The Word E2 Feed
There is a special place in the bowels of my heart, right next to the bourbon dispenser, which I reserve for the arguments over religion. I've maintained it lovingly for years, whistling while I dust the fixtures there when I pass by, just for those times it's needed.
It's a fucking armory. And it is needed all too fucking often. Because most of you, it seems, can't be trusted near religion on either side of the line.
On the one hand, the legions of quacks, con men, tricksters, hustlers, sharpers, Ponzi schemers, outright megalomaniacs and just plain wankers, not to mention the simply pathetic, who have placed their fecund arses on the Godbotherer side of the line are a known problem. I'll get to you in a moment. Toe the line, rub your beads, reread your tracts and generally make yourselves as useless as usual for a bit.
The other ones of you I'm actually disgusted with. The ones that should know better. Yes, you; those of you in the back, the ones deriving identity and purpose from fighting religion. From engaging these hordes of reality-deprived lackwits in the public media. You're disgracing my goddamn feedsites, all of you. Sit down and shut up.
You, the self-described defenders of rational thought. I swear, it would be more fun to watch you dribble over a dead donkey dick than observing the Darwin-pounding spectacles you keep coming up with. The light, the media, the attention you raise - what, perchance, do you think you'll manage to do? Convince people that the forces of organized religion are wrong, and that they should throw their lot in with the Enlightenment? That might make sense, except that you of all people know that those who are likely to be in danger of succumbing to the putrid brainrot being spewed forth by the various evangelical versions of the skullshit pedlars are those least likely to give two steaming piles of shit for what you're telling them.
In the meantime, the press and the questions and the spotlight you brought with you - you've bought the legions of self-justification another whole advertising campaign, not to sway the masses, for they are not seriously in contest, but just to reach the ones braindead enough for whom the merest or their touch is doom.
And that's most of them.
Faith? Faith. Faith is fine. You want to have a spiritual, you go right ahead. You know what? Your favorite scribe will even tip his baby-fat drenched puppy-fur spliff and continue on his way, leaving you unmolested. Your faith? Your business.
That is, until it reaches out past the boundaries of your brain and starts extending pseudopods towards those too ignorant, too weak, too abused, too miserable or just (yes) too stupid to know better.
Then it's religion, not spiritualism. It's brainwashing, and corruption, and the first fucking taste's free, isn't it always? Something Bigger Than You has YOUR BEST INTERESTS AT HEART, never mind that your original fucked-up situation is either that larger than you's fault, or is your own self-directed dive into the cesspit which they never stopped you from taking in the first place.
They don't give a shit about you. But your pocketbook - or your address book - or your television station? Yes, they give a great deal of rancid godbothering shit for that. Watch them, as soon as they see your eyes turn their way in sheeplike interest; watch their gazes sharpen, and their patter adjust. Watch the sharks circle. And those of you who so proudly campaign? Who so proudly declaim to the Klieg lights the perfidy and evil of these armies of the intangible? You're buying them their coverage.
Ignore them. Leave them to stir in their own filth. If you see them reaching out towards someone in need, in trouble - help that person, and so block off their advance. If someone deep under the shithammer of life needs God to get them through, guaranteed they'll find God or its shadow army all by their lonesome. But if you run about shouting at the injustice and the evil of the prelate, you just laid a fucking red carpet and invited the neighbours in for tea and crumpets and the dog and pony show.
Those of you on the glowing eyes side of the line, listen the fuck up. What you do in your own head is your problem. But you come after mine, and I'm going down to that part of me that's kept so neat and tidy and unlocking the cabinets, retrieving the machinery, and loading it up.
The armory lives for you fuckers. Bring it the fuck on, and we'll have this out in a quiet desolate place where nobody's going to find your dog-shit soiled skull fragments when we're done.
I'm Spider Jerusalem, and anyone who wants to talk to me about God is why I hate it here.