Untold ages of failed mutant creatures slithering, climbing, hopping, then flying, eating each other, the ourobouros cul-de-sac of trial and error, trial and success, quantum puzzles assembled against entropy in so large and staggering multitudes that powers of ten have powers of ten. Children beget children beget children beget children. Grandchildren have grandchildren and forget their ancestors. The sun feeds the trees, the trees feed the birds, the birds feed the new-comer mammals, the mammals die and feed the worms and birds and anrthopods, copepods, insect Detroits, Manhattans, Berlins, which feed the fish, which feed the bears, which feed the birds, which feed the humans, which feed the factories of Detroit, Manhattan, Berlin. 

Opposable thumbs, opposable nouns and verbs, linguistic abstractions and portmanteaus, psychological devices describing the psychological backfire, the evolutionary accident that arose from the neural nets and cages in the mammalian cortex. Brain cells spark and flutter across a great synaptic divide, stretching from axon to countless dendrite across a system of chemical highways and interstates, international waters, the Strong Law of Large Numbers, the Weak Law of Large Numbers, independent identically distributed Gaussian Random Variables teaming up to give simple standard deviations, autocorrelations, empirical orthogonal functions called concepts, ideas, dreams, fears, visualizations, regrets, anxiety disorders. 

The neural soup coalesces from that same quantum soup that gave the first cells, the impetus lightning demoted and replaced by a chemical firing, triggered by stimulus from the auditory canal, that great filtering masterpiece turning the collective atomic pressure drift into distinguishable chunks of empirical orthogonal eigensounds. Rods and cones, the visual cortex, that magnificent factory taking photons bouncing off the silent water of Algiers, and triggering more of those countless faceless neurons from that disentagleable dendritic web, spitting out what we call “the sight of stream”, that mess of alphabet we constructed with our evolved feeding holes and pharyngeal corpus. 

Words we push out, conducting the atomic drift back to those other parts of the earth, the crests and troughs, Fourier-decomposed quantum packets, which hit the ears of animals, friends, relatives, strangers, lovers. This we name conversation. The pieces of the puzzle interlock, exchanging, haggling, bartering atoms and molecules from one another. Where the bee ends and the flower begins is as big a mystery and where exactly the water meets the shore. The two collide in a big frothing mess of gravitational tug-of-war. 

You could blame the moon for the tides, but then again it matters that it isn’t geosynchronous. Nor is the sun, the birth of our seasons and economic disasters, crop failures, cancers, those nasty little cells who have grown so entitled as to try to touch the heavens for themselves, the bratty little children of the whole game. We spin about the sun, the moon spins about us, and we all collectively spin about the center of a giant galaxy, whose arms spiral carelessly about like an ice-skater, that perfect and inimitable picture of the “Conservation of Angular Momentum”. 

Back to the shore, again, that source of life itself. Where the shore ends and the water begin is hard to say, perhaps a misapplication of our linguistic sleight-of-hand, that powerful little tool we developed to abstract and sweep away all the pesky little details of neurons and atoms and speak of “cars, trees, things!”. More independent identically distributed gaussian variables, more large numbers, and we forget everything under the cosmic carpet, under a mass of verbage, paintings, songs, equations. 

When we communicate we exchange the world, we interchange our molecules, we share the earth, and the earth shares and exchanges its gravitational energy, it’s baryons, with the sun, which shares X-rays, cosmic microwave background, and countless photons with the rest of it all where the shore ends and the water begins. 

Does the sun end at the furthest tip of it’s furthest flame? Or does it end at the furthest photon it shot out billions of years ago, now long gone into the deepest, most unreachable trenches of deep deep space? Or do we say it ends not spatially but temporally, when it’s final photonic word has been uttered, it’s last sputtering fusion gasp? 

