Quazy Quistian Question # 8

Mrs. Ex and I have some friends who love going on cruises. Every year, when these folks plan their vacation, they toss out the same annoying suggestion.

Mrs. Friend: Why don’t you join us this time?

Us: No fucking way.

Mr. Friend: There’s tons of free food. And not a French-cut canned stringbean to be seen.

Us: No fucking way.

Mrs. Friend: Twenty-three different bars. There must be at least one that doesn’t have country music or sports on a giant TV. Last year, I did karaoke!

Us: No fucking way.

Mr. Friend: You won’t believe the shops. The last boat we were on had at least seven different book stores.

Me: Really? Do they sell ...?

Mrs. Ex: No fucking way.

Mrs. Friend: You won’t believe the interesting people you meet!

Us: No fucking way.

Both friends: Are you sure?

I don’t want to accuse my friends of being proselytizers, but they’re more stubborn than Jehovah’s Witlesses. And they’re not just preaching about some fantasy afterlife with 144,000 inhabitants; they’re talking about that many residents on a real-life boat. We’d be surrounded by water, with no way for my wife and me to exchange secret glances, make a big show of looking at our watches, and say, “Oh, shit, look at how late it is. We’ve got a big day tomorrow, so we’d better get home. Too bad, because we were having such a great time.”

What our friends can’t get through their heads is that for both my wife and me, a cruise is the ultimate nightmare scenario. What happens if we’re stuck with a shipload of bores? Or, worse, cheery people? Yikes.

Invariably one of our friends, says “It’s not like it’s forever. It’s only a 10-day cruise.”

Which gets me to wondering: What if it were forever? Even the friendliest, most bubbly idiot knows someone whose company he or she doesn’t enjoy. There’s no one who gets along with everybody. Will Rogers was full of shit: If he “never met a man I didn’t like,” as he claimed, I’m pretty sure he stayed locked in his bathroom most of the time.

Anyway, Mrs. Ex and I are both atheists, so we don’t have to worry about being button-holed over and over again by glad-handers in paradise. Or people who want to show us pictures of their grandkids. But what if we were believers? I’m fairly certain that we wouldn’t be eternally happy unless we had complete veto power over the souls with whom we had to associate. Of course, there are thousands of men and women that we would find fascinating, but, to tell the truth, they’d probably want to steer clear of us. Believe it or not, some people think my wife and I are unsociable.

So what goes on in heaven? Does everybody suddenly become a Friendly Theist? Are you so thrilled to finally be in the presence of your god that you forget how tedious most conversations are? Do you have to spend eternity making stupid chit-chat with dull strangers, or can you join special-interest groups like the ones at Atheist Navel? Do you actually get to choose your neighbors, or are you just dumped into the next available room? What if the couple next-door likes to wake up early in the morning and mow their Edenic lawn while yelling a chipper “hello” to every car that drives by?

We’re talking about a long, long, long time. No fucking way.

Quazy Quistian Question #8
When you die and go to heaven, what happens if your table assignment is with people you find boring? Can you ask god for another seat? Explain your response.

Quazy Quistian Puzzle

I spend a lot of hours in the Atheosphere, and I visit a lot of blogs. Almost every day, I find writing here that makes me laugh, or spurs my anger, or gets me seeing something in a new way.

But like many atheists, I have a touch of ADD. So I must admit that – although the posts themselves are often unique – I’m getting tired of the same old titles, over and over again. On the other hand, the name of each blog I read is a clue to the personality of its author and the kind of content on which he or she focuses. Hmmm, what to do?

Because I’m such a super-creative, but nice, guy, I’ve come up with alternate names for some of my favorite blogs. You can solve these as if they were items in a puzzle, if you care to. But I’m not giving any points to my co-nonreligionists because I have to save up those precious commodities to award to Christians who beat me in debates. (If you’re keeping score, so far the tally is: Exterminator — an infinite number of points; Religionists — zero.)

Hey, that gives me an idea. If a god-deluded commenter can identify the original name of any blog below, as well as the name of its writer(s), he or she will receive a point to log into god’s record book. I'm talking about one whole point for each correctly identified blog and blogger. Wow! That’ll sock it to us, atheists, huh? However, once a blog and its writer are officially recognized, no one else will be awarded points for it. Please include only one answer per comment, to show courtesy to other Christians who are trying to score big with Jesus. You may, of course, comment as often as you wish.

