Was she able to curl up and sleep comfortably? Did she groom herself the way cats are supposed to? Most of all, did she seem to be “enjoying” being alive? Maybe it was wishful thinking on my part, but I answered: yes, yes, yes, yes, and yes.

So this guy examined the cat, confirmed that her lungs sounded awful, and said that he wasn’t confident that he could do anything for her. Oh, maybe he’d try giving her some steroids to make her feel a little more comfortable for a short while. They might work; they might not. “Well,” I asked, “should we just do the humane thing and put her out of her misery? Does that make the most sense?”

He shook his head. “It depends what you mean by ‘sense.’ I wouldn’t put her to sleep right now if she were my cat. Why not try a steroid? It’s cheap and it can’t hurt.” Frankly, he told me, he didn’t really know whether there was any point; he knew of no scientific tests that dealt specifically with that kind of treatment for my cat’s condition. But, hey, who knew? There was a chance it would work. “We’re not talking about faith-healing here, right?” I had to ask. He howled. No, he assured me, prayer was not going to be a factor on his end. Of course, I was free to pray, he pointed out with a big grin, which made me explode in much-needed laughter.

It has now been almost a year. I’ve brought that poor cat in for steroid shots every week-and-a-half or so. Whenever she starts having trouble breathing, I call the vet and ask him if he can see her right away for another “treatment.” No matter how crowded his office is — and it’s often overflowing with patients — he never turns me down. That’s not too rational of him, but I don’t argue. “Hey,” he’ll say, “we still don’t really know what we’re doing here. This isn’t good science. We’re just giving her a shot and holding our breaths.”

It’s certainly much less rational than just reading the X-rays and drawing the most reasonable conclusion would have been. But, although her death may be just around the corner, my cat is still eating, drinking, peeing, shitting, complaining loudly about the lousy cleaning service that takes care of her litter, licking herself into feline fashion, sleeping whenever and wherever she damn well pleases, blackmailing us into giving her treats, scratching the furniture just for the fuck of it, looking for affection at inconvenient times, and, in general hanging on to the only life she’ll ever have. Not rational at all.

Five-Seven-Five

Friendly Atheist,
Running a haiku contest.
I thought I'd enter.

That's up my alley.
I knew I could create some,
Like god did with Earth.

Ten minutes it took,
Not six days. And I wonder:
Why'd god take so long.

Maybe he's lazy.
Maybe he was on something.
I mean: look around.

My haiku? Not great.
But nobody worships me
For making this junk.

Here are the haiku
I submitted to Hemant.
Hope you enjoy them.

Haiku 1
No god in the sky.
Shocking to some, but not me.
Why would I want one?

Haiku 2
He died for my sins?
Did I ask for that favor?
Keep it to yourself!

Haiku 3
Christians and Muslims,
Jews, and Hindus, and Buddhists:
All pains in the ass.

Haiku 4
Wanted: messiah.
Must be a Republican.
Apply to: Karl Rove.

Haiku 5
Creationism —
Fill their young heads with nonsense.
But claim it’s science.

Haiku 6
Faith for Obama
Clinton, Edwards, Richardson:
Democrats suck, too!

While I think of it.
Nonbelieving Litera-
Ti. (That's a mouthful).

Next book? The Sparrow.
Ordinary girl picked it.
Check out her post here.

Comments are welcome.
But please don’t write me haiku
Unless you can count.

It’s five-seven-five.
Those are the specs to follow.
If you can’t, write prose.

Maybe Tomorrow Isn't Another Day

On Saturday afternoon I got a call from the Fred Thompson campaign. The woman on the other end had about the ooziest Southern accent I’ve ever heard; I felt like my phone was sticky. Now, I have nothing against Southern accents in general; I really enjoyed them in Gone With the Wind. But I will not vote another one into the White House. Sixteen years of good ol’ boys and grits is sufficient for me. However, that’s beside the point.

This is probably not exactly verbatim, but it’s my best recollection of the phone conversation:

Ms. Oozy: Hello. Is this Mr. Exterminator?

