Mini-Review: Butter

That's right, I'm reviewing butter. Not a specific brand or type of butter, just butter in general. The concept of butter, if you will. If you have a problem with this, you can refer to me pointing toward my crotch, indicating, I'm not sure what, perhaps some sort of appeals process if you want me to regard your protest, but implying to just leave me alone. So stop your bitching and let's start the review proper.

Butter. Is it good? Yes, but perhaps too good. It's like how you may really like cheesecake, but if someone tied you down and force fed you nothing but cheesecake for three years, you might change your mind. Butter is like three years of cheesecake in a single serving. I say serving as if some guy is just sitting there chewing on sticks of butter, but I actually mean it as when spread on something, such as bread, or fresh onion. Butter, applied in this manner, is simply shit.

Of course, butter also has a myriad of culinary uses. I guess. But whatever, who cares about that?

In conclusion, I'd like to break down the pros and cons of butter.

The Case For Butter



1. It's slippery.
   
2. It's easily made from, um, cows, and other stuff...
   

The Case Against Butter



1. It's slippery.
   
2. Three years of cheesecake.
   
3. Too much like margarine.
   

And that's about all there is to say about butter.

OBJECTION!

Outside, Looking In

I was given a script to read, a part to play. I read my script and played my part, and I did so with true intent. Simply excited to be on stage, I gave no thought to the content or quality of my script. I was a part of something, a grand play. My friends and I all defined ourselves around our acting, often staying late under the guise of improving our acting, but really we just fed each other meaningless compliments. In truth, our acting was terrible, but nobody cared enough to tell us, or perhaps they simply didn’t notice.

Deep into a rehearsal session one day, something happened. I faltered, and could not find the words. I knew the words, I had said them a hundred times before, but for some reason they simply would not come. I stumbled and stammered through, mortified beyond belief at my failure. I expected to be either mocked or chastised, but to my surprise it was as though nothing had happened. The others cheerily patted me on the back, the director chimed in with his usual uplifting comments. It was then that I noticed how fake everyone was, how hollow the whole ordeal felt.

I started to become bored with the play we had been working on for so long. I began dropping lines out of my dialog, to see if anyone would notice. Sometimes, I would arrive at the start of rehearsal, then sneak out to the parking lot to sit in my car and listen to the radio. I would return before the end, and if anyone noticed, they never said anything.

One day, the director called me aside to inform me I was being recast. Starting next week, I would be playing the lead. THE lead. Suddenly my passion was renewed. I instantly forgot my distaste for the material, because after all, now it was all about ME! My eyes filled with stardom, I worked harder and longer than I ever had before. I honed my craft, my part became my life. Then something happened that would change everything.

I saw a play.

I know, it sounds crazy that I spent so much time on this project without actually doing any actual research, right? Well, that’s what I figured, so I decided to go out and actually see a play. What I experienced was shocking to me.

It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. The characters felt real, the story was enthralling, and most of all, it actually made me feel something. It made the play I was working on look like the scrawls of some halfwit with a fountain pen full of feces. I began to see more plays, some good, some bad, but all were better than that awful festering mold on the nipples of good taste that we had the poor sense to commit a crime against humanity by calling it a play.

Yet I still felt an obligation to participate in it. Maybe out of some sort of sense of duty, maybe because these people were my friends, and I didn’t want to disappoint them. I did my best to try to elevate it, but I simply felt foolish. I sleepwalked through most of the rehearsals, and left as early as I could. Whenever I was there, I wasn’t actually there. My mind wandered, to more interesting places, more compelling subjects, and sometimes I would read my mail-order scripts during times when I was supposed to be studying my lines.

The big day finally came, opening night. I looked around, surrounded by plastic smiles and propped up bravado. The curtain rose, and I looked out over the audience. I realized how incredibly silly I must look, associating myself with these mannequins and spouting this worthless tripe.

I was given a script to read, and a part to play.

Breathlessly, I stepped forward. The other actors waited in their states of mock euphoria for me to start the show, the audience politely and silently held their applause. I stood straight and tall, in this moment of frozen time, and they regarded me with slight anticipation. In that very moment, I clicked my feet together, lowered my chest in a tremendous bow, and exited the stage, never to return.