1. A Renouncer’s Shul
2. Torquemada, the Elitist Cross-Examiner
3. It’s Me Writing About You ... or Maybe It’s You Writing About Me ... or Maybe It’s Both of Us Writing About Each Other ... or Maybe I’m on a Break
4. Tentacles, Not Biscuits
5. Some Fucking Asshat Fundy Fucking Forced Me to Fucking Write This
6. Sun-spots from an Average Woman
7. Godless Grinner
8. Notes from an Ex-Mormon Chick Living in ... Look, Just Read My Novel, OK?
9. Cranky Ol’ Sabertooth
10. Profundities about Pedophiliac Pastors
11. Stop Stinging Me, You Assholes, and Answer the Fucken Question!
12. The Verdant Waistband
13. Doctor Doggie’s Droppings
14. It Means “Bullshit,” OK?
15. Southern Skeptic’s Rebel Yell
16. Left (Behind?) to Ponder
17. (((((I Hate Woo ((((and So Does ((My Wife (((and My Kids))))))))))))))
18. The Shoeless Smartass
19. Is That a Pencil in My Pocket or Just My Badly Tailored Trousers?
20. Extreme Economy of Expression ... AND I Love Boys!
21. Why Don’t You Get a Life?
22. Sorry, but the Argument Was Unavoidable
23. Unmelodious Missing Link
24. A Trollop In the Photo Gallery of Rationality
25. No, That Doesn’t Stand for “Blow Job”

Atheists, don't ruin the fun for the prayerful, but feel free to make wisecracks. And, of course, spread the good news.

Quazy Quistian Question # 7

Whenever my wife and I have an argument – which, given our confrontational natures and unpleasant personalities, is fairly often – one of us usually winds up saying, “I’m not convinced.”

Ex: You know I can’t mow the lawn. I’ve got allergies.

Mrs. Ex: How come your allergies only kick in when there’s yard work to do?

Ex: It must be something about disturbing the greenery. All the crap flies up my nose.

Mrs. Ex: I’m not convinced.

Ex: Well, I’m not convinced you’re not convinced. I’ve told you hundreds of times that I’m allergic. How many more times do I have to say it before you’ll get it through your head?

Mrs. Ex: You’ll never convince me. I think you’re making it up.

or

Mrs. Ex: I wish you wouldn’t spend so much time on your stupid blog.

Ex: It’s not stupid. I’m changing the world through humor.

Mrs. Ex: I’m not convinced.

Ex: You’re not convinced that I’m changing the world?

Mrs. Ex: Yeah. And I’m also not convinced that there’s any humor.

Ex: What if I could offer you evidence?

Mrs. Ex: I wouldn’t believe it.

or

Ex: I’m not eating those French-cut canned stringbeans.

Mrs. Ex: OK.

Ex: You’re not gonna get all pissed off if I don’t enjoy the vegetables you’re trying to push?

Mrs. Ex: I just opened the can. Why would I care if you eat them or not?

Ex: I’m not convinced.

Mrs. Ex: OK, if you care so much, I don’t see why you couldn’t open a can yourself. It’s a well-known fact: Everybody needs vegetables. What do you have to offer?

Ex: I wasn’t able to find any canned vegetables I like.

Mrs. Ex: I’m not convinced. Did you look?

Ex: I know what we have.

Mrs. Ex: I’m not convinced. Did you know we have creamed corn?

Ex: Really? I’m not convinced.

Mrs. Ex: It’s in the cupboard, under the fruit cocktail.

Ex: I didn’t notice it.

Mrs. Ex: I’m not convinced. You didn’t look, did you?

Ex: Well, I looked but I didn’t dig around.

Mrs. Ex: I’m not convinced.

Ex: What would it take to convince you that I looked?

Mrs. Ex: You couldn’t convince me, because I know you didn’t.

So there you have it. You couldn’t convince me, because I know ... whatever.