Me: Yes.

Ms. Oozy: My name is Marci? I’m calling from Fred Thompson’s presidential campaign?

Me: Are those questions?

Ms. Oozy: No, those weren’t questions? I was just telling you that my name is Marci? And I’m calling from Fred Thompson’s presidential campaign?

Me: So lemme get this straight. You’re name is Marci. And you’re calling from Fred Thompson’s presidential campaign.

Ms. Oozy: Yes, umh-hmm. As I said: My name is Marci? I’m calling from Fred Thompson’s presidential campaign?

Me: I know. My caller ID said “Fred Thompson.”

Ms. Oozy: Well, Mr. Exterminator, I’d like to ask you a few questions to help Fred understand what’s on the mind of Americans?

Me: Why did my caller ID say “Fred Thompson” but it turned out to be you?

Ms. Oozy: Well, as you can imagine? Fred is very busy these days?

Me: Doing what?

Ms. Oozy: He’s trying to understand what’s on the mind of Americans? So when he becomes president, he can do the best job for all Americans?

Me: Are those more questions?

Ms. Oozy: Well, Mr. Exterminator, I’m coming to the questions?

Me: Oh, well those sounded like questions already. When is Fred going to become president? I haven’t heard about it?

Ms. Oozy: Well, he’s running for president now? He plans to be the next president? May I play a special message for you? From Fred? Would you like to hear that?

Me: Why didn’t Fred just call me himself? It seems like a lot of trouble to record a message when he could have just dialed the phone himself. I’d be happy to talk with him.

Ms. Oozy: Well, Fred is trying to understand what’s on the mind of Americans? I don’t think he has time to call them all?

Me: Marci, are you saying that you have time to call them all? Everyone in the country? You sound like you’re too attractive to be cooped up on the telephone all day.

Ms. Oozy: Well, I’m not calling everyone, Mr. Exterminator? I’m just selecting some special people? Some people who care about America’s future?

Me: OK, now I can understand why you picked me. You found out I was special. But I wish you’d stop asking me so many questions.

Ms. Oozy: Well, actually, Mr. Exterminator? I haven’t asked you any questions yet? But this won’t take very long? May I play Fred’s special message for you?

Me: Listen, Marci. Since you made the call, why don’t you give me the special message yourself?

Ms. Oozy: Well, Fred would like you to hear it directly from him? So may I play it?

Me: Now that was a question, right?

Ms. Oozy: Yes, umh-hmm. May I play Fred’s special message for you?

Me: I don’t see why not.

Ms. Oozy: You’ll hear Fred in a sec? When he’s done, stay on the line? ‘Cause I’d like to ask you some questions so Fred can understand what’s on the mind of Americans? ‘Kay?

Fred Thompson’s voice: Hi. This is Fred Thompson. I know you’re concerned about the direction America is moving. And I am, too. I think we need to move forward. I’m sure you think that, too. Because the best direction we can move is forward, if you ask me. And I’m confident that you’ll agree with that. So if you vote for me, we will move forward. Thank you.

Ms. Oozy: Did you hear Fred’s special message all right?

Me: He sounds better on Law and Order. His voice was kinda scratchy.

Ms. Oozy: But you heard Fred’s special message all right?

Me: It wasn’t much of a message.

Ms. Oozy: Well, of course, he could only touch on the main points? Did you agree with what Fred said?

Me: I thought it was brilliant.

Ms. Oozy: Well, I’m sure Fred will appreciate hearing that? May I tell him you said so?

Me: Sure. And tell him he should feel free to call me himself.

Ms. Oozy: Yes, umh-hmm. Are you ready for the questions?

Me: Is that one of the questions?

Ms. Oozy: Well, umh-hmm. That was a question from me? Asking you if you were ready for Fred’s questions? Because, like I said, he’s trying to understand what’s on the mind of Americans?

Me: OK, what are your questions?

