Unapologetic Heretic (6/8/2017) – F*ckdamental News

Offensive: OOOOOOOOOO

Blasphemous: OOOOOOOOOO

Trigger: OOOOOOOOOO

 

Sometimes I need to fade away from the horrors of public media with classic survival horror. If you ever feel like your adrenal gland needs a work out, look no further than the Silent Hill series to sink yourself into like a hot bath of rust and psychological symbolism.

“Chelsea, I thought this was a news post?”

Quiet, Horatio. I’m allowed to gush about things I rather be doing than reading the news. But you’re right, I suppose I have a duty to perform as a not-well-known-at-all blogger.

Links coming straight from religionnews.com, because I can’t be bothered to do a more involved Google search.

Trump: ‘It’s time to put a stop to attacks on religion’

I trust that I don’t have to point out the ever-present irony that is Trump’s entire media facade.

It’s already been nine months since Orange Satan ascended the Presidential throne and I am a year older, but evangelicals seem to be regressing exponentially.

WASHINGTON (RNS) President Trump told his political base of evangelical Christians that he would continue to restore the religious liberty many of them feel they’ve lost.

“It is time to put a stop to the attacks on religion,” Trump said in a speech Thursday (June 8) to the Faith and Freedom Coalition that began shortly after former FBI Director James Comey questioned the president’s integrity at a Capitol Hill hearing.

“We will end the discrimination against people of faith. Our government will once again celebrate and protect religious freedom,” Trump, a Presbyterian not known to be particularly religious, told more than 1,000 people in a hotel ballroom across town from the hearing.

He said he and his audience were “under siege.”

I feel like I’m going to drop dead from exasperation one of these days.

If anything, the right-winged evangelical fuckspurs are correct in assuming they are “under siege”…by their own hubris.

2017-06-08 18_16_28-Trump_ ‘It_s time to put a stop to attacks on religion_ _ Religion News Service

Also, this fake fucking smile still isn’t fooling anyone with an IQ greater than 90.

US commission: Russia a major violator of religious freedom

Russia [COMMA]. F minus. See me after class for your dicking.

Most recently, Russia banned Jehovah’s Witnesses, labeling them “extremist” and ordering the state to seize their properties.

“They’re treating these people like they’re terrorists,” said Tom Reese, a Jesuit priest who chairs USCIRF, referring to Russia’s treatment of the Witnesses. “They’re pacifists, they don’t want to be involved in politics and they just want to be left alone. The Supreme Court has basically said they’re illegal.”

Hold the phone, Soviet Bear. You’re still denying eye-witness accounts of active concentration camps operating in Russian territories and blatant homophobic mandates on news coverage. I think you have a hell of lot more civil rights issues than Jehovah’s Witnesses. What are they going to do, steal your doorknobs?

Why religious liberty trumps free birth control

Oh, please oh please tell me how your Jesus-loving usurps my rights to my own vagina! Please! I can hardly wait!

(RNS) For years, we have witnessed a legal battle over the Affordable Care Act’s so-called contraceptive mandate. It seems odd to have nuns and government lawyers fighting each other in court. But that’s how this culture-war flare-up played out.

And now the nuns stand on the precipice of victory.

On Monday (May 29), The New York Times reported that the Trump administration is finalizing a rule that would exempt many religious institutions from a requirement that employers provide coverage for contraceptives in their group health insurance plans.

The rule fulfills a promise President Trump made four weeks ago when he signed an executive order in a bizarre show of solidarity with religious conservatives.

“With this executive order,” Trump said, “we are ending the attacks on your religious liberty.” That was not exactly true, but the administration began taking steps “to address conscience-based objections to the preventive-care mandate.”

I think I made my points fairly clear in a previous post. 

Well, if you haven’t downed the whole bottle yet, you might as well read on.

Rhetoric on both sides was dishonest. Conservatives said the mandate was an unprecedented attack on their right to freely exercise their religion. Donations flowed to the burgeoning Christian legal-defense industry, which seemingly takes every religious-liberty plaintiff it can find, no matter how outlandish its claim.

Liberals tried to paint opposition to the mandate as nothing more than irrational misogyny. Just this week, House Minority Leader Nancy Pelosi said the Trump administration’s “sickening” rule to “roll back women’s access to contraception” would deny “millions of women access to basic, preventive health care.”

Pass me the apple seeds, Jim Bob.

Trump administration reversing Obamacare’s birth control mandate

What’s that smell?

Oh, my brain’s leaking out of my ears.

Goddamnit.

“The birth-control coverage benefit in our nation’s health care law was the single greatest advancement in reproductive health care in a generation,” said Kaylie Hanson Long of NARAL Pro-Choice America. “It gave millions of women more control over their own lives by making birth control affordable and accessible, and it was fiscally responsible to boot.”

But conservative groups that battled the Obama administration in court over the insurance coverage mandate heralded the emerging policy, which would be implemented even before public comments are solicited, rather than the other way around.

I just wonder how WASPs are going to survive if they’re literally denying women birth control. Because a lot of women take birth control to control their menstrual cycle and hormones. What? You thought that women could control that? Well, you were certainly a slow swimmer in your daddy’s left shriveled up testicle, weren’t you, Bobby Joe Billy Bob Jr!

So, by denying birth control to women based on the belief that every single woman takes them solely to prevent pregnancy because they’re unmarried whores that ensnare men into their manipulative cunts because the Bible told you so, you are going to have a LOT of angry PMSing ladies at your jugular veins!

If women can’t tell their own uteruses to calm the fuck down, what makes you think you can?! You want to mandate our reproductive rights? Okay, I want to impose a rule that white men over the age of 60 can’t be eligible to vote. Would that be fucking fair?! And yet the same demographic wants to tell me what I can’t do with my own vagina? Stick a fishing hook through your scrotum and bungee jump from a tree, you political fuckwits!

Catholic farmer ousted from Michigan market over same-sex marriage views

God, it’s like June 2015 didn’t happen for some arrogant shitheads.

A Catholic farmer in Michigan is suing the city of East Lansing after he was barred from a municipal farmers market over his views on same-sex marriage.

Stephen Tennes filed a lawsuit at a federal court on Wednesday (May 31), seeking his reinstatement.

In it, Tennes says he was prohibited from selling his products after his business, Country Mill Farms, refused to host a lesbian couple’s wedding at its orchard in Charlotte, 22 miles outside the city and he stated on Facebook “his Catholic belief that marriage is a sacramental union between one man and one woman.”

Well, Mr. Tennes, it seems like you could have avoided such ostracism by pulling your dick out of your own ass and doing your fucking job with none of your homophobic bullshit. There is a reason that people get flacked now for refusing business based on sexual orientation, because that is illegal. You have the right to believe that the Earth is flat, but don’t you dare say that you’re going to deny me the right to buy a globe because it’s not within your fucked up belief system to do so.

Adventist pastor comes out as bisexual, resigns her church

That’s two things that rarely coincide. Intrigued.

“Through study and prayer, I’ve come to a point of complete disagreement with the Adventist Church on their teachings about LGBT people,” Alicia Johnston said in a video posted on Facebook on April 22. “I also myself am bisexual so I’ve come to an awareness of that and have realized I just can’t live my life with integrity anymore without being honest about that.”

The Arizona Conference Corporation of Seventh-day Adventists issued a statement calling Johnston a “gifted theologian and pastor” and noting its determination to abide by the stances of the church.

“While the Seventh-day Adventist Church deeply believes it’s our responsibility to minister to all people, we also have a mandate to adhere to all Bible teachings,” the conference said. “Fundamental Belief #23 states: ‘Marriage was divinely established in Eden and affirmed by Jesus to be a lifelong union between a man and a woman in loving companionship.’”

Hmmm…eternal salvation in heaven that isn’t strictly proven by factual evidence or being deliciously smothered by a hot curvy blonde’s pussy as she rides my face? Haven’t had that happened (yet), but I think that’s more probable and a much better way to spend Sunday morning.

Excuse me, I have some…research that needs attending to…

Trey Pearson releases first music video since coming out as a gay Christian rock star

“The song is very much about my journey, especially over the last year and a half, but really kind of having to go through the darkness and the toughness — just all the hardship to find the light on the other side and the new beginning and the hope,” the performer told RNS.

“I just wanted to find a way to portray that in the video.”

In it, a young gay man sings during a church service, then shares a kiss with his partner to applause from the congregation.

Sigh. Why can’t all stories be this positive.

Sorry, it’s now back under the shit tide…

Debate about Islam and security dominates British election

Surely, the UK should have learned how NOT to hold an election by watching the Stupid Apocalypse that’s happening in the states.

I’m reminded of Trump’s speech in about February or March when he paraded and exploited the families of terror attack victims. While Pence and Ryan were clapping and popping up out of their seats like the Yes Men WASP Clones that they are, I didn’t miss the obvious argumentum ad misericordiam (an appeal to pity or “sob story”) being implemented for support of the radical travel ban still being tossed around the House and Senate like shit flying in a gorilla enclosure.

If we’re going to pretend that being nonsensically racist against a whole demographic is going to cease terrorism and then make insultingly controversial legislation regarding Christianity as “the most persecuted religion in the world”, then dust off your bugle, because we’re going to fucking civil war.

Not being from the UK, I can still sympathize for the British Isles because this election was more or less sprung on the public out of xenophobic fear, which was one of the prevailing reasons US citizens voted in Trump. And it isn’t personal belief, it’s the belief of a group of misinformed technophobes that will forever deny the utility of the World Wide Web but have no problem gobbling down whatever the fuck Fox News and CNN’s right-wing filters are sifting into the headlines. I apologize if I inadvertently imply that you are a moron because you honestly believe that Glenn Beck is God’s gift to journalism — obviously, I need to sit you down with some paper and glitter pens to explain that, yes, you are stupid.

This is not 1960 and it will never be again. The Internet has replaced reliable news outlets and newspapers will one day become anachronistic marvels of old times and you will also become, if you are not already, decaying bone dust in boxes buried under six feet of dirt and worms and your racist ideals will die alone like you will if you continue to deny human progression. I do not apologize for thinking this because it is something that baby boomers need to swallow down. THESE ARE NO LONGER YOUR TIMES. Quit punishing younger generations for daring to fight for freedom. If you continually fight against progression but refuse to educate yourself in aid of your argument because of sheer arrogant bolstering of your “right” principles, you are going to be overruled

That went on a tangent, but it needed to. Older generations need to learn the difference between extremists and modernists and learn to identify extremism in their own religion. Muslims in general want peace and they want equality. ISIS is as much an extremist sect of Islam as the Westboro Baptist Church is an extremist sect of Christianity. You need another comparison? How about Mormonism and the fact that the leader of one of the most prolific extremist sect still claims to be a “mouthpiece of God” from prison? Education is under siege in America because Betsy DeVos wants to severely alter public education and implement private charter schools, removing governmental interference from the education of children. This is dangerous because this is how severely indoctrinating schools such as A.C.E., A Beka, and Bob Jones academies begin. More than often, these type of schools hide away child abuse and cover up sexual molestation/rape. I cannot stress enough how much psychological and mental damage this does to a child, to put them in a conservative, isolating environment where there is a definite right and any line crossed is considered evil.