Change a few details in the dialogues above, and you’ve got three so-called debates between an atheist and a religionist. (Note: In real life, neither my wife nor I is a believer; we just play one on this blog. Don’t struggle to figure out which one of us represents whom in what scene. In our fictional personae, we’re not consistent. I have the authority to write that way because I’ve just renewed my literary license. For any Christians interested in obtaining one: You will be tested in spelling, punctuation, and grammar. So if I was yourself, Id practiss, pracktis, PRACITCE!!!!!!!!!)

A few weeks ago, a quintet of atheists discussed what evidence we’d need to believe in a god. The stars spelling out “Jesus says ‘howdy’”? The sun turning into a big, sad bunny face? A burning bush suddenly singing back-up for Johnny Evo? Our conclusion: It’s not entirely out of the question that there’s some evidence for a god somewhere, but we’d be skeptical. Really skeptical. All other possible explanations would have to be absolutely disposed of. Most atheists are open to accepting irrefutable evidence for the existence of a god, even though we’re 99.9999999999...% confident that no such evidence exists.

On the other hand, lots of us here in the Atheosphere waste our time laying out our case for freedom from faith. We debate, discuss, and argue — often civilly, but sometimes sarcastically or in a broadly comic way — with theists. We point out inconsistencies in the bible. We cite similarities of biblical stories with other ancient myths that preceded them. We offer science and explain the scientific method. We discuss historical events, as recorded by reliable sources. We attack flawed logic and bogus philosophical reasoning. We appeal to the common laws and moral traditions of many cultures and societies. Most of all, we insist on evidence. The religionists, ultimately, dismiss our rants with a mere I’m not convinced.

Now, there may be the odd Christian/Jew/Muslim/Hindu/tree-worshipper who waters his or her seed of doubt with the spray from our scattershot hose of reason. But for the most part, the great majority of theists try to sell their beliefs with: How many more times do I have to say it before you’ll get it through your head? When atheists ask What if I could offer you evidence?, religionists respond— without having heard that evidence — I wouldn’t believe it.

You couldn’t convince me, because I know ...

Many Christians, claim to be “open-minded,” even though they’ve got the most tightly shut brains in the universe. Some won’t accept evolution, despite a century’s worth of biological discoveries and data. Why? Because the science conflicts with the ideas of a tribe of primitive, ignorant desert-dwellers living more than three millennia ago. That’s like rejecting the advice of a good lawyer for the counsel of your neighbor’s five-year-old. Other Christians accept evolution, but only if they can add the extraneous hypothesis: “God started it.” Those people don’t have open minds; at best, their minds are slightly ajar. Their ideas make no more sense than the premise that Jamie Leigh Curtis controls your bowel movements.

Is America a Christian nation? The evidence, in the form of our Constitution, cries out a resounding NO. There’s not a word about any gods or Jesi in it. It doesn’t even refer to the Twelve Commandments. The Founding Fathers left that stuff out because they specifically did not want the new country to be established on religious principles; they wanted it to be a governmental embodiment of the Enlightenment. The most ignorant Christians respond, “Yes, but we know what those men believed; we understand what was in their hearts.” With such an assertion, I might be able to prove that the words to “God Bless America” are secretly buried somewhere in King Lear; I understand what was in Shakespeare’s heart. And besides, he told me so himself.

Hurricane? God did it? Deaths of innocents? God didn’t do it. Survival of some people? God did it. Destroyed churches and Christian businesses? God didn’t do it. Economic benefits reaped by exploitive but prayerful construction companies? God did it. Financial ruin for the local citizenry? God didn’t do it. Or else: Man cannot understand or explain God’s mysterious ways. But everything happens for a reason. The storm was part of his plan. How many more times do I have to say it before you’ll get it through your head? And anyway, everyone secretly believes in a god, particularly in extreme situations. I’m not convinced you’re not convinced.

All of which leads me to wonder: Despite the continuing lack of evidence for the existence of god, as well as the implied evidence against his existence, why do religionists continue to believe? Are they actually faithful, as they claim? Or are they merely smug, stubborn, and stupid?

Quazy Quistian Question #7
What arguments might convince you to even question the existence of your god? What evidence would you need to decide that your god’s existence is highly unlikely? Explain your response.