Ms. Oozy: Now I want you to listen to this list? And then tell Fred if these are your concerns, too? Jobs going overseas too much government spending the country moving forward good values cutting taxes public education moving forward values illegal immigrants abortions values that are good moving America forward politicians you can trust the war on Tyr good values and the country moving forward?

Me: I think you said a few of those more than once.

Ms. Oozy: Shall I read the list again, Mr. Exterminator?

Me: No, I think I've heard it a few times already.

Ms. Oozy: Well, do you agree that those are your most important concerns?

Me: Not really.

Ms. Oozy: Yes, umh-hmm. Are there any other concerns you’d like to tell Fred about?

Me: Sure. How about adherence to the First Amendment?

Ms. Oozy: That sounds interesting? I’m sure Fred will want to hear about that one?

Me: And you neglected to mention that whole Iraq thing.

Ms. Oozy: No, I did mention it? I said the War on Tyr?

Me: Yeah, you did. But the War in Iraq is not the War on Terror.

Ms. Oozy: Yes, umh-hmm. They’re pretty much the same thing?

Me: No, they’re not.

Ms. Oozy Well, Fred thinks they’re pretty much the same thing?

Me: If Fred thinks that, he’s an idiot.

Ms. Oozy: Mr. Exterminator? Are you a Democrat?

Me: Why do you ask?

Ms. Oozy: You sound like you might be a Democrat?

Me: Nope.

Ms. Oozy: Well, thank you, Mr. Exterminator?

Me: Aren’t you gonna let me tell you the difference between ...

Ms. Oozy: I have to say goodbye now?

Me: Can you just say "fiddle-dee-dee" once for me?

Ms. Oozy: I'll be saying goodbye now?

I don’t know how you readers feel, but I think Fred would do a heckuva job. In fact, in anticipation of his election, I’m getting ready to move forward right now. I just can’t decide if I should move forward to Canada, England, or Australia.

A Dog in Sheep's Clothing

Some say that anger is the root of comedy. Underneath the greatest comic novels — like Huckleberry Finn, Bleak House, and Pride and Prejudice — lies a solid foundation of wrath.

So a writer who makes it his business to poke fun at Christianity needs to be careful. He should take great pains not to sound as if he’s being bitchy about a deity in whom he still, secretly, believes.

“Bitchy” is the operative word here. You’ve read those atheist bloggers who blaspheme incessantly because they’re pissed off at their god for not existing. Their ranting and raving about Jesus is not convincing, nor is it funny. It’s pathetic.

Which brings me to Christopher Moore’s Lamb. I suspect that I’m about to become mighty unpopular with some of the other members of the Nonbelieving Literati, because I found Lamb almost impossible to stomach. It’s allegedly a humorous novel, but I didn’t laugh once. It was kinda like the book equivalent of a Three Stooges short, complete with all the subsurface cruelty, except that there were only two stooges instead of three. Jesus was Moe, and Biff, the narrator, was Larry and Curly. There was a ton of verbal eye-poking.

In Lamb, Christopher Moore fills in the “lost” thirty years of Jesus’s life. The Christ’s constant companion on his search for “truth” is his childhood pal, the aforementioned Biff. I suppose the inappropriate name is supposed to elicit giggles, but I just found it — not unlike the rest of the book — unbearably stupid. And sad.

Biff is sarcastic enough (he claims to have invented sarcasm), but he’s never, ever witty. The “jokes” that Moore puts into his mouth are all on the level of high-school locker-room exchanges. They involve inane observations about sex, food, work, and life, as well as pointlessly sacrilegious critiques of his friend. Now, I’m a big fan of sacrilege when it’s clever. But as I said, this was Three Stooges stuff. I felt like I was reading a troubled teenage boy’s blog.

Moore tries to appeal to bible-literate readers. Throughout the novel, he sprinkles references to minor passages in the gospels, passages with which the average reader might not be familiar. Now, truth be told, I’ve read those silly things, all four of them plus a few apocryphal ones, at least half a dozen times. They contain far more belly laughs than Lamb.