Speaking of extremists fuckbrains covering up rape…

Christian Extremist Josh Duggar Says He Is The Victim

Duggar filed documents to join the lawsuit Jill, Jessa, Jinger and Joy filed last month. In his docs, Josh says cops assured him his 2006 interview discussing the molestation of his sisters would remain private. He says since he wasn’t charged, the information wouldn’t have gone public … if the reports weren’t released to In Touch magazine.

Duggar says once the story came out, it caused him mental anguish and humiliation. He played up the sympathy card in the docs, saying he was “victimized and forced to relieve the painful and difficult circumstances of a traumatic experience as a juvenile.”

I think my eyeball just blew out of my skull.

I’m not a proponent of any type of prison rape, but if anybody deserves it, it is this fuckbag. In purple, because of being formatted with blockquotes on original blog post…

In that statement Duggar confessed to his hypocrisy and his betrayal:

I have been the biggest hypocrite ever. While espousing faith and family values, I have secretly over the last several years been viewing pornography on the internet and this became a secret addiction and I became unfaithful to my wife.

After Josh exited the Christian rehab, reports surfaced that Duggar would not apologize to his sisters for sexually abusing them, because the Devil made him do it:

… one thing you probably won’t hear is that he’s actually sorry, as he believes that external forces were to blame for his behavior.

Previously Duggar confessed to police that he “forcibly fondled and sexually assaulted at least five underage girls, including four of his sisters, on multiple occasions, over the span of several years, while he was a teenager.”

Dear Josh Duggar,

You are an absolute menstrual clot in the soiled sanitary napkin that is your family’s existence. I wish that I could rip your spine out through your anus to make you feel just as violated as your sisters assuredly did when you were taking away their innocence. You deserve to have your pathetic shriveled up dick slowly and agonizingly stripped of its epidermis, layer by layer, by a blunt knife. Afterwards, you deserve to have your balls wrapped in barb wire and the other end off a tree trunk as you are made to hang your mutilated scrotum and then doused with a gallon of pure lemon juice. Then you will have your eviscerated testicles scrubbed even more raw with a salt lick. 

Your mother should have aborted you and your father needs to be sterilized with a rusty steel barber’s razor dipped in the venom of those killer Japanese hornets. 

Yours forever in Christ,  

Chelsea Soulsucker 

Parents Charged With Murder After Praying For Sick Daughter Instead Of Getting Medical Treatment

Good luck praying your way out that one.

Christian Speaker: Women With Short Hair Aren’t Feminine Enough for God

I’m going to guess that this person won’t be seeing any muff hair for a while. If at all.

Oh, it’s a woman. Someone’s obviously not seen their own muff or had an orgasm, ever.

As reported by Anne Lim in Eternity magazine, Ms Read, the Dean of Women at the Presbyterian Christ College in Sydney, said “it might be more in line with God’s good design to have long hair because it was a visible sign of the difference between men and women in which God delighted”

I’m going to guess that your husband left you for a short-haired chick. Or long-haired dude.

Judge Dismisses Christian Group’s Lawsuit Involving Loudspeaker Prayers at Football Game

Reports say that the judge’s thunderous eye rolls were so significant, that they were louder than the bangs of their gavel.

London attacker’s mother blames internet for son’s radicalization

Read also, Mother Blames Dead Victims For Being Killed By Her Precious Starchild “Baby Boogie Boogers”.

Let’s round off the post with some mockery of the right-wing news ring. This time, CNN.

‘Manspreading’ is now a no-no on Madrid’s public buses

Yeah, fuck men for having sweaty, sticking balls!

Come on, surely any ladies reading this can at least own up to having to “air out the landing zone”? Have sympathy for the ball bearers.  Let them spread out. It’s only wrong if they’re trying to spread out their gonads against you without consent, in which case, he’s definitely going to feel cleaved in half if it was me.

Lindsey Graham: ‘Half of what Trump does is not OK’

Tune into more of Lindsey Graham’s reports on politics, such as US Congress is Probably Corrupt and Sean Spicer’s PR Team is Sometimes Incorrect.

Comey: ‘Lordy, I hope there are tapes’

Golly gee whitacres, I hope that there are some bamboozling humdingers on their conversation!

Comey goes medieval: ‘Will no one rid me of this meddlesome priest?’

…I like him.

He’s like Tyrion Lannister and Trump is Joffrey.

Also, there’s coverage of the UK elections happening now. I’m going to plead ignorance of the specifics of UK political parties because…I’m American. Not in the “fuck yeah” way, more like in the “Oh my God, this country is going to be fucked bombed soon” way.

God, speaking of factions, UK political parties are like RPG factions in gaming. The Conservatives are the Stormcloaks, the Liberals are the Imperial Legion. The Scottish are the Dark Brotherhood, the Irish are just drunk Nords that lull around the inns repeating dialogue branches.

For America, the Republicans are the Thieves Guild and Democrats are Riften citizens. I have no idea what I’m talking about anymore, so I’m going to end this post and try to sleep.

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Drowning in Doctrine – 3 – Fashions of the Oppressed and Jaded

Time to start linking to previous chapters. Because I’m nice.

Preface

1

2

Continue reading

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Drowning in Doctrine – 2 – Little Girl in a Lion’s Den

A/N: If you’ve kept up with this blog since its rocky inception, you may be recognize this chapter. What had happened was I had a draft of Drowning of Doctrine saved to a different USB drive (memory stick) and then lost the drive because I’m smart. But I did a scour under my bed and amidst the embarrassing amount of Coke Zero cans, I found it. So the prologue and first chapter are that original draft and this is continuing on from it in the drafts written when I thought I had lost my old files forever. Cleaning: Sometimes, it’s worth it.

2

Little Girl in a Lion’s Den

“I don’t withdraw a word of my initial statement. But I do now think it may have been incomplete. There is perhaps a fifth category, which may belong under ‘insane’ but which can be more sympathetically characterized by a word like tormented, bullied, or brainwashed. Sincere people who are not ignorant, not stupid, and not wicked can be cruelly torn, almost in two, between the massive evidence of science on the one hand, and their understanding of what their holy book tells them on the other. I think this is one of the truly bad things religion can do to a human mind. There is wickedness here, but it is the wickedness of the institution and what it does to a believing victim, not wickedness on the part of the victim himself.”

– Richard Dawkins, Ignorance Is No Crime, Free Inquiry 21, Summer 2001

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Me, age…10 or 11? Holding my terrified new kitten, Zippy.
Legend foretells that the Zippy is still terrified today.

I remember meeting with the principal of this new school. I could hardly forget…she was olive-skinned, wearing a sweater in late April, and her gigantic chest entered the room before she did (literally). It was weird that she was so stacked considering the rest of her was moderately slim and also that she was the principal of a Christian academy.

Stanleytown Baptist Academy, as it was known. Rather than being a school turned into a church, it was still a church that had the whole meeting hall renovated into a “Learning Center”. There were two Learning Centers, the largest being the “classroom” for grades 6-12 and the upstairs Learning Center classroom that was for grades 4th and 5th. There was a cramped stairway that led up to an equally cramped hallway with three classrooms on the entire floor with a door facing out onto the balcony and stairway leading down onto the “playground” (which was the parking lot).

I remember this orientation because my mom had made me wear a denim overall dress that I hated because it had pink flowers on the front. I was told off at the public school I went to only half-day that day by the coach for wearing a dress on a P.E. day. I told him that I had to wear a dress because I was being “interviewed” for a new school. So, like I said, I was picked up by my mother and we were led through the school and upstairs to the Learning Center that I would be in when I started in the fall. There I met my teacher, Mrs. Knowen*, who would be the supervisor. I briefly met the kids in the class and they all balked at the new kid.

The room was quite small, barely the size of a business office for a mailing clerk. The desks were all slabs of wood hung with chains on each wall separated into sections with blue-painted slabs known as dividers. Each student had their own private “office” with a corkboard frame in the very back covered in felt that held pinned charts such as one for how many P.A.C.E.s (Packets of Accelerated Christian Education, I’ll explain these down below) have been completed for the year, the goal chart of how many pages must be done every day and scored (by the student, not the supervisor), and a grouping of three pins in the upper right corner that represented a student’s demerits for that day.

 Mrs. Knowen briefly went through these P.A.C.E. workbooks which were the staple of the school’s chosen curriculum, Accelerated Christian Education. Founded by Dr. Donald R. Howard in 1970, this curriculum is based on fundamentalist Christian teachings from the King James Version of the Holy Bible. (I’ll go into detail of how it is ludicrous for Dr. Howard to state that ACE is an accurate and credible education system when it promotes the KJV Bible as the most valid translation of the Holy Bible in a later part.)

  At that point, my soon to be ten-year-old self was excited to be going to a new school. So, why did my mom think this was the way to go? I was in the fourth grade in the local public school of this small hicktown in Virginia. If I had to explain what I was like as a nine-year-old before I went to the A.C.E. school, I’d go with talkative, friendly, very social, loud, gullible, stubborn, and I hated doing homework like any kid. My worst class in this year was definitely Virginia History. Yep, Virginia was such an important state it was a mandated history course. Want to guess where the American slavery trade began? Jamestown, Virginia. Tobacco crops? Virginia. What’s our fuckin’ motto? “Virginia is for lovers.” Lovers of racism and throat cancer, maybe.

  My fourth grade science and history teacher was, without a doubt, a massive bitch. It was like she’d drawn the short straw in grades to pick from. It didn’t help that this class was full the loudest kids in the whole grade. She would come in the room and scream at us for thirty minutes and then force us to copy notes. We also switched to another teacher for math and English and she wasn’t any better. I had trouble paying attention and she would just mock me openly and make me the class clown. In this class, the kid in the front row would extort me for coins when I was rushing to finish last night’s homework at that period. He grew up to be a hunky football player. Life isn’t fair.

   My mom thought I was being bullied by this teacher, but I really didn’t see it as such. She was rude to everyone, but one teacher was enough to make her enroll me in an entirely different type of learning system. So what happens when you put a talkative social butterfly and force her to work in isolation for 6-8 hours a day?

  I’m getting ahead of myself. I haven’t talked about the Community Center.