Quazy Quistian Question # 6

The other night, Mrs. Ex and I sat down to a hot-weather dinner: a little chicken salad, a couple of dollops of potato salad, some green salad, three or four tablespoons of fruit salad, and even a few fistfuls of our beloved Crunchy Cheetos. She said, “When the weather’s like this, I love a big salad.”

“Well,” I said, “technically it’s not one big salad. It’s actually four different salads, all on one plate.” In case you didn’t already know this, I can be a tremendous pain-in-the-ass.

My wife can’t ever resist taking the bait. “It’s one big fucking salad,” she said.

“Ummm, no it’s not,” I insisted. “First of all, the stuff isn’t all mushed together. It’s separate, like the compartments in a TV dinner. There’s a chicken salad compartment, a potato salad ...”

“I can see what’s there.”

“And secondly, no one in his or her right mind would ever refer to Cheetos as salad. So why can’t you admit that it’s a bunch of different salads and some crunchies on the side? While we’re at it, there’s not enough of the potato kind, if you want my opinion.”

Anyway, we went back and forth a few times, at least until we’d both finished cleaning our plates, refilling them, and cleaning them again. Then we stopped arguing while we finished our meal with a sweets course: ice cream on top of baked apple pieces and pastry, which my wife unreasonably claimed was only one dessert called “pie a la mode.” I understand that traditionally this is considered a unitary dish; but since ice cream, baked apples, and pastry are all separable, and since their essences don’t change when combined, I’m fairly comfortable insisting that it’s actually a trio of different things, acting as a team, that's merely masquerading as a single entity. But I wisely kept my mouth shut while I chewed.

I thought of that dinner today when I became engaged in kind of a silly interchange over at You Made Me Say It. A Christian was claiming that his religion is monotheistic. That, of course, is ridiculous.

Here are some reasons why Christianity is, clearly, polytheistic.

1. Dad, Junior, and the Cosmic Goo
That’s three gods. If you challenge Christians to explain how 3 = 1, they’ll usually start spouting some nonsense about the “trinity”: The bible says this, Christian apologists say that. These explanations are, of course, a weasel-y cop-out on a grand scale. Atheists don’t believe in what the bible says, nor do we put any credence in the long, tedious, lying tradition of Christian apologetics.

We’ve got three entities here, not one. For Christians, though, it’s “pie-in-the-sky a la mode.”

But, look. Even according to the bible, when Jesus was on the cross, he cried out to his papa. So god and Jesus, at least, must be different beings — unless the “savior” was just talking to himself like a crazy man. Was the “savior” a lunatic? Are his followers?

And that third god is some vague entity used conveniently to plug the gaps into which neither Jesus nor the Big Guy fit: the “hole-y spirit.” Either he/she/it is an unnecessary concept, or we’re talking about another divine presence here.

2. Satan
Most reasonable people would call the Satan character a god. He may not be the king of the particular gods that the Christians believe in, but he’s clearly got the powers of a deity — albeit an evil one.

There’s no point in Christians arguing that a god can be a god only if he’s omnibenevolent, because even their guy doesn’t fit the bill. He condones ethnic cleansing, the murder of innocents, slavery, the subjugation of women — the list of atrocities goes on and on. And he’s egomaniacal, not a nice trait.

But let’s, for the moment, say that God and Satan are opposites in some way. In Christian belief, Satan has the power to challenge the divine personage they call “God” for people’s souls. He’s either immortal, or, if vanquishable at some future date, at very least unusually long-lived. He’s omnipresent, almost omnipotent, and omnimalevolent. If he were a member of some ancient pantheon, we’d all recognize him as the embodiment of wickedness, a “dark” god. And that’s what he is in the Christian scheme: a fellow god.

3. The Demigods of Christianity
Some Christians —Orthodox and Roman Catholics, for example — address prayers to Mary and/or saints. These heavenly folks may not be full-fledged gods, but they’re certainly demigods. Some of them are acknowledged by scholars of all persuasions as being spin-offs of pagan deities. So if we were talking about a mythology other than Christianity, everyone would acknowledge that these characters are superhuman enough to be classed in the “gods” category.