According to Moore’s tale, Jesus spent most of his young adulthood searching for truth via various versions of Eastern mysticism. Through Biff, the author tries to sound condescending about this spiritual quest, but you can tell, underneath the cynicism: Moore really digs that claptrap. His Jesus becomes an orientalized holy man. At that point, for me, the book turned into one huge gag, not in the comedic sense, but in the esophageal one. Lamb, which had never been particularly appetizing, became absolutely nauseating.

When I arrived at the unhappy happy ending, I was angry at Moore for turning into a serious, albeit unorthodox, Christian. Later, I felt sorry for him. To have that much antagonism and contempt for a god in whom you actually believe must be emotionally wrenching. That was Biff’s problem throughout the book; that was Moore’s problem when he wrote it; and, for all I know, that’s the problem shared by many readers who are tickled by this third-rate literary slapstick sketch.

But it’s not my problem. Never having believed in the biblical Jesus, I have no reason to feel any animosity toward him. He’s a cartoon character, like Bugs and Daffy. (Duck season. No, rabbit season. No, son-of-god season.) As drawn by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, he entertains me, and sometimes makes me laugh. Lamb did neither.

Quazy Quistian Question # 1

There’s just no nice way to say this. Even if there were, I probably wouldn’t use it, because, truthfully? I was born not only without the “god” gene, but also unencumbered by the “tact” gene.

Religion is dumb. That’s why it’s so much fun for us atheists to think up hard Questions for Christians. But I don’t understand why we spend so much time challenging believers about seemingly serious issues like, say, the Ontological Argument or the Euthyphro Dilemma. I’ve got a collection basket full of inane queries that need answering.

So I’m driving through town this morning, and an attractive woman in a red SUV whooshes past me in the right lane and cuts me off. I was already going a few miles per hour over the speed limit (well, in my book, twenty is “a few”). But this woman was clearly on some kind of mission.

Naturally, I leaned on the horn. I did this before I saw her two bumper stickers. On the left: Rejoice in the Lord. On the right: Honk if you’re not wearing any underwear.

Now, it so happened that I wasn’t wearing any underwear at the time. Sometimes, I’m just too lazy or too tired to dig through my highboy to find something to cover up my lowboys. But why my poor scrambled huevos should have been of any interest to a woman whose sunny side up was at least twenty-five years fresher than mine, was beyond me. Only her mysterious pal in the sky could know. When we were stopped at a red light on the next corner, she leaned her head and arm out the window, turned around to face me, and gave me what I at first thought was the finger. But it wasn’t. It was a thumbs-up.

I’d earned the approval of a beautiful Jesus-jumping stranger going commando just by sharing what she thought was a trivial confidence: Hey, I left my tighty-whities in my bottom drawer at home. And what aren’t you wearing, Sweetheart?

My angry impulse had resulted in a sweet, suggestive, smile — which I, of course, returned. And I wondered, “How embarrassed is she gonna be when the rapture comes and all of us forsaken sinners are left admiring her bare behind as it ascends to heaven?”

Anyway, seeing my response, she pointed toward the back of her car. I thought maybe I had a flat tire, or there was a dead animal in the road between us. I rolled down my window, leaned my head out, and shouted the most intelligent thing I could think of to say under the circumstances: “What? What?”

The woman turned almost completely around toward me, leaned over the back of her seat, placed her palms and fingertips together in the praying position, and looked up at the interior roof of her car. It’s impossible to know for sure what or who was up there, but a miracle happened. The light changed. I don’t know if that’s what she was praying for, but I saw it with my own eyes. When the impatient elderly couple in the Honda behind me let off a couple of feeble annoyed beeps, the woman must have thought the sounds were coming from me again.

As she raced away, the woman stuck another thumbs-up out the window. I half-hoped that she’d flash me at the next stoplight. But I did worry that she’d misinterpret my reponse to think I was trying to tell her “Christ is risen.” In any case, it never came up, because she was well out of sight within a minute.

