Comfort and Joy

When science finally found indisputable proof of the existence of a single, omnipotent god, nobody expected that this discovery would lead to the demise of organized religion. Most learned and handsome people expected religion to get killed off by homosexuality, or zombies - not by the validation of its most fundamental tenet!

But, alas, it was God that killed Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Hinduism, Scientology, and all the rest. Shortly after the research was published, people began to lose faith. After all, with God a scientific fact, what need was there for such dogma? You might as well have faith in gravity, went the general logic.

Sure, people still went to their respective houses of worship - for a while. But with time, the masses realized the futility of mutually exclusive beliefs. Scientists had confirmed a single deity; not one for Catholics, one for Shi'ites, one for reform Jews, and so forth. So, the discovery of one cold, hard, fact led to the discovery of another: Thousands of years of recorded histories for multiple religions could not each be correct. It took several decades and dozens of primetime specials to convince people of this, but eventually most individuals elected to restrict their religious ministrations to a personal level.

God went into the textbooks, alongside seismology and analogies that failed to make adequate sense of the stoichiometry to young students. And with the absence of religious upbringings, children throughout the world grew up with the ability to think critically and question the world around them. Within a few generations, humanity had advanced significantly - technologically, economically, and socially. All in all, the world had become a much better place in which to live.

Unfortunately, this was exactly what Satan wanted.

So I recently lost my mind. Well, only part of it. It happened when I was out running errands, and suddenly everything went black. When I came to, there was a large crowd gathered around me. I didn't know I had been speaking to them until this ridiculously overweight guy shouted "What shall the meek inherit?"

Initially, I tried to pretend that I had imagined it - you know, a hallucination induced by too little sleep. But then the blackouts happened more and more frequently, and I'd wake up in stranger and stranger places: Alleys, churches, playgrounds, museum entrances (where the management was very upset that I had been scaring people away), and even support groups. Eventually I realized that something was odd.

One day, I asked my friend Andy to follow me around. He happily agreed. We were at the movies when I blacked out. When I woke up, we were leading a protest against gay marriage. Dazed, I asked Andy to take me home and tell me had happened.

He explained to me that in the middle of the movie, I stood up and walked out. When he asked what was going on, I apparently told him that it was "time to do God's work." Then I led him around town trying to "bring peace to the world."

"I think you have a split personality," he said.

"No, really."

"…And your alter ego thinks he's Jesus."

It was absurd. My body - my life - was being stolen by some evangelical jerk? I refused to believe it. But that didn't stop the blackouts, the long lapses of time where this strange person took my body out into the world and preached to the masses. Over time, Andy told me, I - I mean, he - garnered increasingly large audiences, and - get this - the people actually believed that I - he - was Jesus. The Second Coming of the Messiah. Crazy, I know!

And here's the insane part: He was performing miracles. Andy showed me videos of myself - I mean, him - turning water into wine. Healing the wounded and curing the diseased. "He really is the Messiah," Andy whispered in awe.

"But it's my body."

"But he's the Messiah!"

"That doesn't give him the right to steal my body."

I knew it had gone too far when the press started camping out on my lawn. So, I took my strongest permanent marker and wrote on my arm, "Kindly leave my body alone." Next time I awoke, it was replaced with a different message: "The humble man rejoices when God makes him suffer; the selfish man complains."

This guy was crazy. Absolutely nuts. I went to six psychiatrists for help. He converted them all to his side. I created a website, "imnotjesus.com", and explained to the masses that their messiah is just a mentally insane man. Then he created a website, "hesnotjesusbutiam.com", and won them all back. The bastard.

He took control of my body for ridiculously long periods of time. I would black out, and awaken days later holding a news article about the miracles he had worked. Starving children he had fed, violent atrocities he had stopped, international tension he had alleviated. I became indignant; the news never mentioned me, the actual person that was saving the world. They were all about Jesus Christ, the personality that just happened to inhabit said body. My name was unknown.