Something for the Interim

The Great Search

I went up the mountain to see the three wise men. For three days I climbed, and when I reached the top, I was told I could only see one.

I saw the first wise man, and I asked him, "where did we come from? Where are we going? Why do we care?"

The first wise man, for three days, led me back down the mountain, filling my head with sweet nothings. Unsatisfied with my answer, I once again went up the mountain. This time, I saw the second wise man.

I asked the second wise man, "Why are we here? Where are we going? Why do we want to go there?"

The second wise man simply handed me a flower, and said, "This is the answer to all your questions. Take it, and cherish it forever."

I placed the flower in my pack, and spent three days hiking back down the mountain. When I reached the bottom, I found the flower had withered and died. Again, for three days, I hiked back up the mountain to see the second wise man.

"You came to me seeking answers, and I gave you what I had," the wise man replied to my outbursts. "That you wasted my ephemeral gift is your own fault." And with that, he sent me back down the mountain.

I climbed the mountain one final time, to see the final wise man. I stormed into the third wise man's chamber, and shouted, "Listen! I've come to find the answer to the question of my existence. I've been up and down this mountain seven times, and spent 21 days climbing. I don't want meaningless warm fuzzies, and I don't want cryptic puzzles. Just, please, answer my question. How should I live my life?"

The third wise man leaned in close, and softly said to me, "Stop climbing mountains, you fuckwit."


ADDENDUM:

A Brief Respite, Featuring Garfield

It's a little known fact that whenever a strip of the famous newspaper comic "Garfield" goes to print, they are usually highly edited for content, and all the jokes changed to unfunny observations about the dullness of Mondays, or lasagna, or some such bullshit. I have been in email contact with Jim Davis for years now, and I have been editing his published works to more resemble their raw, uncut originals. Here is the latest in my crusade for integrity:



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And a bonus comic full of pseudo-intellectual angst:




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Edit: Removed embedded pictures due to formatting issues.

Easter Sunday

Easter has come and gone, and to this atheist's examination, it seemed like any other day. Of course, even as a child, the day never held any deeper significance than a day adults give you candy. Seriously, it was even better than Halloween, because you didn't have to actually go out and earn the candy, they just gave it to you. But did we care at all about some dude named Jesus whose actions did something or other for our eternal souls?

Fuck no.

Of course, as you get older, nobody wants to give you free candy anymore. Instead, they want you to give thanks to Jesus, for saving your ass for eternity.

Actually, why the fuck do we need saving in the first place? Apparently because our supposed ancestors ate some apples, and that pissed God off so much that he doomed all mankind to suffering and misfortune. Kinda seems like you overreacted, big guy. And the solution is even worse, in order for us to escape eternal damnation because of some bitch who was just fucking hungry, some guy has to be brutally tortured and killed. Setting aside the fact that this hardly seems like it solves anything, why the hell is God such a fucking prick?

People ask me why I'm an atheist, and I'd have to say it's because of shit like this. Yes, I have no proof that such a God doesn't exist, but even if he did, I would never in a million years worship this heartless fuck. Even setting doctrine aside, I've made the following observation: For a majority of the people in the world life is miserable. Terrible things happen to good people, and wonderful things happen to bad people. Believers always counter this with some sort of quote, usually containing the word "adversity." Fuck that, there are people who are starving to death, whose entire existence is nothing but pain. What fucking adversity are they supposed to overcome? The desire to eat? Gee, I guess you're right, those starving kids are all just a bunch of pussies, they just need to have more faith.

This leaves us with the following options regarding God:

1. God doesn't exist.


2. God doesn't care.


3. God is a sadist.


4. God is benevolent, but also retarded.

Call me an optimist, but option "a" seems the most palatable to me.

But if I'm wrong, looks like I'm pretty fucked now, doesn't it? After all, all throughout this post I've said some rather nasty things about our good buddy God, haven't I? Well, if Christianity does hold all the truth it claims to, then I think I'll be okay. Yes, I'm going to hell, but don't forget, who's in charge of hell? That's right, Satan, and that's one guy who hates God as much as I do. I think we'll get along just fine, we'll just watch some R-rated movies while we smoke some marijuana. In fact, why don't we throw a party?

