Blog post 9

It is violently storming as I write this; and by “it” I mean the sky, the outdoors (as opposed to the interior of my apartment)—the same as when I asked you yesterday: “Is it supposed to storm tomorrow?” and you said “No.” Maybe you misunderstood what I meant by “it,” because it’s storming now; and you’ve never been wrong before.

Blog post 9

Dear diary, I wanted to tell you about Independence Day, so as to remain relevant as a spiritual pundit; because I heard fireworks just one moment ago, and I do not doubt that the festivities are upon us.

For starters, I am independent now. Do I need food, ever? Negative. How about shelter? Negative. You see, I have achieved a state of independence from these things, all because I chose the right beliefs.

But I think that it would have been better for me if I had moved to New York or California when I turned seventeen. Instead, I bowed to my fear and remained in Midwest Hades. Right now, I wish that I knew some people in the movie industry, so that they could let me make a feature film. Or I would settle for a TV show, no problem. In fact, I’d love to make a TV show. Preferably a sitcom.

Yes, it’s far more comfortable, when braving a job interview, for the person who’s conducting the interview to be naked while you yourself remain clothed. Why is this? I think that when you show up to an interview, you feel insecure; but, upon seeing that your interviewer is undressed, your insecurity fades: because all of their private secret mysteries are out in the open, able to be viewed freely; whereas your own enigmas and riddles are safe and secure. Thus, you hold the trump card. This cat is in the bag. The world is yours.

But I don’t understand why people blame their hard-earned success on the resurrected Jesus. (In my last confession, I vowed that I would never make another bad remark about Christianity; so I want to stress that I’m not implying it’s wrong to blame your hard-earned success on the resurrected Jesus—I just don’t understand the whys and wherefores of this decision.) Here’s what I mean:

A man had a tough week, so he begins to cry. Now, normally, a crying spell lasts just 56 hours; but this man cannot stop crying: that’s how hard his week was.

So our very sad man, in hopes of curing his sorrow, visits a church. Surveying the congregation, Pastor Samantha notices one distraught individual; she spots him easily, for the rest of the mob is cheerful: this weepy soul stands out like a light among bushes.

So Pastor Samantha halts in mid-sermon and approaches the fellow. She touches his head. She very gently rumples the crying man’s hair. Now behold, the man stops crying. And he is happy forever after: Praise the Lord!

This formerly crying man’s hard-earned success (his acquisition of normalcy) is attributed to the officially hybridized Man-God; which is to say, we blame all apparent happiness on the Living Christ. This puzzles me: I could maybe understand if we attributed the achieve­ment to Pastor Samantha; for it was her hand that did the rumpling. But all of us are dead-set against giving credit where credit is due. To God be the glory.

My point is that Science Itself should create a telescope that allows us to view invisible spirits. Because then we would know for certain whether or not God is responsible for all the goodness in the world. And we wouldn’t need all of these cumbersome scriptures anymore: we could store them, once and for all, on the plus-size shelf of our local Vatican bookmobile, and then use the telescope to forecast election results.

I’m glad that you have the day off, because otherwise you might not have the time to read this far in my letter. Another thing that the telescope would do is reveal exactly which God is the True God. Is it the redhead or the blonde? For I am positive that the Devil gets blamed for a lot of God’s atrocities. If nobody can prove anything (because neither oneself nor one’s opponent can be seen), and one is willing to lie to high heaven about every incident, then why not sweep some cities under the rug? Also, when people are stumping for president, the telescope will disclose how many angels are protecting them; and additionally how many angels are protecting their bodyguards.

Novice voters keep their eyes on the prize; but, after years of experience in this area, I’ve learned to fix my attention upon the Lord’s entourage. See God giving his sermon like Pastor Samantha: one might attend to his facial expressions, and make note of his body-language: his fist pounding on the pulpit; the stiff, repetitive, cutting motion of his right arm; the twitching of the deific mustache—but it is a waste of time to focus on these details: a keen detective will zero in on the faces of his C.I.A. guys. We’ve got four on the left and two on the right. You want the scoop? When you see one of these agents slouching, with their eyelids half-closed, it confirms that they are inebriated: now you can write it in your newspaper. This stuff sells.

And who cares about children? They’re just upcoming adults. Every awful grownup that you encounter was once a kid. So the telescope that Science invented to unveil the Spirit World should also project a filmed reenactment of what each child will be like at age 38.

I bet that you could remove the lenses from Science’s telescope and fuse them onto some sunglasses with neon frames, so that you could go to the beach on a summer day—I’m not saying that there would be a dress code, but you could wear a bikini if you wanted to (it is hot out; plus your figure looked great in the above interview)—and look around, and discover that all of the children who are swimming in the ocean or making sandcastles are presently 38 years old: they’re just lounging on the couch. No future, no pain.

Correspondence (this is my final thought) would often take months to reach me, when I was in the trenches. The reason for this is that your recipient was waging the joke to end most laughs. So every­thing flipped: lions, lambs, all frowns upside-down: and now it takes only three days to raise a savior. Soon we’ll be able to chitchat faster than light-speed, using computers. And we have so much to say.