  Long story short, my mom didn’t trust my dad to take care of me during the summer while she worked (she was a registered nurse and worked 40-50 hour weeks). She enrolled me into the daycare at the community center that was affiliated with the academy. The woman that owned it was a stern woman that had two children, a teenage daughter that was in the higher grade classroom and a son that was in my grade. He was a bully, plain and simple. He had favor with his mother who offered her community center as the academy’s gym for P.E., basketball and volleyball practice, and sponsored sport game events. He had been enrolled in the school since pre-school and he was definitely reflecting a lot of the “character” from the PACEs like arrogance, sexism, and general uppity rudeness. I’ll call him…Jerold. Yeah, like the Subway sponsor pedophile. Deal with it.

I went to the daycare and from the first day, I know I didn’t want to be there. I had to line up for count by the “activities” director which was a less-than-friendly, pimpled, barely-adult scumbag that wore cowboy shirts and matching boots with an actual Stetson cowboy hat. Our town wasn’t really known as a farming district, so this made his outfits even more out of place. You could tell he didn’t choose this job and he definitely hated kids. He scared me instantly. He had a Mountain Dew addiction and used the empty bottles to collect the spit-out shells from the sunflower seeds he ate constantly. I never bothered to learn his name because he was just the creepy guy with the sunflower seeds to me.

I met a few of the students from the school while here. The community center took in students from the public schools as well, but you could tell who the church school kids were. They had the most pretentious parents, they got in the most trouble for being rude, and during school months, they wore “church clothes” or clothing according to the church school’s dress code. Now, to my knowledge, this community center wasn’t exactly known as Christian in any context, but our story times were Bible stories. So the indoctrination began in the cramped classroom of the community center literally offset the girl’s changing room.

Yes. The girl’s changing room leading out to the center’s swimming pool was the hallway to this classroom. I remember once after we were changing out of our swimsuits one day, they started leading little kids through the hall. Granted, at ages 9-12, most girls didn’t really have secondary sex characteristics yet, but at 10, I was heavy for my age and already developing breasts and pubic hair. So, while I was stark naked, covering up my parts with my towel and damp swimsuit I had taken off, this stupid activity director (female, thankfully) lead a kid’s class through the changing room…a co-ed kids class of little 3-5 year olds. Usually, they waited in the class until we had changed and left, but this activity director must have left her brain back at home. A lot of us were just like “What the heck? We’re naked!” Don’t ask me how they thought this was a good idea. I’m guessing this old classroom used to be like a nautilus gym or locker room.

I met another bully in this school. Now that I think about it, I can understand what her problem was me. Since I was being told what was “right and wrong” according to scripture and anecdotes of how sinners failed in their life after leaving church and listening to “evil” rock and rap music, I told on this girl about her having an Eminem CD on the campus. I mean, back in the early 2000s, there were news stories about Eminem’s CDs being bulldozed in protest rallies nationwide, so I took that to mean that Eminem was “evil”. And because I told on this girl, she would let others know in the school that I wasn’t to be trusted and that I was a tattletale. Regarding things like that, I’d have to agree – I was a petty little shit. But that wouldn’t be the end of drama by a long shot.

I mentioned Jerold earlier, he brought his Nintendo 64 from home to play in the inside rec room. Groups of kids (usually the boys) would crowd in front of the two televisions to play Super Mario 64, Mario Kart 64, and Yoshi’s Story. At that age, boys and girls were rude to each other anyway (at least in this paradigm) so it wasn’t “girly” to play video games. And Jerold had already marked me down for a loser from Day 1 so he wouldn’t want me even touching his controllers. So I settled for watching them play like I used to watch my brother play his original Nintendo (only he was nice to me).

I tried to make friends and I did make a couple…that both went to public school. Sensing a pattern? I was already the odd one out because I had been on the other side of the fence where these pampered church school kids were told to never go. Most of them had gone to the school since kindergarten and they already expected me to fail and be back in public school in year.

Pretty soon, the summer ended and the school season was starting. I don’t really remember my first day other than being confused as to why my mother was letting me wear a skirt. No, I wrote that right. In the public school, I had to beg my mother to let me wear denim skirts like the other girls, but I’m talking about the slightly above the knee that meant you had to sit a certain way to avoid flashing your underwear. However, this skirt was cotton because this school didn’t allow denim anything. Not even purses. She had also bought most of my school clothing for that year from the local Goodwill thrift store. There’s nothing wrong with that at all…but some of the more snotty kids turned their nose up at me mentioning it.

My first friend at this school was a girl named Brisha. I use her real name because I feel like giving her a fake name is an insult to her memory. You can guess what exactly I mean by that, but that’s a story for much later. She taught me who people were and we became close friends. That also triggers a memory of one of my first ever demerits at this school. When students came back into the room from break or lunch, they had to stand in front of their pushed-in chair before being told that they could sit down by the supervisor. We also had to stand for morning pledges (yes, plural) and devotion every morning. After we were told we could sit, we weren’t to talk at all because that was the start of classwork time. We had to work in complete silence and raise flags if we needed help from a supervisor. Sometimes, they would play a cassette (remember those?) of classical music and there is only so many times you can hear “The Turkish March” without wanting to vomit.

The Accelerated Christian Education P.A.C.E.s, as so rigorously advertised on their website, aimed for a “Biblically based program infused with Godly character” with an “individualized approach”. Does that mean that the courses were chosen specifically by the child or fine-tuned to their own placement level? Depends on your definition of individualized.

What A.C.E. calls individualization is actually isolationism wearing a smiley-face mask. By removing the aspect of any class participation and limiting the possibility of students being able to free-think among their peers, what A.C.E. is advertising as a self-paced, self-instructional learning environment is really a means of purposeful indoctrination. The subjects you would think, looking at them in a broad perspective, would be giving questions specifically asking for a student to think critically, especially in secondary levels of education. But such activities are absent and is purposeful that critical thinking is taught against. The student is taught that the Bible is the irrefutable word of God. What does a child normally begin to do when they reach the age of logical, abstract thought? They question the things that this supposedly all-knowing, beneficent god had done for the world.

The process of working through one P.A.C.E. is an arduous venture. I’ve been hospitalized for suicidal depression (much, much later chapter) and even those nurses didn’t have to check off what I was doing every ten minutes like I was in the Christian academy.

Once a student received a new P.A.C.E., before you could start working, you had to read out the little course outline on the very first page to the supervisor that responded to your…I can’t remember if you had to raise the Christian flag or nationality flag. I think I’ve gotten in trouble for putting up the Christian flag for this reason, though. In all honestly, that could have been out of pure spite because the principal hated me for daring to be depressed.

In these stupid little course aims, it had a Godly characteristic to learn, a Bible passage to memorize, and “Social Studies” (I give snarky quotation marks because A.C.E. calling their history and science subjects as actually proven facts of history and science is to assume a Joel Olsteen literary masturbation is not a bait hook for the faith-blind and gullible) would have passages of a famous speech. In the 5th grade, I only had to read it, but in the Learning Center downstairs with grades 6-12, you had to recite it.

After you’ve been green circled (because the supervisors used green ink and students could only use pencil on P.A.C.E.s, and blue or black pen ink on goal charts; red was used for scoring), you could begin work. You learned what kind of shit you were in for once you got the pattern of most P.A.C.E.s. I hated started new Word Building/Etymology because it was usually four to five pages of looking up the words in the dictionary and putting it in a sentence. That was really the only creativity you were allowed, but it had to be within the school conduct code. Nope, there was definitely a parent teacher conference if you put the word tremendous in a sentence like, “Principal Ides’ cat sweater is so stretched out by her tremendous bust, that it makes the crochet kitty cat look like a walrus on bath salts.”

I was actually pretty good at math, but you try filling out five pages of problems with five to eight addends without wanting to strangle yourself with your Bible bookmark ribbon. I was good at math until it got to P.A.C.E. 1080.

“What was so bad about P.A.C.E. 1080? It’s just the metric system.”

I’m American. Having learned weights and measures using the useless imperial system, that was less like math that needed logic and math that needed a calculator, an old priest, and a young priest. I want to know how Algebra is taught if the curriculum is deliberately brainwashing children against thinking critically. In the 9th grade, I was honestly confused as to why there were letters in it. I took as a literal combination of the alphabet and numbers. Because if you’re taught to think concretely and only concretely, there can be no room to understand what a variable is.

English was taught concretely as well. I went to a public school after five years of this crap and I was baffled as to why were reading a book instead of doing sentence diagrams and underlining. It would be my absolutely sinful background reading of the Harry Potter series that would teach me ultimately what abstract thought was. Surprisingly, as many times as I read the Order of the Phoenix, I never quite picked up on the similarities of this school curriculum to the type of teaching that was being forced upon Hogwarts students.

Sugary sweet, pink wearing, kitten loving on the outside Dolores Umbridge, when she was actually racist, controlling, and after her “version of right and wrong”. Her sadistic detention practices of making students write lines with their own blood is like the aspect of corporal punishment in ACE schools hidden away under Bible verses. Also, it speaks of my personal OCD behavior of scratching myself. I will explain about that a bit later down the line.

Each and every PACE was about 30-50 pages thick and interspersed with “Checkups” which were mini-quizzes about the skills and information just explained in the text. Before a checkup could be started, a supervisor had to check on the pages before to make sure they were done. In order to get a supervisor to sign something, a student will have to put their folded PACE on top of the little ledge where the flaghole pegs were. However, depending on where the supervisors were, if they were bothering to even fucking care or just stand there looking important, drinking coffee, or being hogged by a goody-two shoes student that only gets all 100s because the pushover supervisor gives them all the answers. (I mean, now that I think of it, that’s pretty damn clever. You don’t even have to get up to score, just summon the most easily-fooled Christbrained teacher.)

Christbrained: adj. “being so scarily nice and actually demonstrating attitudes of Christ in the Bible, that in an average, secular environment, they would be seen as the most pathetically ignorant that it’s better just to leave them be to their delusions. These people are normally harmless and just very generous and hospitable, but when triggered on matters of Christianity, they become terrifyingly pious.”

The students scored their own work as they went along. It was not a matter of marking wrong, giving a grade, and moving on — it is about being right. You put up your nationality flag, asked to score, and then went to the designated “scoring station” where it was usually four to a station with a cup of red pens. Each wrong problem is marked with a X and three boxes at the bottom of a page with a comic indicating the action needed to be performed (Score, Re-do, Re-score). Each box needs to be X’d out before the student can officially continue. I say officially, because if you are a rebel like me, you fucking X’d those boxes regardless of whatever the fuck was wrong, because you are fucking tired of this fucking bullshit and you want to sit down and draw pictures of bleeding eyeballs.

Uh. But that was just me.

I will explain more about the PACEs in general, but the fifth grade is where I left off in the story. What, this had a plot? Yes, it did. Do forgive me for going off tangent, but that’s how my brain works because it’s broken. Instead of a well-oiled machine, it’s an octopus operating twenty different ship wheels on an island made of gummy worms.