Where do “I” end and “you” begin? Where, precisely, is that mysterious line of demarcation between two independent selves? Between two bubbling clouds of atomic matter, continually exchanging neural firings? Because, my neural soup is activated by the physical stimulus reaching my brain through long anatomical corridors, sparked oftentimes, by the movements and sounds of those around me, motions and noises set into being by their neural soup. So, are there really two separate brains, two separate minds, two separate selves? Surely, linguistically there is a distinction, but language is a shorthand, a statistically emergent phenomenon, a genetic mistake that has been carried to comical proportions over the centuries. But if, as it were, our neurons connect over a great synaptic chemical divide, and orchestrate themselves statistically into thoughts, patterns, habits, hopes, reflexes, and such. And if two brains communicate with mouths and ears, over a great spatial and molecular divide, connecting through the pushing about of carbon, oxygen, nitrogen, constant exchange of particles and at times high-level constructs (thoughts, political agreements, family decisions) then of course what in principle makes a brain different from a neuron? And what makes us not all part of a soup of disjointed brains, statistically combining to give rise to a “collective unconscious”, that high-level emergent epiphenomenon so akin to individual thoughts, habits, reflexes, etc? Where exactly does “I” end and “you” begin? “I” and “you” are ideas formed through repeated contact with the external world, contact that is symbiotic, parasitic, and reflexive. One neuron sparks, the other reacts. One brain “speaks”, the other “listens”. Sparks fly. Brows furrow. 

Where, EXACTLY WHERE, philosophically, physically, temporally, conceptually, do “I” end and “you” begin? Emotions are fickle epiphenomenon, personality changes with contact and exposure to outside influence. Our physical selves are very, very slippery creatures, constantly replacing and renewing cells, like tiny genetic batteries in the remote control of the world. We are all tuned in to Channel Zero, the infinite moment of our lives, connected and disconnected, bobbing in and out of each others worlds through exchange of baryons, leptons, quarks, maybe even strings. The shore and the wave are together a beach. The ocean and sky are together a vat of communicating baryons, leptons, quarks, maybe even strings. The bee and the flower are interdependent, not just in survivalistic terms, the narrow symbiotic zoological dualism and altruism so common everywhere, but physically even. They change each others chemical and molecular composition, constantly updating each other innards, outtards and compounds, masterfully rearranged the atomic stockpiles within each other, hitting the “Refresh” button on our attempts to physically distinguish the two. The bee spreads the genetic seed of the flower, the flower feeds the bee. 

What does the bee call “I”? It may lack the prefrontal cortex necessary to think such deep thoughts about “beeness”, but what for us, IS “beeness”? Where is the flower if not also inside the bee? And where exactly is the bee if not also, IN NEED of the flower? If “I” lose “my” leg, do “I” lose “me”? How about if “I” lose my memory and my senses in a terrible car crash? Do “I” then lose “me”? There are many flowers for the bee, there are many bees to a flower. There are many memories in “me” , there are also many “me”‘s in “my” memory. The flower and the bee, the hive and the meadow, the meadow and the plow, the plow and the family, the family and the town, the town and the city, the city and the highway, the highway and the interstate, the interstate and the airplane, the airplane and the internet, the internet and the psychological conspiracy known as the “collective unconscious”, now becoming increasingly “self-aware”, through uploading and refreshing, through endless streaming contact with external stimuli, “external minds”. 

A quark, an atom, a neuron, a brain. All meaningless in isolation, devoid of context and interaction. A bee with no flower dies. A flower without bees becomes extinct, added to the incredibly long list of forgotten creatures that evolution tried out for a while and threw onto the unwanted clothing pile in the dressing room of mutations and experimentations. Stochastic blips and bumps in the road along the way. 

A neuron isn’t self-aware, but is perhaps a hive? It can offer a collective defense? It can, as it were, “speak for itself”. It can collectively, statistically, adapt to it’s environment, and even communicate with it in the way of pollination, honey, population adjustments. If enough bees got together, might they have a hive self-image? Reacting and responding to changes in the external world through self-adapting anatomical signals, spread out over pressure waves and chemical tracers, updating, refreshing, reloading, constantly adjusting, sparking, firing, one bee venturing out, another returning, moving as a whole to pick flowers on a warm summer day. The population of flowers adjusts itself accordingly, a beautiful dynamical system, with stable equilibria and attractors, sinks, sources, eigenflows. 

