“Eat Poop And Die”
I have recently moved to LA from providence RI, quite a lot to
adjust to. For one thing they have a whole other level of Christian
out here. I mean back home it’s just Catholics, who don’t want to
convert you. In fact, they won’t let you join them. If we want more
Catholics, we’ll make them.
And we had the Protestants, et al. They are too polite to force
their beliefs on you.
Out here you can’t go ten feet without some Born-Again Christian warning about the evil of your wicked ways. I can’t even afford to be wicked anymore. Hell, I’d settle for naughty.
The other day there was a Muslim trying to convert a Fundamentalist by buying him breakfast and discussing the nature of God. Okay, let’s face it, discussing the nature of God is as useful as discussing the Easter Bunny, and not the history of the Easter
Bunny, but the care and maintenance. What does the Easter Bunny like to eat, where does he like to sleep? Does he eat colored carrots?
Anyway, the Muslim balked because the Christian insisted on bacon with his breakfast. The Muslim quoted about how the pig is an animal only fit for the disposal of garbage and said he wouldn’t eat pig because pigs will eat their own shit. I almost jumped in. I had to hold myself back by my own collar.
Okay, what I was going to ask the Muslim, Do you eat chicken? I have seen chicken eat their own shit. How about rabbit? You know they are descended from predators and are so bad at digesting vegetable matter that they have to eat their own shit to get any nutrition. How about fish? They not only eat their own shit, they swim in it all day. I would say that in order to really eat kosher (or halal) you should be a vegan — but wait, guess what plants eat? That’s right! Shit! In fact, they thrive on it. Maybe Muslims should stop worrying about who eats shit, and worry about who talks shit.
But I just ordered breakfast instead. That was some good bacon.
(Words not mine (and I wish they were), but written and emailed to me by one awesome Canadian atheist.)
Uncategorized | Comment (0)From Innocence, To Knowledge And Disillusionment
[Depending on the sense of humor of the universe at the moment, these text things may or may not have appeared in a recent issue of the Adamson Chronicle]
Hi. My name is JB Lazarte. I’m what you may consider a self-absorbed, self-obsessed, anal-retentive, English Nazi slash editor slash netrepreneur slash selfish bastard. But before I became this, a million years ago, I was a self-absorbed, self-obsessed, anal-retentive editor-in-chief of the cool student paper you’re holding. Now you call it the Adamson Chronicle. Back then, in a time when dinosaurs roamed and ate slow-moving animals, we just called it “the paper.”
Ah, the 1990s. Good times. I was an easily frightened, impressionable freshman in 1993 when Arlene Villaluz-Paredes sort of told me to take the editorial board exam. Arlene was a hot new English professor back then, and I’m sure she still is now. That was second semester, maybe November 1993, when she tried to seduce me — “seduced” me with the idea of joining the paper. And because I was the sort of “retard” who said “yes” whenever people around me said yes, or killed frogs when other kids killed frogs, I didn’t need much convincing. In February of the following year, 1994, I took the exam. By May, I would receive the telegram (this was the state of the art before texting) informing me that I made it to the cut.
Fast-forward three years later. In 1996, maybe November, I remember this one afternoon, I was all alone at the Penthouse’s terrace on top of SV Building. For those who don’t know it, the Penthouse was the office of the paper, so chosen in the same way the location of Medieval castles had been chosen. The relative isolation gave the paper a kind of independence, gave it some perspective, probably balls, too. I remember the smell of coffee from the mug in my hand, the briny late afternoon breeze from Luneta, the lengthening shadows of the Jai Alai building, and me thinking, “How in hell does one serve as the editor of this place?”
Then as now, it wasn’t easy to find the answers. You were practically just a kid. Sure, as an editor, you probably have some facility with language, but that wasn’t good enough. Here’s an idea: hit William Golding’s Lord of the Flies, pay special attention to how the children form some crude, even savage, kind of politics and self-government based on their instincts and early prejudices and fears, and you get the picture. The “savage insanity” of “managing” a supposedly independent student paper was, in many respects, very Lord-of-the-Flies-y. There you were, barely understanding the first thing about justice and journalism, and you already have the “ginormous” burden of being able to publish all your foolishness. Note that I used the word “ginormous” in a non-boobs-related context. Which means I’m actually serious.
Back then I had only been beginning to figure out the opposite sex and what to do with the opposite sex (to borrow a line from Butch Dalisay), but already I was supposed to “enlighten” other students. Keep them on their toes. Make them aware of the world they live in. Crazy shit.
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