Anyway, Brisha and I had just been dismissed to continue working and we were giving silent hand gestures (finger-guns and thumbs-ups) to one another before turning into our desk. Mrs. Knowen saw this and docked us a demerit each.

Yeah. That kind of drill sergeant discipline. I’d wonder if I’d be made to clean the desks with a toothbrush.

I barely remember what I “learned” from the PACEs that year. The math PACEs were pretty self-explanatory. Do a heap of problems, get bored, nearly fall asleep, pretend your eraser is a race car, and then put up your American flag so you can score your problems. After a while, semantics were ignored and just saying “Score?” when the supervisor came around was just the norm. In the cramped little Learning Center, there was one scoring table where a file container of score-keys were labeled in corresponding PACE number. There was a pencil cup of red pens and you had to score your own work, marking what you did wrong so that you can go back and correct them.

Yep. No wrong answers. Got to be perfect.

Except when you cut corners and just circled the page number to indicate it was all correct because I was ten fucking years old and couldn’t feel guilty for doing something a teacher was supposed to do.

But it was my fault for “mis-scoring”. You know in public school where if you get some problems wrong, you were graded and rewarded for what you got right rather than being tied nose-down in your own failure until you get it right?

Guess who still has the anxious mind-set of everything that’s not absolutely 100% perfect is cause for utter and complete chaos?

Posted in Accelerated Christian Education, Drowning in Doctrine, fundamentalism, Personal | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Curse From Eve p. 3

A/N: Thank you to all that have liked this story so far! Here’s some more…

Last time on Curse From Eve…

I sat back in bed, my eyes still shut. I listened to the telltale signs of the upstairs apartment waking up. The mother was screaming her Bronxian woes at her piece of shit deadbeat husband. By the muffled sound of walking pumps, she had just gotten home from whatever she had been doing rather than being a parent.

“I concur, she is such a whore.” a voice said beside me.

I fell off the bed as I had a heart attack, seizure, and pulmonary embolism all at once.

We now continue…

 

The voice had been Scottish.

The voice of my intruder, that was in my bed, after I had a dream about a screaming black-eyed beast thing in the realm of There and the 12 wax figure teenagers in church dress were screaming after her…was Scottish.

“Aye, you are a fucked up lass, aren’t you?” the mystery brogue spoke, still on the bed.

I lay here. If I just lay here. On my bedroom floor, can I just die here right now? 

“You could, but you migh’ miss the handsome Scottish gentleman in yer boudoir.”

“Why the fuck are you here? Why the fuck am I here? What the fuck is going on?!” I yelled into the hardwood, my face already sticking to it as I lay face down trying my hardest to disintegrate and melt through the cracks. That’d be quite the horror film for 3B.

“Really? Those are your questions? I thought the firs’ might be ‘How the fuck do you know what I’m thinkin’ righ’ noo?'” he asked.

“Actually, I’d quite like to know why the fuck are you in my bed?!” I snapped.

“This conversation might be easier to have if you weren’t a floor rug, love.”

“Nothing in my fucking life has been easy!” I said, mortified as my voice broke. I sobbed like a two-year-old that was told she couldn’t have another cookie.

“Why do they always cry?” I heard him grumble, more to himself.

With great effort, I managed to inchworm myself up to a sitting position and with greater effort (and probably a lung collapsing in the process), I hoisted my body up to stand, clutching onto the bed post. I took sight of the man that was in my bed and instantly beat the niggling innuendos that were flaring in my boggled, harried mind.

Of course, he was the handsome, strong-jawed type of man that would never grace this bed had he just been a guy in a bar and heard one sob story about my past.

And yet, he was relaxing, arms behind his head like he was toiling away the summer day in a fucking hammock in a glen. His dark eyes matched his leering expression.

I instantly noticed that his eyes weren’t just dark…

…they were pinkish–red like mine.

“Well, hello there. Want to play Braveheart? I’ll be Scotland and you be the English.”

Did he just imply-?

Oh, hell no.

“Fine. You will William Wallace and I’ll be the King of England.” I snapped back.

“Oooh, sassy. I like that in a girl.” he volleyed.

“Are you here for a reason or can I get on with calling the cops?”

I blinked and he was gone.

No, seriously. In that infinitesimal nanosecond where my eyelid formed over my eye, he had vanished.

“Boo,” I heard him whisper in my ear only five inches from me.

I screamed like a banshee and fell over once more.

Oh hi, floor. We really do need to stop meeting like this.

“I agree, it’s not exactly comfortable…” he murmured, appearing next to me, lying with his face pressed against the floor. But I hadn’t heard him move, or shuffle, or any joints popping or the ruffle of fabric as I would have had I heard or seen him positioning himself down here with me.

This was a dream. Just another dream. Yet, it seemed so much like the real world and I had my body as I had never done when I was There.

“You call it There? Call it Nowhere, meself.” he grumbled.

“Stop doing that!” I hissed.

“Sorry. It’s hard to distinguish between spoken words and thought with you.” he admitted nonchalantly.

I wrenched myself off the floor once more.

I stared at him unbelievably. “You ghost around my fucking apartment and hear my fucking thoughts, and I don’t even fucking know who you are, and you are here complaining like I’m making your life inconvenient!”

“Well, I could have knocked. But…you sort of don’t have a door at the moment.”

What? I asked incredulously.

“Turns out the neighbors you thought were cocaine addicts, were actually meth heads. They blew up half of your flat with their cooker next door and I could only pop in and save the people around them. Also…this isn’t your flat. It’s mine. I was making it seem like it was yours using my energies to activate your brain’s memory centers and I’m sorry, it was a huge invasion of your personal space, but I had to make it easier for you–”

I got up, my body nearly seizing from the angry adrenaline now rocketing through my bloodstream. I went to MY bedroom door and wrenched it open, intending to step into MY living room–

But it wasn’t.

It wasn’t my living room.

The furniture was all wrong. The couch was centered on a horrendous yellowish-brown rug beneath rather than pushed to the wall aside the fish tank–MY FISH TANK! Where was my fish tank! Mr. Buttons loved that fish tank!

Mr. Buttons!

“Calm doon, he’s right here. Bag of fluffy allergies.” the Scottish stranger said, pointing out the terrified orange tabby on his couch…next to a equally spooked Samoyed puppy that I didn’t recognize. Its frightened eyes peaked out from its adorable face.

“Aye…she was actually the new pup of the family living on the other side of the meth addicts, but…I couldn’t get her owners out in time. And I…couldn’t just leave the poor thing there. Her tag says her name is Hera.” he said, going over to pet the puppy.

My knees were shaking and I found myself sinking into the closest living chair I could find.

I looked over at him as he lifted Hera into his lap. She immediately licked his face and wagged her tail, her sweet little doggy mind not comprehending that she wasn’t going back to her owners.

“I want answers.” I implored.

He sighed. “Frederick Reynold Mcfarland, nickname is Ren, lived 38 years and have been CloVoy for 30.”

“CloVoy?” I asked.

“Clairvoyant. That’s what I call it. There’s not exactly a weekly pub meeting.” he said, absently petting the attention-starved creature.

Mr. Buttons hopped off the sofa and did something he hardly ever did when he left kittenhood–he hopped up on my lap. I pet him and scratched his ears. He purred contently and kneaded his claws against my knees, which thankfully my pajama pants were there to shield my skin. No matter how often I cut his nails, he had them manicured to full needle-point the next day.

“There’s another elephant in the room that needs to be addressed.” Ren supplied, looking grim all the sudden.

Mr. Buttons meowed in his low gruff register.

“You have very disturbing thoughts about your owner, pal. Which clued me into the fact that you weren’t always a cat.”

Mr. Buttons leaped off my lap and before I could scramble to catch him, he had pounced on top of Ren, claws out to strike.

“YOU BASTARD, YOU CAN’T SEND ME BACK TO THE FOLD!”

The voice that had issued from the kerfuffle happening now on the sofa had not come from Ren. Mr. Buttons was attempting to claw at his face, but Ren had shielded it with his upraised arms. He attempted to guard himself, but failed as he had to let out a succession of violent sneezes.

GERROFF ME YOU BLEEDIN’ SNEEZE FACTORY!” Ren shouted under the assault. I panicked and did the first thing that popped into my head.

I rolled up the nearest magazine and swatted at the cat until he stopped his fury swipes. Rather than hissing and growling like cat, he was spitting out swears and human-like grunts.

WHAT. IN. THE. ACTUAL. FUCK. ARE YOU?” I yelled as the cat scurried under the nearby end table.

“I am a cat minding his cat business, thankyouverymuch.” the furry not-cat replied, his voice now less brave than he had been when he was trying to claw Ren layer by layer.

“The fleabag you’re infesting WAS a cat, but now it’s going back to its cat self once you’ve vacated it, Rumley!”

“I have no idea what you’re talking ’bout, I am but a simple cat living with its pretty owner!” the not-cat called Rumley shot back.

“Wait…why does the cat sound like a Londoner?” I wondered.

Really? That’s the question you ask?” Ren asked me with exasperation.

“Okay: Why does my cat, that is fucking talking, who has lived in my New Yorkian apartment with me since he was a kitten for NINE YEARS, have an accent that distinctly NOT the ‘every-letter-is-a-vowel’ New York accent, but fucking Cockney English?”

OI, I’m from Essex!” the cat blurted suddenly. Ren’s face just as quickly went from dismayed to fiendishly delighted. “Oh, shite.”

The not-cat Rumley from Essex used his four-legged agility (meowing/crying like a wimpy human male all the while) to shoot from under the end-table to try to shuffle himself under the lounger…but Mr. Buttons’ fat furry ass couldn’t fit under it.

“As you may have guessed, there is a bloke using your cat as a fur-suit.” Ren pointed out.

“So, what you’re saying, is that there’s a man…trying to wear my pussy as a disguise?” I stammered, my own befuddled brain becoming giddy and reckless in this day’s events of utter fuckery.

Ren looked at me both shocked and almost disappointed as I laughed at my own lame joke. I was such a 12-year-old.

Someone else thought the joke was funny.

The not-cat was squirming now on its back raucously laughing at the horrible pun and Ren took the moment to wrest the giggling cat into a less than agreeable baby cradle position. Ren placed his hand over the cat’s head and the flailing limbs became limp in his arms.

“Not to worry, I’ve just put the cat to sleep. Tricky thing, sleeping minds.” he mumbled. “It allows the body to rest, but for the few unfortunate persons whose souls are not latched to them…sleep allows these souls to…escape. Or if such souls are now being forced out the bodies that already had one…”

I squealed in abject horror as a completely naked and very hairy man appeared out of nowhere, curled into a ball at our feet.