But not certain Christians. For them, Mary is kind of a real woman, except kind of not. The saints are sort of dead people, but sort of not. But how can you pray to a corpse who isn’t a god; what’s the point? You might as well pray to a cat, or a tree, or a meteor. They’re just more gods.

So it sure looks as if Christianity is a polytheistic religion. Christians may not put any other gods before the leader of the club, but they sure throw in plenty of lesser gods as part of the holistic picture. Most of us would call that “polytheism.”

Now, I’m going to diverge slightly from convention before I ask the following question. Usually, in this series, I’ve been freewheeling about accepting answers — even though no satisfactory ones have ever been provided. For this particular entry, though, I’m going to have to insist that no quotes, links, or historical references be used. I’m interested in responses that are phrased only in your very own words.

Quazy Quistian Question #6
Isn’t Christianity a polytheistic religion? If not, how do you account for all those super-beings running around? Explain your response.

Quazy Quistian Question # 5

I haven’t asked a Quazy Quistian Question in quite some time, but the other night Mrs. Ex and I had a quonversation which got me thinking. This is odd because we’ve been together so long that most of our communications are limited to grunts of various kinds. When we do have a conversation, it’s usually about my clothes: “You’re not going to wear that, are you?” Apparently, no matter how long a woman is married, she keeps hoping that she’ll suddenly find herself cohabiting with a man who gives a shit about how he looks sitting in a dark movie theater.

Anyway, we were having dinner at one of our favorite restaurants in town. Now, where we live, any restaurant that doesn’t have a drive-through ranks pretty high on our list. The joint in which we were eating doesn’t serve the greatest food in the world, but there are place settings that you don’t have to color yourself. And you get handed a menu instead of having to read one printed on a sign above a bored teenager’s head. Also, thankfully, there’s no bored teenager’s head.

This particular restaurant is very popular with us because it serves both Chinese food and sushi. My wife can’t stand the thought of raw fish, cooked eel, or sweetened egg wrapped in seaweed; I love that stuff. So at least once a month we go to the Pan-Asian Emporium because I can get my toro, ikura, hamachi, unagi, and nori-tama — and she can have General Tso’s chicken while she sits across the table and makes gagging noises every time I shove something in my mouth. Except beer, which we both like.

So we’re sitting and gobbling our different foods, and we start talking about our idea of paradise. It would certainly include a variety of ethnic dishes. Both of us love Indian and Thai cuisine, Italian and French and Greek and Russian, Mexican and Spanish and Middle Eastern. In fact, there are very few edibles that we don’t like, sushi being her exception and French-cut canned stringbeans being mine.

However, in a Protestant Christian heaven, almost all of those delectables would be missing; there’d be no one around to cook them properly, all the best chefs having gone to hell for believing in the wrong god, or none at all. In a Catholic heaven, there’d probably be some decent French and Italian, maybe even Mexican if immigrants are tolerated, but certainly no sushi or General Tso’s chicken. In a Muslim heaven or a Jewish heaven, the dietary laws would pretty much nix everything except the slop that mama ladled up back home on Earth. And try getting a decent hamburger in the Hindus’ forever.

So, since dining well is one of life’s great pleasures, how could Christians want that to be absent from the eternal happy place? Jesus may have been a fisherman, but can he prepare a really artistic salmon roll? Does he know how to make sag paneer or moo pad prik? Can he whip up a batch of hummus or tabbouleh? And what about deviled eggs or devil’s food cake? Is decent wine allowed, or only that watered down swill he pours at weddings? Would the Savior prepare a special Infidels’ Buffet now and then? Or would the fare be limited to molded Jell-O and tuna casseroles all the time, with maybe a little Southern-style barbecue once in a while?

In fact, what will the food be like up there? It can’t be your favorite meal whenever you want it, because that would get really old before long. Do souls sit down at a table, one with nice silverware and dishes and gravy boats and crystal wine glasses, to eat like civilized human beings, or do they just grab a handful of trail ambrosia on the fly? And what if you want Jesus to hold the pickles and the lettuce? Will he do it, or does everybody have to eat whatever’s put in front of them and no TV until they’ve cleaned their plates?