Is a bee any less “Earth” than the flower? It comes from the same processes that created the flower. The flower and tree in turn, are just parts of Earth as much as the rocks and waters of that indistinguishable beach. The roots dig themselves into the soil, communicating through the crumbling dirt with the very Earth itself. Am “I” any less a natural phenomenon than this? If not, as I suspect, than my “I”-ness is the world’s “world-ness”, the universe itself developing language and thought, just as the Earth developed arms through the trees branches. Then this “I” of which we so often speak, is nothing short of the miraculous. It is the universe itself becoming self-aware. Baryons, Leptons, quarks, maybe even strings, forming Earth which in turn forms little branches of itself which can walk, speak, think, and finally, think of themselves, and think of baryons, leptons, quarks, maybe even strings. “You” are the center of it all. The core of the universal experience. Not “Buddhistically”, but literally. “Your” eyes, “your” senses, “your” thoughts, are the thoughts of a world of tiny matter coelescing to form the apex known as “YOU”, perceiving and imagining “itself”. “You” are the product of the world, bur “you” IS the world thinking of itself. “You” is the sky reflected in the water. “You” is the reflection of yourself in another’s eyes. “You” is baryons, leptons, quarks, maybe even strings. “You” is all of it, and all of it is “You”. 

“You”, “Me”, the universe, positive charge negative charge, dilations, contractions, matter, anti-matter, the water, the sand, the flower, the bee. Distinctions are linguistic. 

What is it to be a bee or not to be a bee? That is my question.

I’ve come to believe that religion is a mental
disorder. Perhaps it isn’t the most pathological, but nevertheless it is incipient that
something is amiss in the mind of the devout. Case in
point, I have an acquaintance who is a devout
Catholic, attending a private Catholic college deep in
the heart of Texas. When she came to visit over the
past Christmas break I mentioned the recent photo I’d
seen of our new pope Ratzinger decked out in a festive
and all-too-youthful santa cap taken on Christmas Eve.

The remarkable thing about the picture is how much
he resembled an imp. The old man just looks downright
evil. His eyes have this sinister tinge to them, and
his nose has the warty and crooked appearance that
anyone familiar with Grimms fairy tales and Disney
monsters can recognize a mile away. There’s just a
very perverse irony in the pathetic display of this
so-called holy roller bozo donning the seasonal garb
intended to warm the hearts of the worlds’ giddy
children, and instead looking like Swamp Thing on a
bad acid trip. I even pointed out to my 82 year old
grandmother how strong the physical resemblance to
Satan was and her response echoed my sentiments
exactly. 

“Oh Nick,” she sighed “he just looks terrible, just
awful.” 

And she’s right. Pope or not, his Catholic badge
doesn’t exempt him from physical critiques. So, it
was to my shock that when I mentioned this to my
Catholic acquaintance she backed up a smidgeon, turned
her nose upward, and said “I hope you’re just saying
this to get a rise out of me, Nick”. But I wasn’t. I
was just making an observation- the Pope looks like
Satan. 

“I think he looks nice”. A feeble attempt at putting
the best face on a delicate and ugly situation. It
wasn’t fooling anyone other than herself. So I again
reminded her that he is not somehow above this kind of
critique.

“Nick, you know I’m Catholic” was her final retort. 
Yes, I’m aware of your religious affiliation, but did
I say he was or acts like Satan? No, simply that the
figurehead and phony baloney authority of your
ridiculous religion looks like a wretched gargoyle.

What does your Catholicism have to do with your
vision? Is it blasphemous to mention this? I think
not. She acted as if I had made the most arrogant and
callous affront to her religious sensibilities
imaginable. 

I persisted, “Just because you’re Catholic doesn’t
mean you have to pretend you don’t see something which
is clear for even my blind ass to see. You know how
absurd you’re being by just denying it? If you would
just acknowledge it for what it is instead of naively
assuming it is somehow a blasphemous charge against
his character, you wouldn’t look so damn silly.”