This little story leads me to my very first series of inane queries: What do the pious think will happen to their clothing when they die? Do they imagine that they’re going to an eternal ectoplasmic nudist camp? Or do they anticipate an everlasting fancy-dress ball? Perhaps they think they’ll all be outfitted in identical choir robes without anything underneath. Sure, wise guys can dismiss this problem: Nobody is stupid enough to think that underwear’s gonna be an issue in the afterlife. But if religious people truly believe that each soul is unique, then any one of them, once dead, oughta be able to recognize others and distinguish between them.

OK, how? What exactly will those spirits be staring at?

I’ll tell you this: the attractive woman in the SUV will never trouble her pretty empty head about the Argument from Design. Where she’s going, design, at least of undergarments, won’t be a concern. There’s no way that she’s putting on a push-up bra any time during her vacation in infinity. The only question she’ll need to answer will be: Is it possible to honk when there are no cars around?

Quazy Quistian Question # 1:
Will souls need clothes in heaven? Explain your response.

Another Triumph for the Atheist Logo

Hold onto your hats (which aren't yarmulkes, I hope). You're about to see something that ought to get Gary Bauer's pious panties in a twist. And James Dobson will certainly not want any families focusing on this. I suppose Michael Medved will have something to say about subliminal messages coming out of Hollywood.

We nonbelievers should be proud of ourselves for spreading a meme through the culture so quickly. Our beloved Atheist "A" is showing up all over the place. The fact that it's yellow in the following pic doesn't diminish its impact at all. Notice how cleverly the godless artists have utilized the red motif in the shirt!

If the "A" isn't sufficient to clue you that the chipmunk's a colleague in not-Christ, you can definitely tell he's an atheist by that smug smirk on his face. After all, that expression is another one of our symbols. Just ask any fundie.

You might also be interested to learn that both chipmunk and human atheists share some of the same natural enemies: weasels and snakes.


Next thing you know, he'll be campaigning to remove "In God We Trust" from all acorns and berries. And watch soon for Alvin's new book, The God Nuttiness: How Religion Poisons Rodents.

I Don' Need No Stinkin' Badges

It seems as if every month or so, there's a new atheism symbol. The oldest one I've seen, an "A" inside an atom, looks like an advertising tie-in for a 1940s sci-fi radio serial.

Don't forget kids: If you buy a box of Sugar Jets you can get the exact same decal that Captain Atomic and his Asteroid-Jumpers wear! Ask your mom to iron it onto YOUR shirt today.

The bright red Dawk-A would be great — if we wanted people to think we were selling apples.

The newest creation, from Atheist Alliance International, is equally ridiculous. Lots of vjack's commenters were reminded of a stray badge from a Star Trek uniform. Others saw a branding iron, or an @ sign.

Stranger: At what?
Atheist: At what, what?
Stranger: I like your at pin. I was asking: at what?
Atheist: That's not an at sign.
Stranger: Is it a branding iron? Are you here in town for some kind of cowboy convention?
Atheist: No. It's an A. For atheist.
Stranger: At atheist?
Atheist: No, just plain atheist.
Stranger: You're gonna brand your cattle as atheists?
Atheist: No. It's what I am. I'm an atheist.
Stranger: Well why didn't you just say so. Sheesh. You people are so secretive.

Now, I don't see why we need a symbol. I'm perfectly capable of using my mouth to tell anyone who asks that I'm an atheist. I'll bet most of my readers are, too. I also don't think we need a secret handshake, a code knock, or a group whistle.

And c'mon, be truthful. If you're the kind of shrinking violet that needs to hide behind a symbol, are you going to be that comfortable answering strangers when they ask you what it means?

But none of my opposition to the symbol silliness stopped me from designing one of my own. I like it because no one seeing it will have any doubts: It says ATHEIST, f'cryinoutloud.

Unfortunately, not being particularly gifted in the artsy way, I'm sorry to say that the image in the center of what was supposed to be a circle is not actually in the center of not actually a circle. And for some mysterious reason, my reds don't match. Also, you might notice that my lines are slightly wobbly.

But my nonbelief is as steady as it ever was. Symbol or not.