I had no idea what to do. Therapy wouldn't work. Exorcism was out of the question. He obviously wouldn't listen to reason; I wanted my mind and body back, and he wanted to save the faithful and bring them to heaven. We had no common ground. What could I do?

Jesus refused to bargain. I woke up one day with an armed guard who kept me in the house. He told me that unless I spoke "the code word," I couldn't leave. I was furious, and began fighting physically. I starved myself, to weaken him; it didn't work, so I ate compulsively. He exercised. I took up smoking, but he used his magical powers to heal my lungs. I took up drinking, and he did the same to my liver.

Eventually I entered a state of depression. The whole situation seemed hopeless; I couldn't leave my house, I couldn't fight him, and I couldn't reach anybody who could help. He realized my despair, and began leaving me all sorts of hopeful messages. I found optimistic Bible passages on my fridge, and letters from people whom he had healed. These were honest, personal accounts of the good deeds he - I? - had done.

I began to think that he must not be so bad. After all, he was basically me, right? And I'm a good person! Perhaps this was just my way of expressing my good side. With this in mind, I began to look into Christianity. I read the Bible, and books written by famous Christians. It seemed like a pretty smart religion - no reason to be upset with it!

It took time, but I finally made peace with Jesus and accepted him into my - our? - life. He - I? - was doing good things, and I wanted to help his - my? - work. After all, nobody else in the world seemed to mind that their messiah was an insane man. Perhaps they were all insane as well.

So, finally, he let me out of the house. Recognizing my duty to God, I strode proudly from the doorway into the world. As I passed passerby on the road to freedom, I spread my alter ego's message; gradually, we grew into the same personality. And then as I was preaching one day, a Hispanic man came up to me with a knife in his hands. "Surrender, infidel," he cried out, "for I am the Prophet Mohammed! I have come to purge you from this world, you prophet-impersonating demon!"

At the point, he plunged the knife into my torso, and pain surged through me like something else that surges. I felt myself fade into unconsciousness - but I knew no fear, for surely I was going to a better place.

Three days later, I woke up in a cave in Jerusalem.

Consider

Consider: Somewhere, at this very moment, a library is in existence. And in this library, which does exist, there simultaneously exists a massive quantity of books. These books are the cumulative result of centuries of effort by authors big and small, black and white, American and not. At least one of these books details the habits of elephants at night. The word "obsequiously" may very well appear on the same page as the phrase "wave their tusks." Without a doubt, one of these books contains language that could lead a confused reader to believe that walruses have poor night vision.

Observe: A man by the name of Noah walked toward his local library, unprepared for any mammalian mixups. He just wanted to acquire a book. Any book, really. Noah enjoyed reading. Well, that's not true. Noah didn't enjoy reading so much as he was merely terrified of not reading. You see, Noah had a rare but deadly disease that required his brain to be constantly active in an intellectual capacity. That is, he had to be constantly comprehending something. Anything, really, but he found that books worked best for him. He was almost always reading. When he wasn't reading, he was considering the implications of what he had just read––and either reaching for the next book, or dashing into the library.

Noah did not work, due to his condition. He once applied to be a copy editor at the local newspaper, but the position was part-time. The employer claimed that giving him the job would be akin to providing health care, which was not covered under part-time contracts. So, he lived off the money he inherited from his dead grandmother. She had been very wealthy, and had the same disease. It was genetic. When she reached age 76, she developed horrible myopia. Books on tape just didn't work.

Noah had no friends and no social life. He used to have friends, but found it difficult to read during social outings; they kept interrupting. Unfortunately, conversation was not nearly engaging enough to keep him alive. He tried going to book groups, but did not enjoy spending so much time with middle-aged women. So, he gave up any attempt at meeting people; naturally, he valued his life over friendships. Who wouldn't?

Observe: On this particular instance, the library was closed. Noah did not know this, though. He assumed that the library would be open, just like any other normal day. Except for Sunday. The library was not open on Sundays. But this was not a Sunday, and the library would have been open, had it not been closed. For renovation, as it were. The children's section was getting a new wall; the multimedia section was losing a wall, and getting new shelves. An interesting sidenote: This particular library was an advocate of recycling.

