Wednesday, January 20, 2010

Find Out What It Means To Me

Wow. My family is a piece of work.

My beef with my Aunt Judy aside, it would seem that more of my family are taking a leap-of-faith swan dive off the 200m stupid platform into the empty kiddie pool of what the fuck. As I've stated before, I believe that it's a sick, sorry thing when a person actually shows more love for an imaginary man in the sky they can't prove exists without the word "faith" than they do for an actual, corporeal, tangible family member. These kinds of people actually sever ties with family members over religious differences.

This is why the empty pool is called what the fuck.

Even with all the knowledge I've tried to amass over the course of my lifetime, I still can't seem to fathom this phenomenon. And since we're talking Christianity, I might as well use a metaphor that Christians can identify with. Somewhat...

It's like there's a little invisible gnome, we'll call him Chompsky, living in the space between my brain and my various inputs (eyes, nose, et al). Chompsky's job, it would seem, is to decide what information is allowed to pass him by and carry on its merry way towards my memory and what is absolute rubbish. In a way, he's my brain's co-pilot. At any rate, for the rubbish, Chompsky has a little mallet that he uses to bat away the incoming bullshit, preventing my brain from becoming a sewer of useless, baseless crap.

A person who chooses God over Family must be rubbish, because Chompsky won't allow the concept to enter my internal database. Nope, no sir. Not a chance in hell. This is because Chompsky knows that, despite anything and everything that can come between people, the bond of family is a trump card when all other cards are on the table.

Imaginary men, mallets or no, should not trump that which you can see, feel, recognize, understand, communicate directly with, and most importantly of all, actually love.

And yet members of my family can't seem to understand this. Their fanatical devotion to the Magic Sky Pixie has led them to cut ties with me. They and their friends most likely think that I'm an embarrassment to the family, since I don't play ball in the House of the Invisible Cloud Monkey. To them, I am a blemish, a cancer, one that can be treated with the tried-and-true Christian throwback cure called "out of sight, out of mind."

I'm the embarrassment? I'm not the one clinging to the delusion that some omnipotent-yet-impotent super being even exists, let alone is more important that what's right the fuck in front of you. I'm not the one who condemns for stupid ideological reasons based on said magic space wizard. I'm not the one who professes unconditional love, yet administers unabashed hate because a 1600 year old story book told me that something isn't right.

I grew out of that phase. I filed that kind of nonsense in the fiction section. I know where my priorities are: They're with my family, my friends, and most of all, focused on my son. Where are yours? Well, you might as well forget family, because you've made your choice abundantly clear. Kissing the non-existent ass of the Amazing Man Upstairs is way more important than any family you might have.

Yep, that's right. When you consider excluding one, you open the door to excluding them all. Yoda said it best: "Once you turn down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny."

Rachel, I hope there really is a Hell, because I want you to enjoy your trip there. And as the demon bus to Flamey Town rides past me, I'll smile and wave, and know that you and Aunt Judy are on your way to the very place that you people believe that bad folks should go first class next to Pat Robertson and every fucking Pope that has ever held office.

Forsaking your family is bad. I don't need any god to tell me that much is true...

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