In recognition of this day of salvation, on the almost nothing chance that the Bible actually is the word of God, I'm issuing an open invitation to a kickass party in hell. All you have to do to RSVP is commit some kind of blasphemy sometime between now and your death. There will be amazing acts of wanton carnality unlike anything you've ever seen before. We'll have loud music that promotes unsavory lifestyles. And best of all, that bastard God isn't invited.

See you there!

A tree falls in the forest, and no one is there to hear it. As it lands, it at once makes a deafening roar, at least were there anyone around to deafen, and at the same time is defiantly silent. It was a very old tree, and never once did it falter against the elements. Yet here the titan lay, its limbs broken and bent, its massive trunk cloven halfway through about a third of the way up its mighty stature. Its life blood lay pooled near the gaping wound. Its spine and its spirit eternally broken.

It fought valiantly against the treacherous winds, as it always had, standing steadfast and strong, but unbeknownst to the giant, its resolve had been weakened by a group of parasites that had burrowed themselves into its base. Their sweet prosperity had turned the mighty giant's sour. As the wind pounded the unyielding defender, a horrible and resounding creak shrieked out, and the tree's body began to splinter and shatter. The horrible wail gave way to a sort of resigned sigh, as its weight slowly shuddered forward, until a thunderous crack rang out, followed by the terrible and soundless thud as the great tree slammed against the cold, harsh ground.

The tree had never believed in anything, never been a part of anything, had never felt anything, or cared for anything. It was, after all, a tree, and had no aspirations whatsoever. But as it lay there, helpless and dying, you could swear the tree was feeling a deep sadness. At least, if anyone had been there, they could have.

A few weeks later, a hiker spotted the fallen tree and notified the park ranger. It was cut into pieces and hauled off to wherever it is that dead trees go. Its stump was also cut up and shipped off, for it was full of bugs, and the parks service didn't want it infesting the other trees. Now there is nothing there, no marker or monument to a tree that, while completely unremarkable, did as much good as a tree can possibly do.

A tree fell in the forest, and no one was there to hear it.

And that's about it, actually.

Start at the End

Have you ever done anything you later came to regret? Have you ever hurt someone, intentionally or unintentionally, only to realize your wrongdoing too late, and now that person remains lost to you forever? Have you ever felt like you were caught in a dark dense fog, and in your confusion and fear you lashed out, thrashing, biting, and screaming, only to have the fog lift to discover your perceived attackers were really your friends all along?

Today I am taking the first steps to put the darkness behind me, but in doing so, I realize I can never truly be free of it. The time to make amends came, and went while I was still enshrouded. The memories are painful, having to watch yourself make your worst decisions over and over. At times like these, I can understand why the concept of sin came to be. This deep feeling of regret, which never seems to disappear, can begin to feel like a stain on the soul.

So what happens? A con artist shows up to try to sell you salve for your soul. Absolution at reasonable rates. After all, we're all sinners, every single one of us, and we all could stand to lighten our burdens. But that miracle analgesic is really just cold cream, and we're being ripped off. Believe me, I know, because I've pushed the cold cream, in fact that's one of my regrets. And it's designed that way. They have you lie to people, that way if you ever want to leave, you have to embrace the darkness and face the pain of one of the worst decisions of your life. You find yourself trapped by an ever-expanding wall of pain and misery, and few people have the courage to climb it.

This step I am now taking, I have been putting it off for fear that it would strain some of my relationships, but I see now that I have in fact put it off too long. By holding on to my association, even if it is simply a matter of record, I am continuing to lend support to my regrets. Well, not anymore, I am ending my part in this cycle of lies. True, this in no way absolves me, but I've no longer come to expect absolution. That promise is a lie, and the refuge of a coward. All we can do is deliver our best effort, and hope that it eventually gets better.

Salvation lies not in a great chapel of brick and mortar, but in a simple act of honesty and compassion.