Anyway. The library was closed, and Noah was not very happy when he found out. In fact, he was most definitely unhappy, because he did not have sufficient time to get to the local bookstore. At least, he didn't think he had time. He'd never actually been intellectually unengaged since his disease manifested itself when he was nineteen. Even then, he had been prepared for the symptoms. As you know, the disease was genetic. When he first felt the pangs of chronic ennui, he immediately reached for the Dickens novel he kept nearby at all times. His girlfriend was not too happy about this, because she had left her clothes inside.

Observe: Noah had no idea what to do. He looked around wildly, hoping to find a newspaper or magazine lying on the ground. Instead he found a handwritten sign announcing a yard sale the previous Saturday. In a desperate bid for survival, he read a page of the book he was about to return, but it was a fruitless endeavor; in his endless hours of solitude, he had considered every possible metaphorical implication of the text. He knew the subtle nuances of each character's personality, and had a firm grasp over the poignancy of the conflict. There was nothing left in the pages he held but questionable syntax and outdated British wit.

Noah looked around for other people. Someone to talk to, perhaps, someone with which to discuss Kant or Hume, evolutionary biology or social trends. He grabbed a man walking his dog, only to discover that this individual was a tax accountant. There was nobody to engage him and nobody to save him. Noah was starting to lose hope. He searched his vast repository of knowledge for a train of thought to pursue, but found nothing of consequence. He tried to engage himself by mentally solving mathematical equations and writing limericks, but quickly grew dissatisfied with these simple tasks.

Then came the pain; the pangs of boredom, the throbs of disinterest. Wracked with spasms, he fell to the ground and flailed about wildly. As he bounced against the sidewalk, Noah began to realize how truly unexciting the world was. There was nothing on it of any consequence, he discovered; people were born, and then they died. Plates moved and oceans filled with salt, for some reason. Even novels were pointless. Every story ever written was merely a detailed game of "Let's Pretend" from which one could alienate oneself simply by putting it back on the shelf. Life, Noah realized, was astoundingly boring.

And then, once he experienced this profound revelation, Noah's heart stopped. His brain, rather surprised by this sudden halt of blood flow, ceased all activity. His body evacuated itself of everything that could be evacuated, and then became still.

A few days later, Noah was buried in a tombstone that recorded his final words as "What a ridiculous story."

Listen

Listen: Somewhere, on the outskirts of a city you haven't heard of, there is a toll booth. It's about nine or ten feet tall, and three by three feet wide. There is a man inside the toll booth, but this story isn't about him. An interesting side note: He has a daughter who can perfectly imitate bird calls. But this story isn't about her either.

The toll booth, which is about nine or ten tall, three feet long, and three feet wide, does not except cash. It doesn't accept change, either. It doesn't even accept checks or credit. The toll booth accepts only ideas. In order for one to get past the toll booth and into the city, one must submit a slip of paper on which one has written some sort of a concept - be it for a story, an invention, or even a method for clipping one's fingernails with maximum speed and efficiency.

Some ideas that have been submitted to the toll booth:

-The Tension Sabre: A knife that can physically cut tension.

-Once upon a time, a woman meets a very handsome man, but they belong to different social classes, and therefore cannot be together. After a long struggle, they overcome society's prejudices and make love in the moonlight. Nine months later, an albino baby is born. (An interesting side note: The albino baby was born to a completely different couple, but the author did not specify this. He wanted people to believe the falsehood that a moonlit conception leads to albinism.)

-Always light candles far away from flammable substances.

-In a land far, far, away, a blind man is given the ability to see, and realizes that what he imagined to be beauty is actually considered ugliness. He spends the rest of his life with his eyes shut, blindly admiring the work of Wassily Kandinsky.

Listen: The ideas submitted to the toll booth are collected by the man, whose daughter can perfectly imitate bird calls, and mailed to a building very far away. In this building, very pompous old men in bowler hats examine each idea individually. An interesting side note: The old men don't, in fact, have poor fashion; the bowler hats are specified in the dress code. These men, who sometimes smoke cigars despite their aging bodies, select what they feel to be the best of the ideas, and put them in a box. This box is about ten inches tall, nine inches long, and seven inches wide. It's made of recycled cardboard, but that doesn't stop people from killing trees.