Obviously, this failed to inspire the change of heart
I anticipated. It didn’t bring her back to reality,
but instead infuriated her. Well, how can you
honestly look at the picture of him and deny it? He
clearly looked ghastly, and somewhere underneath all
that phoniness and girliness a part of her is scared
to admit that she sees it too. I hope my words haunt
her, and that every time she gets on her knees to
deliver him her prayers she pictures him in her minds
eye and simply can’t shake the fact that it looks like
he is giving her the evil eye from the gates of hell,
reaching his tawny and claw-like cold papal fingers
into his Santa’s gift bag full of rotting human
entrails. 

Now, I was talking only about how he looked, but as a
matter of fact, now that we’re on the topic I do think
the guy is evil, or at least morally crooked, just
like the rest of us. What is so unbelievable about me
saying that this human, appointed by humans, into a
human church, may have human deficiencies? Before she
left (which for some reason was right about when I
mentioned the pope looking like satan) I left her with
the comforting thought that if all that nonsense in
the Book of Revelations about the antichrist turns out
to be factual and there is such a boogeyman creature
on the way, who better to play the role than a pope? 
Who would people least suspect, and who would have
greater influence over the obedient throngs of
religious nutsos? She was offended and left upset.

This leads me to one of my deepest problems with
religion and many religious people, namely this view
of entitlement to special exemption from certain types
of criticisms. Religion is not above philosophizing,
especially when philosophy and investigation reveal
flaws within the religion, or the architecture of the
religious bureaucracy inspired by the religious texts.
Too damn bad if you feel insulted by me commenting on
your piece of shit religion! It is no different that
me saying something offensive about an article of
clothing or car or whatever. Don’t expect to hold
silly outdated, antiquated views and not have anyone
comment negatively. Your religion is no different
than any other belief you may hold, and you don’t get
to wave the superstition wand of ‘blasphemy” in front
of my atheistic bastard eyes. People seem overly
concerned about protecting their religious views from
any type of slander or criticism, moreso than other
facets of their life. But it is precisely their
religious views which are the most susceptible to
attack, since for the most part they are either very
weakly realized, or simply ill-formed. 

And don’t think for one minute that I’m restricting
this to Catholicism. The Mohammed cartoon fiasco got
my blood boiling way more than the little talk about
the pope did. Newsflash Islam- just because some
newspaper printed a cartoon of your beloved so-called
prophet and you feel insulted by this, doesn’t give
you the right to threaten bodily harm to people who do
this. It also doesn’t give you the right to blow up
buildings in “retaliation”. So what if they drew
pictures of your ridiculous hero? Deal with it. Grow
up! No one gives a shit if you’re insulted, let
Allah come down here and punish us for breaking his
silly laws, don’t take it upon yourself to be his
personal ambassador. We find carbombs and death
threats MUCH more insulting. And what gives you the
moral authority to assert a level of physical
intimidation out of a verbal conflict? What allows
you to raise the stakes? Before we turn the region
between Turkey and Somalia into the “Parking Lot
formerly known as the Middle East” you might want to
rethink your bargaining tools. In between you’re five
daily prayers offered up to the God instructing you to
blow up bus stops on the West Bank think about the
fact that normally when you make threats or act
impulsively you have some sort of leverage, but it’s
not quite clear to me what you have to offer or refuse
here. Just something to think about… 

The ultrasensitivity and uptightness of religious
devotees WILL absolutely continue to cause 
problems in dealing with political issues in a sane,
rational, and diplomatic nature. As my conversation
with the Catholic illustrates, there is simply no
reasoning with people beyond the walls their religion
instructs them to build around certain off-limits
beliefs. 