 

Posted in Creative Writing, Curse From Eve, Personal | Leave a comment

Curse From Eve p.2

Last time…on Curse From Eve. (read the first part or you are going to be VERY confused) 

I never know whose past it’s going to be or what I’m going to witness. I don’t know if it’s real or if I’m real within these planes. I’m skeptical about religion or superstitious nonsense, but ever since that fateful day where the traumatic, the abnormal, and the completely batshit insane had all collided into the no-place that was There.

I had to sleep. There was no denying how heavy my mind was and the migraine was starting to blur my vision in its intensity.

I changed into my pajamas and swallowed a mouthful of Tylenol Sleep PM. No drug, prescription or over-the-counter, stopped me from going There but I needed to sleep. I had gotten used to going to sleep even when my mind was so objected to it. It was less about bravery and more about giving up the fight.

I climbed into bed and sunk my head into my pillow. I was diving off the plank into a sea of unknown beasts as I succumbed to fitful slumber.

 

We now continue…

 

I woke up to…

Oh, God.

Really?

I had woken up in a tiny room plastered with pictures of half-naked women and a teenage boy that was…enjoying the artwork.

I could be relieving the memories of some hotshot metropolitan businessman’s vacation in Hawaii, maybe the first kiss memory of a 70-year-old accomplished author circa 1930s in vibrant color (those were always rather entertaining and astounding), or even a front-seat viewing of war brutality and a PTSD veteran’s traumas as he sings his fallen comrade to final rest…

…but, no. I get to see a teenage boy jack off in 1970.

There was no use trying to shield my eyes or put my fingers in my ears because I wasn’t really corporeal here. It was like I was a camera floating in Z space. I didn’t control the view, I was just along for the ride.

This is one ride that made me want to puke.

The kid couldn’t have been more than 14, so this felt all kinds of wrong. I didn’t control the flow of time here (nor did I in real life, but you know what I mean). I saw the things I never wanted to see.

Finally, he finished and rolled over to go to sleep. The room was now dark and quiet, so I was probably going to see a different scene now. I learned the cues from all my time in this realm. When any action, however menial or perverted it may be, is completed, I am presented with a different scene.

However, this time I was just watching a dark room and now listening to a kid snore.

Huh. This was different.

Maybe I had to…

Somehow, someway, I was now controlling my being or whatever word of the English language would explain my existence here. It was confusing not to assign it a word, so let’s go with aura. Usually that word was reserved for people that believed in star charts and chakras and other bullshit, but this was my reality. Uh, dream reality.

Nah, pretty sure this is its own brand of bullshit.

I hadn’t exactly tested the legitimacy of the things I saw. Because I could hardly tell anyone that I saw that I experienced their past in my dreams. That was the kind of shit that got you frequent flier miles at the nearest psychiatric hospital.

I shifted my aura slightly in each direction, getting a sense of what exactly I was in terms of mass or defining shape. It really did just seem like I was an invisible camera or like I was wearing a VR headset with no…head.

It seemed like I had to explore if I was going to move on from here. I don’t know how this newfound lucidity was affecting my body, but I had a hunch that I had to progress.

Only…there was a closed door. I usually snapped from what room I was viewing the relevant event in. There was no traversing through doorways usually.

Until now.

Well…if I wasn’t exactly corporeal, I could just…

I turned my aura toward the door and willed myself beyond it.

I passed through it like light does a window. I was now in a dark hall, a very narrow, dark hall. This wasn’t an average family home, because there were about twelve more doors, six doors on one wall matching up with six doors on the opposite. It was eerie how tiny the walking space was for a house that had twelve rooms with what I was assuming twelve occupants.

Funny I mentioned psychiatric hospital. But I doubt that the teenage boy would have been allowed to decorate his walls with swimsuit models.

I suddenly realized that this didn’t need to be a mystery.

I willed my way into an adjacent door.

However, when I stepped through the door, the very texture of the walls and floor had disappeared. I was staring into blackness before me and below me. It was like a video game glitch when a player character falls through the world map into the void.

That’s when I realized that I had to treat this realm differently. Each room would have to be tied into the person’s memory for me to be able to witness it. And right now, this character probably didn’t know what happened in these other rooms or if they were even occupied.

It was a video game world and the main character hadn’t explored these rooms yet for them to be accessible for me. But if they were the main character, what did that make me?

I shifted back into the hall and looked around.

Maybe it wasn’t just being here in the moment to witness. Maybe I had more control than I thought, at least over the map.

Could I know what day it was in this memory?

And suddenly I knew.

May 9th, 1973. 11:32pm.

Where was I?

McCarter’s Blessed Rejuvenating Ranch. 

Whose memories were these?

Nothing.

Guess that wasn’t the right question.

Can’t ever be easy, can this.

I threw caution to the wind and just wished it was 9:00am.

Suddenly, the hall was now lit up and boys were waiting outside their rooms. The people in these memories could never see me because I wasn’t technically visible or real in this world and they never had any sense that they were being watched. This was merely a mind capture of real event being played out in front of me.

The boys were all similarly dressed in slacks with white button-up T-shirts tucked into their belted waists. Each boy wore an expression of seeming obedience. Except…that each of the boys in their identical rigid postures and impeccable uniforms was giving off fairly Stepford Wives connotations.

I also noticed as I drifted down the state of the hall that, horrifyingly, a few boys didn’t have a face.  There was complete silence and the boys that had eyes had glassy, unblinking gazes seemed like wax figures in their abnormal stillness.

A figure suddenly appeared at the very end of the hall.

Only…it wasn’t quite they had just walked in from another location beyond this hall. Also, something was very off about the face on new this person. Person? Creature? Aberration?

The eyes.

The eyes were completely black.

Not a hint of white sclera, nor even a fleck of light reflected from a pupil.

But it was as if the cavernous sockets were bleeding a black, viscous ooze.

Emptiness…but leaking, dripping emptiness…

“Full to the brim, aren’t you?”

I startled, but there was no means of closing my eyes or shielding my face because this was There and I wasn’t really here.

The voice that had spoken wasn’t any that I heard, and yet I recognized it. It was raspy and venomous and phased through my ears like music does when it switches channels, only this was not a welcome sound. This was a voice that snaked through my ear canals like a clew of tiny grub worms–unwanted, invasive, and irritating, making my blood that did not flow here…curdle.

The thing that was speaking was looking at Me. At least, the projection of…whatever the thing was, seemed to be addressing Me.

It spoke again, but not in English. The language was not any I knew. It was non-language, gibberish that reminded me of…

...tongues. Speaking in tongues. 

Suddenly, the orderly boys standing by their respective doors starting copying the thing and the hall was perceptively filled with the horrid, chorusing chanting and if I had a head here, it would surely be splitting at the seams from the din of the ranting, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG, RANTING, RaNtING, RaNtiNG,

 

Ŗ̵͈̙̘̟͎͎̝̺͐ͮͤ̊̂̈́͂͢͡͡A̸̴͚͔͕͔̻̬͎͇̱̱̠̘͇̘̾͛ͫ͐̅ͬ͋͝N̸̡̛̯̥͔̹̜̤̥͋ͪ̂̑̑̌͑͋̇͋̽̄̔͛̂ͣͮ́͢ͅṰ̸̟̲̹̖̪̣̼̫̲͎̯̳̬̮̤̟͕͑̏͆ͬ͑͂ͦͨ͗ͫͪ̉͆͠͡I̸̧ͯ̎̓̂̀̍̾ͪ͋ͥ̅̄͊̉̈́ͭ̂̀҉͉͉͇̗͉̤̺̻͇͉̬ͅͅŅ̵̨̳͍͎̳̞̣̤̟̭̅̀̅́̈́̊̎ͤ͗̚̚͡͡G̢̠̠̗̙̪͕̜̘̙̈́ͩͧ̀͑̒͊ͫ͛̌ͦ̈́̿̈̒͛ͭͮ͘͜͜͜ Ŗ̵͈̙̘̟͎͎̝̺͐ͮͤ̊̂̈́͂͢͡͡A̸̴͚͔͕͔̻̬͎͇̱̱̠̘͇̘̾͛ͫ͐̅ͬ͋͝N̸̡̛̯̥͔̹̜̤̥͋ͪ̂̑̑̌͑͋̇͋̽̄̔͛̂ͣͮ́͢ͅṰ̸̟̲̹̖̪̣̼̫̲͎̯̳̬̮̤̟͕͑̏͆ͬ͑͂ͦͨ͗ͫͪ̉͆͠͡I̸̧ͯ̎̓̂̀̍̾ͪ͋ͥ̅̄͊̉̈́ͭ̂̀҉͉͉͇̗͉̤̺̻͇͉̬ͅͅŅ̵̨̳͍͎̳̞̣̤̟̭̅̀̅́̈́̊̎ͤ͗̚̚͡͡G̢̠̠̗̙̪͕̜̘̙̈́ͩͧ̀͑̒͊ͫ͛̌ͦ̈́̿̈̒͛ͭͮ͘͜͜͜ 

Ŗ̵͈̙̘̟͎͎̝̺͐ͮͤ̊̂̈́͂͢͡͡A̸̴͚͔͕͔̻̬͎͇̱̱̠̘͇̘̾͛ͫ͐̅ͬ͋͝N̸̡̛̯̥͔̹̜̤̥͋ͪ̂̑̑̌͑͋̇͋̽̄̔͛̂ͣͮ́͢ͅṰ̸̟̲̹̖̪̣̼̫̲͎̯̳̬̮̤̟͕͑̏͆ͬ͑͂ͦͨ͗ͫͪ̉͆͠͡I̸̧ͯ̎̓̂̀̍̾ͪ͋ͥ̅̄͊̉̈́ͭ̂̀҉͉͉͇̗͉̤̺̻͇͉̬ͅͅŅ̵̨̳͍͎̳̞̣̤̟̭̅̀̅́̈́̊̎ͤ͗̚̚͡͡G̢̠̠̗̙̪͕̜̘̙̈́ͩͧ̀͑̒͊ͫ͛̌ͦ̈́̿̈̒͛ͭͮ͘͜͜͜

 

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. 

My head shot up and smacked the top of my headboard’s book nook.

Well, that’s one way to know you’re awake.

My eyes streaming from the pain, I curled up in a ball as I clutched my forehead in agony. My alarm was still screaming, but the goose egg I’d just formed on the crown of my head was being hatched.

Finally, lovely endorphins ebbed the pain away and I could turn off my annoying alarm.

I sat back in bed, my eyes still shut. I listened to the telltale signs of the upstairs apartment waking up. The mother was screaming her Bronxian woes at her piece of shit deadbeat husband. By the muffled sound of walking pumps, she had just gotten home from whatever she had been doing rather than being a parent.