This box is mailed to another building, where it is delivered to the office of a man who sits behind a desk. He doesn't wear a bowler hat, but he would if the dress code said to. This man opens the box and, like the old men who sometimes smoke cigars, reads the ideas. He selects what he considers to be the best five of the ideas, and places them in an envelope, which he hates licking. An interesting sidenote: In the future, he will read an idea that states, "Pay other people to lick envelopes." Unfortunately, there won't be enough money in the budget.

The envelope is brought upstairs by Jeff, an intern who is five feet and six inches tall, and given to another man, who is slightly taller. This man opens the envelope and reads the five ideas within. He then selects what he feels to be the best idea, delivers a smack to his forehead, and says, "Ye gods! Why didn't I think of that?"

The moral of the story: Men should not dominate the workplace.

Seth's Bedtime Stories: Chip, the Happy Little Elf

Once upon a time in the land of happy little elves, there lived a happy little elf named Chip. Chip was a handsome little elf with chestnut-brown hair and bile-green eyes, who spent his days skipping rocks in the pond and frolicking in the meadow.

One day, as Chip frolicked merrily, he spied a young she-elf frolicking nearby. She too had chestnut-brown hair, but it fell all the way down to that space between her earlobes and her shoulders, and was kind of tapered off, but it was still pretty. And her eyes were the deepest shade of bile-green in the entire land of happy little elves, and as soon as he saw them Chip fell deeply in love with her.

So, like all happy little elves who fall deeply in love with she-elves they saw in the meadow, he followed her home. She lived on the edge of the lake, in a cottage with her father and mother. Peering through the window, Chip saw them laughing and talking cheerfully as they ate raw fish. Her parents seemed to be charming little elves, but Chip's eyes were on her. From the first bite of juicy trout flesh, to the final swig of prune juice, he was enraptured by her beauty. As they finished the meal, Chip stood up, composed himself, and walked inside.

"Hello!" he said. "My name is Chip, and I live near the happy little meadow. I saw your daughter frolicking earlier, and I fell in deeply in love. So, I would like her to marry me, so we can be happy little spouses."

The girl's parents immediately started to laugh hysterically, while the girl laughed in a sort of amused-but-slightly-confus
ed manner. "Ha ha!" laughed the father. "Ha ha!" laughed the mother. "Heh heh…" laughed the daughter. Chip was startled, and backed away in embarrasment.

After about five minutes of laughing, three of giggling, and one of chuckling, the father finally replied. "Young elf," he said, "my daughter is one of the most beautiful maidens in the entire land of happy little elves. Why should I let her marry you when she could marry any number of far more eligible suitors?"

"Because," said Chip, "I love her, and will care for her, and will protect her from all the happy little sexual predators that live in this land!"

Then the girl's mother spoke up. "Young elf," she said, "my daughter is one of the cleverest in the entire land of happy little elves. Why should I let her marry you, who walked into our home without the foresight to even find out her name?"

"Because," said Chip, "I love her and will spend time with her, and we will both learn things from each other."

Finally, the girl spoke up, with a voice sweeter than the taste of victory. "Young elf," she said, "I have never even seen you before, and you want me to spend the rest of my life with you. That is very silly."

Dejected, Chip walked home and contemplated the merits of homosexuality.

Diary Entry: March 25, 2007

When the robots came, I was not ready. I mean, legitimately not ready. It's not as if I had spent years preparing, and my defenses were nevertheless inadequate. Rather, I was just getting out of bed, and hadn't even put my glasses on. When the cyborgs crashed through my roof, I was caught totally off guard.

Now, it's not every day that mechanical men break into one's house. In fact, I'd bet that hardly ever happens at all. So I think soiling myself was a perfectly reasonable reaction. I hadn't even decided whether the temperature warranted putting ice in my coffee, and out of nowhere comes these six foot tall, gleaming masses of what I assume is some sort of aluminum alloy! I realized almost immediately that this would disrupt my typical morning routine.