Religion not only promotes one to foster a deep sense
of faith with respect to religious issues, it praises
one for doing so. One gains a special insider esteem
for cultivating deep religious conviction based on
principles which root themselves in faith. And what
is faith other than a willingness to believe in
something, despite arguments or potential facts
disputing the belief? There is no way to argue with
someone who will refuse to change their opinion on the
matter, under any circumstances presented, and this is
seen as the highest and most revered level of faith
one can hope to attain. Furthermore it is one’s ticket
into very some comforting social acceptance. There is
a pride of the persecuted, and a level of dignity
amongst those who stand their ground against skeptics.
They are willing to argue, but only to a point, for
there are limits to what their religion will allow
them to question, and how well they hold up against
the scrutiny of us disbelievers is seen as evidence of
their conviction and ultimately, their “holiness”. 

And don’t think that just because I diss it that I
don’t see the point in prayer. When your ass is on
fire and you need divine grace to save you, sometimes
the only available recourse is to sit down and chat it
up with the man upstairs. I’ve been there. Only a
month ago, when it was my girlfriends’ special time of
the month, we lay arm in arm under the sheets, with
the cool wind sifting through our hair, and I found
within me the need to speak one on one with the Big
Kahuna. 

“Oh Dear Lord Jesus” I pronounced, startling my
girlfriend from her slumber. “Dear Jesus, I’ve heard
you can work miracles and have lent a gentle hand to
both saint and sinner alike, and sweet lord I come to
you as a common man, a lost, restless and wandering
spirit on this vast earthly wasteland. I come to you
humbly oh lord, that you might come to me in my hour
of greatest need, for it is but by divine intervention
alone that I may be helped on this night. If we can
but gain your assistance in removing my girlfriend
from the shackles of menstruation so that we can
fornicate freely once again, voraciously satiating our carnal
appetites, I would be most gracious.
I beseech you, oh heavenly father, I’ve heard you turn
water into wine, can you but this once turn blood
into…”

“Don’t say it!” My girlfriend interrupted. And so my
prayers came to a thundering halt, but the point is
all the same, I do get the idea behind prayer, and
understand that of course religion has it’s place. 
We’re all entitled to a little wishful thinking now
and then, but some people take it too far. So I think
I’ve got to set out some new commandments, call them
amendments if you will, to the original ten.

Amendment 1 (Commandment 11); 
This one goes out to our good friends from south of the border; next time
you think you see the Virgin Mother in a day-old
windex stain on the pick-up window at the local taco
truck in downtown Buenos Suenos, maybe you better lay
off the radiator radishes for awhile, they’re probably
obstructing you’re better judgment. Mother Mary knows
better than to get herself mixed up in the seedy side
of town. She’s too dainty to be haphazardly created
from grease stains at the Shrimp Shack, so save your
pesos that were going to the radiator radishes and put
a down payment on an ice cold Coca-Cola and Hollywood
Blockbuster, because THAT’S a religious experience!
Revelations don’t come with a side order of
antifreeze. Look for her on the side of a candle
holder on aisle seven right next to the toilet paper
and picnic supplies. Or on the hood of Pablos el
camino. “I think I see her!” 

And you North American whackos that fly out to these spaghetti western
villages to mill around these newfound sacred sites
just simply ought to know better. If you want
messages in your meals try a fortune cookie, not a
sacred burrito or prophetic radish. I got a fortune
cookie once that told me I have a noble heart and am
well-loved by many people (eat that, motherfucker!).
What has Mother Mary ever said to lift you up like
that? And for god’s sake stop putting guacamole on
everything, it’s too high fat! 

Amendment 2 (Commandment 12); 

Do we really need televised communions? No. Thou shalt air Married
with Children reruns instead, Kelly Bundy STILL turns
me on, and THAT is a miracle.

Amendment 3 (Commandment 13); 

What would Jesus do? How about this one, what would you do you nimrod, it’s
your life. Jesus had his, and it didn’t turn out so
well, he was brutally murdered at 33 and then
misunderstood and misinterpreted for two millennia,
invoked as the source of the bloodiest wars in all of
history. Unless you want to replace him as the name I
scream when I stub my toe at four in the morning on my
way to get my Doritos fix, I’d suggest coming up with
a better strategy for making decisions. Thou
shalt think a little harder more often, or at least
try.