“I concur, she is such a whore.” a voice said beside me.

I fell off the bed as I had a heart attack, seizure, and pulmonary embolism all at once.

Posted in Creative Writing, fundamentalism, Personal | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

This Week in Fundamentalist News (5/12/2017 — 5/13/2017) – Removing Your Human Rights…with a smile!

Offensive: 5/5  Offensive: 8/5

Swearing: 4/5 

Blasphemous: 5/5

If I may pour one out to the UK and French souls that have died inside during their spontaneous political catastrophes over the past few weeks.

giphy.gif

Either I really have been sheltered for all my life, or things really really fucking suck on a global scale.

But the public needs to be informed. In the immortal words of Three Dog from Fallout 3, “Giving you the news across the Wasteland…no matter how bad it is.”

Starting off with This Week In Dumbass

Christie rejects measure to ban child marriage, citing religion

How fucked up do we have to be as a society to not understand DO NOT FUCK KIDS?!

“Republican Chris Christie, a supporter of President Donald Trump, said such a ban would conflict with religious customs.”

WE KNOW. THAT’S WHY THE LAW WAS GIVEN TO YOU TO SIGN. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH THIS MOTHERFUCKING COUNTRY, WHY ARE PEDOPHILES ALLOWED TO BE PEDOPHILES I DON’T FUCKING GET IT ANYMORRRRRRRRRRREEEEEE *rips up paper and becomes She-Hulk*

Also, you didn’t have to put “supporter of President Donald Trump”, I think the public know what a Republican is nowadays: A person with conservative views pretending that they value democracy. I will honestly respect you twice as more if you just tell me you’re racist instead of “traditional”. But you know…2 x 0 still equals 0.

“The New Jersey bill would have prohibited any marriage of children under age 18.

Christie conditionally vetoed the measure, sending it back to the state legislature with proposed changes. He said it should have an exception so a judge can approve marriages for 16- and 17-year-olds.

‘An exclusion without exceptions would violate the cultures and traditions of some communities in New Jersey based on religious traditions,’ Christie said in a statement.

Opponents of the measure said exceptions should remain for marriages of young members of the military — 17-year-olds can enlist with parental consent — and pregnant teenagers.”

Do me a favor, Chris Christie. Go and find a college edition of, they have those at the library if you don’t have one where you live in Donald Trump’s asshole, and look up the word “loophole”. Then, close the dictionary and bash yourself in the face with it.

In case you didn’t catch it, the phrase allowing for a loophole is “and pregnant teenagers”. That means girls as young as thirteen years of age. So, how many nieces or little cousins have you gotten knocked up, Governor Christie? I’m honestly surprised if they could manage to find your stumpy dick under that mass of stomach.

 

The evangelical courtiers who kneel before the president’s feet

too simple.

“The Court Evangelicals were on full display last week in the White House. On the eve of the National Day of Prayer, these Christian leaders dined with Trump and received an insider tour of the second floor of the White House. The Christian Post reported that Greg Laurie, pastor of Harvest Christian Fellowship in Riverside, Calif., and a member of Trump’s evangelical advisory team, told his congregation the Court Evangelicals were “reduced to being like little children” when Trump took them into the Lincoln bedroom. Evangelicals used to save phrases like that for their encounters with God during worship.

The following day, many of the Court Evangelicals were in attendance as Trump signed an executive order on religious liberty. The order was little more than a symbolic gesture meant to appease evangelicals and secure their support.

Trump’s executive order did not end the so-called Johnson Amendment, a clause in the tax code that forbids churches from endorsing or opposing political candidates. This is because the president does not have the authority to change the tax code. That job belongs to Congress.

HA. You orange bastard.

Also, “‘reduced to being like little children’ when Trump took them into the Lincoln bedroom”? What editor on religionnews.com thought that this was an okay metaphor for this context? Because as far as I tell this isn’t a satirical news site and yet, I can’t make this metaphor make sense even out of the perverted, dark sense my mind read it as because I’m intentionally and unintentionally impure.

I like to believe that the writer meant the title of this phrase in that context and is now being congratulated in the office getting praise from the other writers and getting head under his/her desk from the hot, consenting mail office clerk while having a raspberry-jelly filled doughnut. I like to think it’s two women because…reasons.

MOVING ALONG

 

Women wishing to be moms often missing from Mother’s Day worship

And…how exactly was this supposed experiment random sampled? “Putting in data for 30-year-old women with more than five cats.” (That was my put-in, not the beginning of the quotation. Just in case you were confused by the sudden humor.)

“For years, Mother’s Day worship services were simply too much for Candace Wohl.

She would arrive at her church, just after a failed in vitro fertilization treatment, only to witness a baby dedication and proclamations that “our church is a fertile one.”

“I’m never coming back to a Mother’s Day service,” she decided at the time.

But after the birth of her 3-year-old daughter, Wohl, a conservative Christian, wrote to the clergy at Believers Church in Chesapeake, Va. She asked for more sensitivity and suggested a litany for the service that included a prayer for “fruitfulness” for the barren women in the congregation.

“It’s a little ask; it’s a little win,” she said of the women in the pews who are wishing for an acknowledgment of their grief on the day honoring mothers. “But it goes a long way.””

Oh, it’s just a whiny bitch griping that her church was being a church and doing church things.

Does this woman also go to Weight Watchers meetings and blame the group itself because she didn’t lose any weight that week? I mean, you had a child, but I think you are also shallow enough to think people care that you have the slightest tug of cellulite on your thighs.

Basically, what this article is saying is “Fuck this other woman for having a child that they love and wanting to share that love with the congregation because I couldn’t get pregnant. Oh, but now I got the baby I wanted from God like I’m entitled to, so NVM.” I personally hope you that you DO get pregnant again and that it’s triplets with MASSIVE heads. Her pussy’s going to be so wide that they’re gonna have to name the Grand Canyon to the Grand Crevice.

Let’s take a break from the stupid with some good news…

Nuns help expand coverage and care in Rwanda’s health system

“Today, four Kenyan sisters from that community live in the verdant green valley surrounded by hills, treating up to 1,800 people per month, providing services such as vaccines, prenatal care and malaria treatment. They also provide regular medication for 302 people in the villages living with HIV/AIDS.

“We are surrounded by hills, so reaching us can take at least an hour,” said Londung’a. Previously, that meant whenever they had an emergency, they had to radio in to the regional hospital to request an ambulance. It would take at least an hour for the ambulance to reach the health center, if there was an ambulance available, and another hour to evacuate the patient, bumping along poor roads and winding up the hillside.

“If you have a delivering mother, we cannot have her die along the way,” said Londung’a. “So the sisters made an initiative — we collaborated with our friends, and now we have an ambulance.”

The ambulance provides an essential link to the outside world, allowing the sisters to get patients to the hospitals more efficiently and to pick up medicines and make deliveries.
Rwanda has a much-heralded national insurance plan that costs 3,000 Rwandan francs (US$3.60) per person per year, regardless of income or age. But even that amount is out of reach for impoverished farmers, who show up without health insurance or money to pay for treatment. Out of the approximately 60 patients per day, about three to five are unable to pay, said Londung’a.”

See what happens when people actually put humanity before what they think is good for humanity?

And you know…a flat cost for annual healthcare would be better than the shit the US has to put up with now. We will probably never have anything like the NHS in the UK, because apparently corrupt businessmen can just soak up our medical bill expenses and play fucking golf and occasionally pretend they know what the President’s job is. Like the President.

Is racism reasonable? Americans seem to think so

Correction: Stupid Americans seem to think so.

Of all the lies I believed in my past, racism against other skin colors has not been one. I didn’t see the point in hating black people in primary school and I still don’t today. My dad has tried to get me on line with his racist ideals, but he is a stupid American and just a generally dim-witted waste of oxygen. No, really. He’s on an oxygen machine and he can’t figure out this mysterious disease he’s had for over five years. Couldn’t possibly be, oh, the 30 FUCKING YEARS YOU CHAIN SMOKED, YA DUMBASS?

Also, he learned that he had a mini-stroke in the past ten years so he’s now adapted his bastard personality as being a result of that and evidently I’m supposed to forgive him for his bullshit.

Uh…how about no? I’m going to go with no.

It’s amazing how much of a bastard you still are and claim to be the perfect example of humility. Pause for lack of irony ’cause the dumbfuck wouldn’t know irony if it stuck two cigarettes up his nose and lit his head on fire.

This was meant to be about racism and it turned into “hey, I hate my dad, wanna guess how low my standards are” the blog post.

I could just go “Not all white people” but I think that’s been driven into the ground. I would like there to be an understanding that there is no one minority demographic that isn’t also filled with racism. And some of it I can understand. Yes, there is racial profiling when it comes to black communities. But it isn’t also the black communities that are glorifying drug dealing, misogyny, and gang violence?

I love Gangsta Rap. I know that sounds like something a clueless white girl says, but it’s true. It was the ultimate out, the revenge against racist parents. When I was 7-10 years old, I wasn’t understanding the lyrics, I was listening to the beat. Back in those days, it was the early 2000s and the mainstream radio was actually somewhat good. I know, that’s shocking, isn’t it? There was a new kind of rap beginning–Dirty South. Or as Pandora so patronizingly describes as “Southern Hip-Hop”. “Oh, yes, dearie, I do love that Southern hipping and hopping music.” Several of the songs highlighting the gang violence went over my head when they were popular, but after a nostalgic Youtube search, I’ve had a chance to actually hear the unedited versions of these songs. Some of the most explicitly sexual would have to be T.I.’s music. But also he’s had entire stanzas silenced of his radio broadcasted singles for listing the model names of the guns he’s rumored to own. Radio editing is ridiculous these days. When “Never Too Late” by Three Days Grace was played, at least for the radio stations around the Piedmont Triad of Virginia, the word “end” was removed because it referred to suicide. “Even if I stayed, it’ll be alright. Still I hear you say, you want to end your life.”

I honestly think that, over the past decade, that Black Lives Matter has made the public opinion of the black community even worse. Racism has been a problem since the 1600s and is still a problem. I don’t know why people think that racism ended with the Civil Rights Act of 1965. Yes, the physical laws that were preventing blacks from voting and given the same rights afforded to whites were abolished, but there were still scores of the right-wing “traditionalists” that viewed this an almost apocalyptic development.  The riots caused by the outrage over Michael Brown and Freddie Gray was just unneeded violence, no matter which color your skin was. And yet, I think the BLM’s actions bolstered the right-winged idiots that will believe anything CNN and Fox News defecates as pure, unadulterated fact. Thus, Donald Trump winning the presidential election.