Quazy Quistian Question # 5:
Is there food in heaven? If so, what’s it like? If not, what do you do when you want a nosh? Explain your response.

Quazy Quistian Question # 4

The format for today’s Quazy Quistian Question is going to be a little different than usual. I'm confident that most of you will be able to adjust, but, even if you can't, I’m gonna begin with a playlet. We can use my father’s barn to put it on if Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney will supply some singing and dancing.

(Scene: The comment thread following a post titled The Morality of Christianity on a blog called Christianity is Confusing. )

Michelle: Atheism is the belief system of the Communist Manifesto. More wars have been started from the Communist Revolution throughout the world.

TheDeeZone: There have many wars started by comunisist. The offical religion of communism is atheism.

The Exterminator: Michelle said: Atheism is the belief system of the Communist Manifesto. The Dee Zone said: The offical religion of communism is atheism. Could either of you refer me to some evidence on this, because I can’t seem to find it.

Michelle: I did a quick google of marxism + atheism and found over 800 published works. Keep looking. My source, you may not like, but I’ll give it to you anyway: A Christian Manifesto by Francis A. Schaeffer

TheDeeZone: My sources: Numerous history textbooks that I have either had as a student or taught from. My husband the historian. People I know that have been to, lived in or are from former communist countries.

The Exterminator: Michelle said: Atheism is the belief system of the Communist Manifesto. The Dee Zone said: The offical religion of communism is atheism. I asked for evidence. I didn’t ask for your sources. I asked for evidence. Acceptable evidence of Michelle’s statement would have to be found in The Communist Manifesto itself, since she specifically named that book. Evidence of Dee’s statement would have to be found in some official international communist document that applied to communism in all its manifestations, since she made a blanket statement about an “official religion of communism.” No offense, but one’s husband the historian is not evidence. Numerous unnamed history books are not evidence. Anecdotes from people who have been to or lived in communist countries are not evidence. A Christian Manifesto is not evidence. A Google search is not evidence.

Michelle: I’m not doing your research for you. The books are out there, read them. I’m not writing a paper on the subject, so I’ve not documented references. Sorry.

The Exterminator: Well, Michelle, you’re the one who made the assertions, not me. Either you can back them up with evidence, or you can’t. If you can’t, just say so. If you can, provide the evidence. Simple.

The Exterminator (after a few minutes): Michelle, I’m not being 100% fair to you, because maybe I haven’t explained clearly why the onus is on you to back up what you said. This information is for everyone here, not only Michelle. Let’s say that someone makes a statement: A miniature elf that no one but me can feel, sits on my shoulder and tells me what to do. Now, you and I doubt that. So we ask that person to prove what he says. He says: “No, you disprove it.” Of course, we can’t, even though intuitively we know that the statement is nonsense. But his asking us to disprove the statement is beside the point. He made the statement; the burden is on him to provide evidence. Otherwise, our natural response is to disbelieve it. If that were not the case, we’d all be walking around all the time trying to prove that the moon isn’t made of green cheese and that there isn’t really a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. And that there are no invisible, intangible elves on people’s shoulders.

TheDeeZone: Sounds like you have your mind made up & will accept no other opinion. I don’t have access to the textbooks I have taught from & can’t really remember the names other than World Geography & World History.

The Exterminator: I don’t have my mind made up. You’re free to change it any time. Just provide some evidence.

Yesterday, Philly and I spent a few hours arguing with a Christian who insisted, among other unfounded assertions that he pulled out of his ass, that there was no evidence for the existence of wind. Believe me, you don't want to read the comment thread at JP's blog unless you think the best way to get a haircut is by tearing it out in frustration.

In any case, since banging my head against the wall made my skull unattractively asymmetrical, I thought I might straighten it out by finding a reason to continue pounding on it. So, shooting for that appealing flat-top look, I moseyed over to the blog I cited above, and found my way to that post and comment thread. A few days ago, I'd left a request for evidence, not because I actually gave a shit, but just to be a wise-guy. I'm sometimes prompted to do mischievous things by the invisible, intangible elf that sits on my shoulder. Those of you who have your own elves know exactly what I'm talking about, right?