Ammendment 4 (Commandment 14); 

I know that the Bible expressly forbids condom use, Jesus himself tore
Trojans off of lepers in Mark book 11:14, but maybe we
can make some exceptions in order to save some lives. 
Thou shalt wear rubbers! Especially you believers! 

Ammendment 5 (Commandment 15): 

Jerusalem, Tibet, Mecca, Kansas, and wherever the hell the Buddha was
born are all officially marked with a big red X for
Fat Man and Little Boys’ secret NAMBLA love children. 
Time to set the clock back a few hundred years. Grab
your artifacts while they are still intact! Don’t
forget to bow your head in holy prayer on your way
out! Last chance at redemption! Destroying all
evidence of a “holy” piece of land is going to be
mission numero uno in the Hoell religious detox
program. Hard to argue over who wants to live in a
land which is tainted with radioactive lettuce and
glowing pink moss. The sun will be the new holy land.
Luckily, there is plenty of available room to live
and cohabit with all of Gods’ children on it. Only
the most holy will qualify! Do you think YOU have
what it takes?!? Shuttle rides will be made available
to those seriously looking to relocate.

Amendment 6 (Commandment 16): 

I had a conversation with a Buddhist once where he described to me that
suffering is a spiritual awakening because it can
arouse compassion for the suffering of others. 
Ideally, it draws attention to the similarity of
suffering in all things. When I asked him then why it
is that a Buddhist feels morally obliged to decrease
said suffering in others, i.e. “when if indeed
suffering is a blessing and not a curse, a path
leading us to moral righteousness, how could one
ethically take pride in denying others the wonderful
experience of suffering?” Hs response was that this is
one of the great paradoxes, a deep truth which cannot
be explained away by the lower processes of logic. 
You hear something similar from standard Christian
rhetoric whenever you hear the words “the Lord works
in mysterious ways”. Rather, the mind works in
mysterious ways, namely the deluded and woefully
desperate mind seeking syncreticism in a very bad
example of a cohesive moral guide. 

Indeed, I would agree that if in fact there is an invisible hand
guiding all of nature’s manifold marionettes, then
yes, ABSOLUTELY YES, this guy is working in some very,
very mysterious ways. More likely though, the brains
that came up with that nonsense answer in attempts to
foil penetrating inquisitive logic, were
also deeply mysterious, and quite frankly, stubborn
and arrogant. 
As for the purported mysteries attributed to the Lord,
(genocides, evolution, birth merely for the sake of
death) I would like to add a few more. To start, the
moronicism and shunning of logic by many
of his followers. The lord definitely is a shepherd. 
Next, the Popey McPopeson bearing a physical
resemblance to Satan. Bravo, Mr. Christo, Bravo! 
Further mysterious workings include the McGriddle,
Paris Hilton and starving Ethiopians sharing a
lifetime and planet, and of course, the success of
both Russell Crowe and Robin Williams. These men
continue to conquer the box office despite themselves,
God should definitely be proud. 

And there you have it, religion from the eyes of the
sinful, amended from the gutter of agnosticism. I sit
in my throne of godlessness and take issue with the
religiosity of our times, because, like everyone else,
I mostly think I’m right. Chauvanistic, immature, and
insulting? Of course! All in the hopes of waking some
good ol’ god-fearing believers back into reality,
to stir them through emotionalism, since logic
and rationality seem to be no avail and the way out
may be the same as the way in, being that
emotionality drew them fervently to religion as a fly
to shit. Or perhaps more eloquently and correctly, as
a devout believer to shit. Talking someone out of
religious dogmaticism and fanaticism is harder than
talking someone out of the worst acid trip imaginable.
The Lord is definitely stronger than the strongest
LSD. Bon apetit mofos!