Donald Trump is actually pretty brilliant…in terms of knowing which idiots will flock to him like proverbial sheep. He won by exploitation, plain and simple. I don’t think that people are idiots for the sole purpose that they are conservative. They’re just willfully ignorant because they were taught that an ancient book has the only road map that they’d ever need. And that’s pretty sad.

“But…black people believe in God, too?”

I’m not going to imply that blacks don’t have prejudices, but I highly doubt they would be so adamantly against the idea of human equality in all aspects.

I’m not going to respect any group that say violence and hatred is the answer. Regardless whether you’re black, brown, white, red, blue, pink, or purple or still think that Vice President Michael Pence is not just a really well designed robot set to Permanent Grimace Mode. My theory is that he was killed and replaced by an Institute synth. FALLOUT MEMES WILL ALWAYS BE FUNNY, SHUT UP

“In 2017, Americans still cannot fathom that the black body is not something to be controlled or handled by the state, but deserves liberation, opportunities and resources offered to others.”

Referring to your race as “the anything” is not going to garner more sympathy. It just makes you look pretentious, no matter how much the sun loves you.

Five rational arguments why God (very probably) exists

…go on, then. Open ears. Well, eyes. And vagina. 

I’m tired of adding quotation marks and editing the existing quotation marks into inverted commas, so the quoted material from the articles will now be in fluorescent bold pink.

In 1960, the Princeton physicist — and subsequent Nobel Prize winner — Eugene Wigner raised a fundamental question: Why did the natural world always — so far as we know — obey laws of mathematics?

Isn’t it more probable that the mathematics were thought up and fitted to the theorem? Why does a god have to exist for this to be possible?

Most working mathematicians today believe that mathematics exists independent of physical reality.

Both underlines were both links to the same book, The Mathematical Experience. Math hasn’t always been my best subject, so I like to leave the math to the people that actually enjoy it and can explain it to the arithmetically-challenged like moi. I actually did well in math, up until Trigonometry, that is.  At this point, I’d rather be fucked by a triangle than try to figure out its perimeter. 

Still don’t know why that means that there’s a god.

In some cases, the physicist also discovers the mathematics. Isaac Newton was considered among the greatest mathematicians as well as physicists of the 17th century. Other physicists sought his help in finding a mathematics that would predict the workings of the solar system. He found it in the mathematical law of gravity, based in part on his discovery of calculus.

At the time, however, many people initially resisted Newton’s conclusions because they seemed to be “occult.”

How could two distant objects in the solar system be drawn toward one another, acting according to a precise mathematical law? Indeed, Newton made strenuous efforts over his lifetime to find a natural explanation but in the end he conceded failure. He could say only that it is the will of God.

During that time, people thought that bathing once a week was considered good hygiene. Also, that selling black people was the same thing as currency. They had a lot of silly, inhumane ideas then. But even foundations of psychology were evolved by one madman scaring a child and making him forever afraid of four-legged things.  Not that I’m suggesting selling slaves was evolving humanity, nor scaring babies to prove a hypothesis is even remotely humane.

The great British physicist Roger Penrose in 2004 put forward a vision of a universe composed of three independently existing worlds – mathematics, the material world and human consciousness. As Penrose acknowledged, it was a complete puzzle to him, how the three interacted with one another outside the ability of any scientific or other conventionally rational model to explain.

How can physical atoms and molecules, for example, create something that exists in a separate domain that has no physical existence, human consciousness?

It is a mystery that lies beyond science.

Don’t we use all three of those elements within our lives? Why does a parallel world have to exist for such ideals to be true? That is less like a proven existence of a god and more like a philosophy lesson. Just because elements of the universe are yet understood does not mean that there has to be yet. I honestly don’t believe that we are alone in this universe. If the spontaneity of the formation of the world and the first living things evolving from such an event, then surely this has also happened on other planets, in other galaxies.

Does there need to be a god to explain that? I don’t think so. I could quite as easily make the hypothesis that Bob Ross made the universe because of his bitchin’ painting skillz. (Sorry, go away 13-year-old emo Chelsea on Myspace.)

The workings of human consciousness are similarly miraculous. Like the laws of mathematics, consciousness has no physical presence in the world; the images and thoughts in our consciousness have no measurable dimensions.

Yet, our nonphysical thoughts somehow mysteriously guide the actions of our physical human bodies. This is no more scientifically explicable than the mysterious ability of nonphysical mathematical constructions to determine the workings of a separate physical world.

Uh…if you’re wanting to prove the existence of the Judeo-Christian God with the “brilliance” of the human mind, the human consciousness of 80% of this goddamn country are God-addled morons with only the slightest amount of common sense used to  drive and wipe their own ass. And sometimes that’s questionable.

In recent years, however, traditional Darwinism — and later revised accounts of neo-Darwinism — have themselves come under increasingly strong scientific challenge. From the 1970s onwards, the Harvard evolutionary biologist Steven Jay Gould, for example, complained that little evidence could be found in the fossil record of the slow and gradual evolution of species as theorized by Darwin.

In 2011, the University of Chicago evolutionary biologist James Shapiro explained that, remarkably enough, many micro-evolutionary processes worked as though guided by a purposeful “sentience” of the evolving plant and animal organisms themselves – a concept far removed from the random selection processes of Darwinism.

Firstly, let me point out that these links that I have voided into underline hell by making the text pink were leading to pages of books listed and their price instead of any accrediting source for the article’s bullshit–I mean, nonsense. I point this out because it is my blog and I’m allowed to be petty, deal with it.

Secondly, you cannot ret-con the evolutions of plants and animals like this is the Matt Smith era of Doctor Who. There are ret-cons that work to suit the narrative, but evolution is not a narrative, it is the process of multi-cellular beings adapting and changing throughout billions of years and just squeezing in your god into the background of it to suit the bitching masses of idiots that wouldn’t know how to accept facts if they ejaculated the truth in their faces is just a FUCKING COP-OUT. Like the 12th Doctor.

Just because one evolutionary biologist said that THEY think that plant and animal micro-evolution seemed like it was being overseen by god is one man’s opinion, not means for changing the principles of microbiology. Just because they go to a university and study biology does not mean that they’re word of mouth is enough for this type of argument. *drops mic* *hits toe* AHHH FUCK shut up

For the past 10,000 years at a minimum, the most important changes in human existence have been driven by cultural developments occurring in the realm of human ideas.

Oh, fuck off. I can’t even make it through this anymore, I’m done.

14.8 billion years…compared to 10,000. When divided, that is…0.00148. So, in that time the Earth has been existing, this 10,000 years is approximately 0.000007 % of the total time the Earth has been…well, the Earth. Please check me on my math, I have no confidence with math at all. I’d probably have an accountant look over my taxes to make sure I wasn’t accidentally selling my nonexistent children if I had a paying job and didn’t still live with my…parents…LOOK, A KITTEN

My kitten likes to 'hide' in this jar, and her brother is confused!

HAHA FOOLED YOU, IT’S TWO KITTENS

Snickers: “That is the furriest fucking pickled egg I’ve ever seen.”

Trump promises to protect Christians in Liberty U commencement speech

…this is the country I live in. This is the STATE I LIVE IN.

WELCOME TO AMERICA WHERE WHITE CHRISTIANS GET PREFERENTIAL TREATMENT.

IF YOU’RE NOT A CHRISTIAN, YOU’RE FUCKED.

“In America we don’t worship government, we worship God,” he said to raucous applause  at the graduation at the nation’s largest Christian university Saturday (March 13), in Lynchburg, Virginia.

Oh,  hi rock bottom. You’ve decorated since I’ve seen you last.

“I want to thank you,” Trump said to the 50,000 in attendance. “You voted. Boy oh boy, you voted, you voted.”

Is it possible to die from exasperation?

Trump’s religious liberty order slammed as ‘pretty much nothing’

“It was looking like you’d never get here, folks. But you got here!” a triumphant Trump told the gathering after a series of invocations from Baptist and Catholic leaders, and from Paula White, the prosperity gospel televangelist who is one of Trump’s main religious advisers.

Oh, aim near the Catholics a bit more, they’d like a lot more jizz on their robes. Some with some sperm in it, this time. What, I didn’t write that, I crossed it out. It doesn’t count.

“[C]onstitutionally dubious, dangerously misleading, and ultimately harmful to the very cause that it purports to protect,” David French wrote in a blistering analysis in National Review. “In fact, he should tear it up, not start over, and do the actual real statutory and regulatory work that truly protects religious liberty.”

Asking Donald Trump to do real work is like asking him to actually build the wall he’s promised to build and now can’t because the Mexican president exists. Also, every other country still exists. Though, it seems Ireland is getting inspiration, so they’re just as stupid because OCEANS EXIST. You know, BOATS?! Are ya gonna close off the beaches and trade import/export? NO. ‘Cause how else will Donny get his Pakistani slave boys? He’s not going to pay for the plane rides for them, unless it’s Malaysian Airlines.

Excuse me…

*edits the offensive label at the beginning of post*

 

Online troll or therapist? Atheist evangelists see their work as a calling

…from whom?

Is this guy an asshole or actually helpful to the cause, though? Also, what is the cause? I thought the point of being atheist was, well, being atheist.

(RNS) Two years ago, “Max” was a devout Catholic who loved his faith so much he would sometimes cry as he swallowed the Communion wafer.

Then came the Sandy Hook Elementary School massacre, where 20 schoolchildren and six adults were murdered by a troubled gunman. At that moment, a bell went off in his head, he said, ringing “there is no God, there is no God.”

Now, Max goes by his online handle “Atheist Max.” A 50-something professional artist from the Northeast, some days he now spends two or more hours online trying to argue people out of their religious beliefs in the comments section of Religion News Service.

…the scale is leaning toward “asshole”.

Also…Sandy Hook? That happened in 2012. It’s 2017. So “two years ago” is a crock.

How exactly is he opening these arguments, though?

Max left more than 3,600 comments in the past 12 months, making him RNS’ top commenter. Many of his remarks can be interpreted as angry, hostile and provocative, casting him in some minds as an Internet “troll” — a purposely disruptive online activist who delights in creating comment chaos.

He’s written “Jesus is despicable” or its equivalent more than once — red meat to some readers who come back at him with fervor. Other users have called him “mean-spirited” or “angry.”

You know why I called my site Burning My Church Clothes? Because it’s a very simple tag line of the content I write. You are not going to get sunshine and kittens here. I am a cynical, bitchy, snarky, questionably comedic 20-something hermit that is tired of being preached to like the next misanthrope, but I don’t go looking for arguments. I’m afraid of confrontation generally. I have to go through my Facebook sometimes and delete posts I’ve made because even I think I go way too far sometimes.