The robots didn't do much at first. They pretty much just stood there and looked around. At least, I assume they were looking around. They could have been surveying the vicinity for radioactivity. But they didn't go into my sock drawer, so I think it's safe to say that they were just looking around. Eventually, one of them came up to me and held out his mechanical hand. As I reached out to shake it, it transformed into what appeared to be a very high-tech grenade launcher. It had a little flashing red light, and emitted a very loud beeping noise.

I forget what happened next.

Chess: A Fable

There once was a young boy. Well, young by human standards. First-world human standards, actually - there are still some parts of the world where people die young. By first world standards. Our young is probably pretty old for them. "Happy twelfth, Billy!" "Get off my lawn, dammit."

Anyway, this young boy - let's call him Billy, just 'cause I happen to be thinking of that name - liked playing chess. He'd play chess with his grandfather every time ol' Grandpa (well, old by first-world human standards) came to visit. At first, he'd lose most of the time. Then he got better, and only lost half of the time. Then he got even better, and barely lost at all. Now it was his grandfather who was doing the losing. Oh, how the tables turn.

So one day, Billy decided that he was good enough to join the Chess Club at his school. He was nervous about playing against the older kids (older by first-world human standards), but he boosted his confidence by remembering what Grandpa once told him: "Get off my lawn, dammit."

So Billy went to Chess Club, played against the older kids, and they all beat him. Every single game. He never even came close to winning. Now, Billy was fairly perturbed (what a weird word); how could these people beat him? He'd been playing for so long! It just didn't make sense.

So Billy went to Grandpa and asked why he was losing, but Grandpa couldn't fathom the answer. Then Billy asked his parents, and they told him how Grandpa had this disease that deteriorated his brain cells, and made him get crazier as he got older (by first-world human standards). Turns out that Billy's skills never improved, but Grandpa's just got worse.

From then on, Billy never trusted old people again. I mean, come on. Why would anyone? They read signs out loud. It's so fucking annoying.

The Forces

On haircuts

People seldom notice when I get a haircut. I mean, really. 95% of the time, I'll get a haircut, go to school the next day, and nobody will notice. People will comment on what I'm wearing, and point out that my glasses have lines*, and comment once more on what I'm wearing, without noticing that I've had several hundred protein chains brutally removed from my cranium.

See today, for example. Having removed said keratin yesterday, I come to this lovely school of ours. In gym, I'm playing basketball (*dies a little inside*) with a classmate who also has fewer strands of dead cells than he did last week. My teacher - standing right in front of both of us - says "Hey Wynn, did you get a haircut?" and walks away. Needless to say, I'm fairly sure that Jesus cried for the rest of D Block.

I can think of two reasons for this ineptitude in my fellow man:

-I have some other physical feature that is so stunning it wows people into forgetting about anything else.

-My hair has some sort of a black hole-like quality that bends the light around it, so people cannot see it. I presume the massive quantities of mass exist in some other dimension

Of course, there's always the possibility that people just don't care. But this is high school. We're all superficial bastards. And hey, what kind of a demented mind wouldn't care about black hole hair?

I've been tagged

Current friends I have that I. . .
. . .went to elementary school with: About 3 with whom I regularly communicate.
. . .went to high school with: About everyone else.
. . .went to university with: N/A…
. . .met through the school paper in middle school: 5
. . .met through the middle school TV show): 3
. . .met through theatre): A dozen or so.
. . .met from age 0-10: 3
. . .met from age 11-20: All but 3
. . .met this past summer: Three

Rule: “Change up some of the details but leave the essence.”

I tag Elie, Breakerslion, and MBains.

(Note: I changed several criteria when tagged by Pixel, because I'm still in high school. Those of you who are older than I may want to take a look there.)