————-
Don’t give up……
One day I decided to quit…
I quit my job, my relationship, my spirituality. .. I wanted to quit my life.
I went to the woods to have one last talk with God.
“God”, I asked, “Can you give me one good reason not to quit?”
His answer surprised me…
“Look around”, He said. “Do you see the fern and the bamboo?”
“Yes”, I replied.
“When I planted the fern and the bamboo seeds, I took very good care of them. I gave them light. I gave them water. The fern quickly grew from the earth. Its brilliant green covered the floor.
Yet nothing came from the bamboo seed. But I did not quit on the bamboo. In the second year the Fern grew more vibrant and plentiful. And again, nothing came from the bamboo seed. But I did not quit on the bamboo.

He said.

“In year three there was still nothing from the bamboo seed. But I would not quit.
In year four, again, there was nothing from the bamboo seed. I would not quit.”

He said.

“Then in the fifth year a tiny sprout emerged from the earth. Compared to the fern it was seemingly small and insignificant. …But just 6 months later the bamboo rose to over 100 feet tall. It had spent the five years growing roots. Those roots made it strong and gave it what it needed to survive.
I would not give any of my creations a challenge it could not handle.”

He asked me. “Did you know, my child, that all this time you have been struggling, you have actually been growing roots”. “I would not quit on the bamboo. I will never quit on you.”

“Don’t compare yourself to others.”

He said.

“The bamboo had a different Purpose than the fern.
Yet they both make the forest beautiful.”
“Your time will come”, God said to me.
“You will rise high”
“How high should I rise?” I asked.

“How high will the bamboo rise?” He asked in return.

“As high as it can?” I questioned.

“Yes.” He said, “Give me glory by rising as high as you can.”

I left the forest and brought back this story.
I hope these words can help you see that God will never give up on you.

Never, Never, Never Give up.
Prayer is not an option but an opportunity.
Don’t tell the Lord how big the problem is, tell the problem how Great the Lord is!

Anonymous
———————————-

It MUST be wonderful to be God. He has such great PR representation. People applaud Him for the wonderful things in life but dismiss the tragedies. Plague, pestilence, and tremendous floods all get chalked up to…who knows?! The “Mystery of God”. “The Lord works in mysterious ways…”

Newsflash- if you’re hanging out in the woods and you hear voices, DON’T assume that’s God. You’re a bit far from the Radiator Radishes and Lysergic Lumpias all over 23rd street, but you’re NOT far from the “Psilocybin Certainty” dotting the “fruited plains”.

Maybe you’re hearing Smokey the Bear’s last great oration. “Don’t give up- only YOU can prevent hallucinations!”.

Or maybe Bambi was interested in spamming. “The Lord commands you to go home and email your friends this story!”

Well, I have a story too.
One summer night, not long ago, I arose from my slumber to get some Nilla Wafers. On my way to the kitchen I tripped in the hallway and landed flat on my face.
After dusting myself off, I asked God “Why? What have I done dear Lord to deserve such humiliation, such pain?” The answer came from the box of Nilla Wafers, loud as a clarion.
“My Child, all this time you’ve been seeking Nilla Wafers, when the shelves are stocked with Tostitos”.
So I ate Tostitos instead.

Later, when I told my shrink what happened, she said the box of Nilla Wafers actually WASN’T speaking to me. The tumble I took played a little game with my sanity, and I heard what I WANTED to hear. So now, I eat Nilla Wafers.

They actually resemble the wonky wafers they give out in communion only they taste MUCH better. Why travel all that distance to get some low-budget, dry wafer, when you’ve got Nilla Wafers so much closer? Plus, I don’t want a priests hands all over my food-who knows where they’ve been?

Oh yeah, one last thing- God didn’t give up on the bamboo, but evidently he DID give up on dinosaurs, the dodo, the Upland Moa, the Hipparion, and the Domed Mauritius Giant Tortoise, to name but a few.

And natures sickest joke, the wonderful bamboo feeds the pandas so well that they can’t go to warmer climates during winter for lack of proper nutrition. They sit on frozen hillsides chomping on bamboo all day in order to get the bare minimum of calories and carbs.

Hmmm…