Anyway, you've read the result. Now I'm beginning to think that some Christians disdain all evidence about everything, not only religious matters. This might be a clever ploy, because if they admit that they accept evidence for anything, they'd have to at least wonder why there's none to support their silly beliefs. On the other hand, it might not be a clever ploy; it might just be stupidity.

Quazy Quistian Question # 4:
In order to justify their beliefs, must Christians dismiss the validity of evidence in all instances, even those that are unrelated to religious matters? Explain your response.

Quazy Quistian Question # 3

Today's installment is not just your everyday inane query. This one is actually seasonal. I hope my ideas will be easier to follow than a mythological star.

So my wife and I were sitting around on Saturday night, reading, watching TV, munching on various unhealthful snacks — we’re famous in our social circle for being able eat our way through a family-size bag of Crispy Cheetos in less than an hour — and just generally relaxing after the pig-out of Thanksgiving and its aftermath. At one point, although I didn’t notice it, my wife must have checked her watch. Sure enough, it had been a few hours since I’d last been given a chore. She likes to suggest little projects for me just to make sure that I don’t wind up starving on the streets like the rest of the deadbeats who hate doing dishes. Anyway, she looked up and said, “Why don’t you jump in the car and go get a few lottery tickets?”

What I should have said was “I don’t feel like it; I’m comfortable.” But, through long experience, I’ve learned: A response like that doesn’t work. My comfort isn’t an issue.

So I needed a good, rational excuse. “I don’t want to give any more of my money to the state than I have to.”

My wife rolled her eyes. That’s when I made my mistake. Like the smart-ass I am, I quoted the bible. “Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s. Caesar isn't really entitled to those four bucks I’d spend on some stupid game.”

To which my wife, an atheist like me, said, “Well that money sure as hell isn’t god’s.”

That’s when I decided to run out the clock. There was only a short time left in which to purchase chances for that day’s drawing. I said, “Well, buying lottery tickets is like an act of faith. We don’t want to start being religious all of a sudden. Do we?”

She said, “You have ten minutes.”

As I was driving to the nearby Jiffy Spend, I found myself still chuckling over the Caesar-god dollar dichotomy. Then, as I passed a group of holy-shit-not-already! Christmas lights, I had a thought: According to the Christian fairy tale, the three wise men presented the baby Jesus with gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Today we know, of course, that those things should have cautionary labels on them, stating that they’re choking hazards for children under 3. But this was back in the day when parents actually watched what went into their kids' mouths.

Anyway I started wondering: What did Jesus — or his folks — do with those things? The three wise men came from afar, traveling for days over hot desert sands by camel, without air-conditioning, to bring gifts to a tot they thought was the king of kings. There must have been desert-boatloads of the stuff they brought. They were no dopes, remember. So if they really wanted to ingratiate themselves, their presents would have been pricey. We’re talking about major expenditures.

I’m supposing the Jesus family burnt all the frankincense and myrrh over the course of the next few years to make their humble home smell a little less like donkey. But what about all that cash? Did they put it into a college fund for Jesus so he could go study theology, or worse, Aramaic lit? Did they invest it in Joseph’s carpentry business? (“Need a new table or bed? Crazy Joe’s prices are heavenly!”) Maybe they used it to buy toys and clothes for the child? (“Jesus! That’s the fourth pair of gilded sandals you’ve outgrown this year.”) Or did they just piss it away on lottery tickets?

Whatever they did with it, the gift sure set a lousy precedent. Nowadays, Christians still throw money at Jesus in an effort to suck up to him. They do it indirectly, maybe, by supporting god’s houses and his allegedly good works. But most of them feel, somehow, that they’re handing their hard-earned loot over to their lord. And Jesus’s collection agencies sure rake it in.

But why can’t god just take care of his own business without having to resort to cash, checks, and credit cards? What could money conceivably buy for him that he can’t just make for himself? How come he can’t finance his houses on his own, and pay for his ventures without having to ask for handouts? And where does he keep his assets? In a bank? In an offshore trust? In an omnipresent wallet in his omnibenevolent pocket?

Quazy Quistion Question # 3:
Why does god need your money? Explain your response.

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.

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.