Don't worry, this is completely fictional

Alleged camel bisque incident causes uproar

LOWELL, MA - Lauren Bradbury describes herself as "a genuine soup-lover...I enjoy my soup," she said "I enjoy in in the morning, afternoon, and evening. I enjoy it with my husband, and I enjoy it with my friends. Occasionally, I may also enjoy it with my autistic nephew."

Nevertheless, Bradbury's affection for the tasty confection has recently been marred by an "unforgettable" experience at a local Applebees. According to Bradbury, she "...ordered the soup du jour, which was a sort of lobster bisque with bread rolls on the side." But when the waiter brought the meal to the table, she was more than surprised. Said Bradbury, "there was a camel in my soup!"

She described the camel as a "large, hairy creature with a single hump. It had hoofed feet, and its red blood cells were in an oval shape, so as to facilitate their flow while the beast is dehydrated."

Her husband Harold, who was with her at the restaurant, agrees with her description. "Oh yes," he said, "It was definitely a camel. Yes, yes. I could tell by the sealable nostrils; you know, to protect its nasal passages from sand? Yeah, that was definitely a camel. Smelled bad, too."

"Needless to say, I was disgusted," Bradbury said. "I mean, how could I eat that?" She cited a 1964 court ruling against dromedary soups as a reason why the incident was "particularly nefarious."

Joseph Wagner, the restaurant's manager, denies any camel-in-soup incident. "We have a strict policy against any sort of even-toed ungulates originating in the deserts of Africa and Asia. We eliminated the mountain goat risotto four years ago, and anything remotely resembling a camel would be absolutely unheard of."

Chief Chef Timothy Albert also had a response to Bradbury's claims: "Sure, I may occasionally get sloppy with the cheese grater; just look at my thumb! But a camel? I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure I know better than that. What are camels, anyway? Some sort of reproductive organ?"

Following his statements to the press, Albert proceeded to mistake a doorknob for a cheesecake, and is now deemed to be in critical condition by Mass. General Hospital.

Regardless of the contrasting comments from Wagner and Albert, Bradbury maintains that the aforementioned ungulate was indeed present in her bisque. "Um, excuse me," she stated, "but I think I would recognize which domesticated mammals are and are not present in my soup."

Bradbury's outrage led her to contact a local attorney, Maxwell Lewison. Lewison, however, has refused all press inquiries, and instead issued this one-sentence statement: "It is disgusting that our nation has deteriorated to this state; Americans seeking lobster bisque deserve far better treatment." As of publication, both parties were unclear as to whether any formal litigation would be filed.

This is how I deal with six hour-long rehearsals

George was a cryptic person. He spoke in obscurities, wrote in hieroglyphics, and ate binary code. Every day, he walked his cat and emptied his dog's litter box, just to confuse his neighbors.

One morning, George was enjoying his daily 12-mile jog in the local pool, when he received a call on his iPod Shuffle. As usual, he answered in Arabic and waited for the caller to speak. But, oddly enough, no voice responded to his solemn "Salaam"; rather there was only a steady "Beep! Beep! Beep!"

Needless to say, George was so confused he almost put on his pants. "Sweet hobo Jesus!" he cried, to someone in particular. "Sweet hobo Jesus!" he cried, to Todd Daniels of 92 Phillips Drive, Chicago.

Tap dancing home, George hollered "Sweet hobo Jesus!" yet again. This was a lip-moistening event; the Beep, he knew, was a signal of imminent dental care. Whole civilizations had grown warts because of it, and children around the world suffered from nightmares in which it ate their spleens.

Their juicy, delicious spleens.

When he arrived at his front basement, George gasped. There, written in large variables, were the words: "METAL SHREW! RABID SQUID! SANITARY CREAM!"

George's nostrils widened. His eyes heaved in and out, in and out. Also, he soiled his socks. Then, finally succumbing to logic, George screamed. He screamed the terrified, guttural scream of pure, primal fear.

Then, slowly, George's world faded to black, and brightened once more. He was back in his dank cell at the insane asylum. His sheets were soaked with sweat, the dim ceiling lights illuminated vast networks of spider webs, and he was alone. So desperately alone.