If a person isn’t literally kicking a gay person to death in front of you out of righteous “duty of their Christian rite”, you do not need to bother them. Unless someone is suggesting that public education needs to be tailored to suit one demographic’s religion or more extremist views that murder is acceptable because a certain book says it is. This includes pushing atheism on people. There’s a difference between teaching evolution and teaching that the god a person’s parents have drilled into their head as being real isn’t real. You have to consider what can happen in those situations. It took me over a year to come to my own realization and my parents still like to blame my mental disorders. I, too, like to blame my mental disorders, but not for not believing in god anymore. I blame that on the ACE school, the forced indoctrination. I have experienced being forcibly taught a severely right-winged view of the world and I nearly killed myself with the damage it has caused.

Children should learn. They should not be told that they have to believe what they’re parents believe or face eternal damnation. I don’t care if you believe the more modernized version of Christianity of “Jesus is the way to heaven”, that is still teaching that this fantasy man is the only way to Heaven. To HEAVEN. What is Heaven? That’s the place you go WHEN YOU DIE. Yes, little Sally, you need to be CONSTANTLY WORRIED ABOUT IF YOU WILL GO TO HEAVEN WHEN YOU DIE. The average human life span is increasing with new medical discoveries and intentions, so for more than 80 years of probable, still lucid life, you will CONSTANTLY HAVE TO MAKE SURE YOU ARE GOING TO HEAVEN. How? You can’t call a number. You can’t check a list. There is no literal guarantee that you are even going to Heaven, nor is there proof that your Jesus exists. You will have then wasted all the years of your life chasing phantoms.

Maybe…this isn’t the best commentary to have about this article.

I don’t believe that Christianity should been forced upon people. But I don’t believe that atheism should be either. There’s a difference between having an intellectual, philosophical argument than just being a prick.

You are allowed to believe in God. But I am not going to change the way I dress or my overall stature within society to suit an ancient list of principles taken way too literally.

Oh, God…that’s more than 4000 words under the cut. I’m going to now stretch and get some feeling back into my ass cheeks. TMI? You love it.

 

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5 Things Old Redneck Idiots Say That Make Me Want to Move Far Away From the South

If you didn’t grow up in the country backwoods like I did, you would know the redneck “culture” from the stereotype perpetrated in the media: Beer-obsessed, indecipherable Southern accents, baseless Conservative opinions, and loving being able to show off their guns (the point-and-shooty kind–rednecks rarely have the muscular biceps they boast about) more than anything their wives or children did.

If you find this list offensive…I don’t care. You don’t care about secularist agendas and aim to rearrange the fucking government to suit only your demographic, so I’m not going to make pardons for your Christfucking bullshit. Love you, kiss kiss!

  1. “Them immigrants need to learn American or get out!” or “Do they know American in [put non-American country here]?”

English. The word…is English. English is a language. It’s also an adjective when describing someone native to England.

If you’re thinking that English is the most-spoken language in the entire world, it’s not. Since Asia is the biggest country, Mandarin Chinese is the most popular language. Want to have a guess at the second most popular language?

If you guessed “American”, punch yourself in the face. With a truck.

If you guessed English, also not right.

It’s Spanish. Yes, Mr. Trump. Eres un estúpido hijo de puta.  And your daughter is a whore.

So, no. If you are going to a country where they don’t speak English as a first language, they are not American. If you are leaving the country of the United States of America to go to another country, it is not going to be American. Do ya get it now, or do I need to get the glitter and crayons?

2. “I ain’t come from no monkey” and “if we evolved, then why ain’t still happenin’?”

It’s usually pointless to pursue gifting knowledge if the redneck is over the hill and doesn’t even try to understand technology before expecting SOMEONE to fix his damn computer. Why is the Internet slow? I can’t honestly put the phrase “Comcast Xfinity is a garbage Internet service provider and the most hated company in America” in any plainer English, so what the fuck do you want from me? Caveman talk? “Comcast-Internet-BAD. More money not solution. Scam. Comcast BAD.”

That went on a tangent and a half.

My father will engage family members in religious discussions and if I even slip up and just look like I’m thinking atheist thoughts, he’ll start off-handedly sermonizing while playing with the cat. Some bullshit like, “You weren’t evolved from monkeys. You were created by God.” Even the cat wasn’t impressed because it tried to bite him.

Cats didn’t come from apes, as a matter of fact. Because they’re felines. That’s a whole different genus, ya genius. Dogs evolved from the gray wolf and its theorized that over the millions of years that the ferocity and feral nature of the wolf was bred out and domesticated dogs have the temperament of wolf pups rather than the full grown.

Humans did evolve from primates, but no, a monkey did not have wild monkey sex with another of its kind and suddenly have a chimp with human hands. You are forgetting the “millions of years” part of it or you ignore it in favor of “POOF! There it is!” (Annnnd now I have that song stuck in my head AHHH)

Life is still evolving. We were not complete evolutions. We’re not fucking Pokemon. A human baby isn’t touched with a Thunderstone to become an Electric Toddler. (That is a horrifying and amusing image now in my head.) Though I’m not suggesting that human growth development is evolution, that is what it is.

Evolution is still happening. And it’s not going to stop unless all time and science and everything stops. No, we are not in our lifetime going to ever see the transition of our species to another (though, that would be pretty awesome–imagine if the atmosphere would allow humans to evolve and become GIANTS like dinosaurs did…probably not) as spontaneously as you would change your clothes. Why do you think bacteria and viruses are becoming so resilient to treatment? Why is the threat of a another super-virus pandemic still possible? Because stupid people won’t take the whole of their fucking antibiotic prescriptions or vaccinate their snotty-nosed fucktrophies. Bacteria and viruses are living pathogens and strive to live on like humans do. And viruses need a host to survive and if you don’t get your baby its needle-stabs, it’s bye bye, my baby, bye bye. I can guarantee you aren’t going to be still going “it’s my choice to vaccinate” when you’re standing over a tiny coffin blaming everyone else but your own stupidity.

If anything, the redneck “culture” is going to devolve into interbred numbskulls and wipe us all out. There’s already knuckle-draggers in the House and Senate, and King Knuckle-Dragger, Our Ape Lord of the Eaglelands. NO, I’M NOT HYPER, WHY DO YOU ASK.

2oBmP5E

3. “I will never vote for a woman president”

Your wife and female children hate you, don’t they? Or has your wife fooled herself into complacency by the power of Gawd?

Honestly, I thought Hilary Clinton was also a cunt, but she was at least a Democratic cunt. If you have to get fucked, you want the least risk for disease. But America now has AIDS and what the fuck even is this metaphor. I also think that I made an involuntary rape joke and I just laughed darkly at “involuntary rape joke”–FUCK SAKE NEXT ONE

4. “Damn them [racist epithet] and their [music genre] music”

I actually like a few country music artists. Carrie Underwood, Miranda Lambert, I even liked Shania Twain in the late 90s until I discovered Britney Spears. Maybe I just subconsciously liked blondes from an early age because I also liked Christina Aguilera (before she had her hair color meltdown) and Justin Timberlake from N*SYNC fame. Why, yes, the 2003 VMA lesbian kiss between Madonna, Britney, and Christina had me questioning my sexuality before the Christian school years would beat me and hang me from a clothes hanger in the Gawd closet — goddamn, I’m a metaphor rollercoaster today.

MY POINT IS that I liked a few country songs. My dad, however, loves his country music and anybody that doesn’t like it is wrong. I will admit to hating most country artists nowadays because it’s a stupid association thing. Like, if he actually liked classic rock, I’d probably–nah, that wouldn’t be a good metaphor. If he liked rock of any kind, we’d probably get along better. He doesn’t like the country that’s borderline Southern rock (Rascal Flats…that other one), he likes the “good” old country classic that sounds like a someone’s playing the fiddle with a tuning fork. I’d say it’s perfect for him because it’s just as whiny-sounding as him–BOOSH.

Whomever invented the banjo was probably just as lonely as the men who play them. BOOSH BOOSH. I’m full of the boosh today.

“So you think your music about depression and suicide and hate is better than my country gospel that’s about Christ’s love?”

Oh, darlin’ Dad. How demented you are.

You can pretend all you want that you’re spreading the gospel with your country-twangin’ guitar abuse, but you are still going to be the same hateful man wearing a humble mask and I’m still going to be the daughter you couldn’t control by force or will of the Lawd. But I do thank you for your musical talent because I now can sing to the whole world about useless you truly are as a human being.

He also doesn’t like hip-hop and rap because black people. I would have accepted that it’s “misogynistic and incites youth to violence” but if you’re judging it based on how much melanin the person singing it has in their skin, you have lost the right to speak down to me. I don’t like your country music because grumpy old white fucks like you sing it. BOOSH

5. “Barack Obama was the worst thing that happened to America”

I know, goddamn him. How dare he launch the order to assassinate Osama Bin Laden and approve gay marriage!

Oh, the Obamacare thing. Well, Trumpcare is SO much better. If you’re rich, that is. “Oh, look at me, I’m a 60-year-old delegate and my insurance company premiums suck me off while I’m eating my ivory-peppered shrimp cocktail made with real elitist jizz!” Oh, no, that had a heart-attack because someone asked them about their tax return. No, of course not, it couldn’t be the massive amounts of cocaine they’ve been snorting out of Ivanka Trump’s ass crack.

I’d say we were even more fucked by this new health care bill, but I can’t claim rape on my insurance now, can’t I? The only way I’m going to get assistance is if I get pregnant, so…any takers? Fun to make, better to beat? Fuck, I don’t even believe in hell, but I’m certain I’m going to hell. Beelzebub has a devil put aside for meeeee…meeeeeeee…for MEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE *glass breaking*

I want lunch. BYE HAPPY PEOPLE. If you’re not happy, BYE DEPRESSED PEOPLE. If you’re not a people, then BYE CIA OPERATIVES HIRED TO PERFORM SURVEILLANCE ON ME.

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Curse From Eve p.1

Jesus was on the metro again.

“‘And the Lord sayeth unto the idolaters, ‘You are all fishers of men…and faggots.'” the scraggy-haired vagabond spat into the nearest fellow metro rider’s face. The poor woman recoiled from both the hatred and halitosis by shifting away from the ragged man who was now brandishing his cracked, over-worn Bible like it was a loaded gun.

Oh, my bad. That was a typo. I meant, Jesus was on the meth again.

Okay, his name wasn’t Jesus, either. It was either Tim or Tom, some T name that no one cared enough to ask for because no one had the time or Tic-Tacs to spare for conversation with him. He wasn’t homeless exactly because he was often wearing expensive-looking suit jackets with albeit dirty, wrinkled dress shirts underneath. I suspected he frequented the new homeless shelter that was finished a couple months ago at the intersection of 4th Ave and 9th St next to the St. Thomas church because he got on from the 9th St. Station. What did I know, though. He could be killing business men for their jackets when tweaking and sobering up on the metro.

I had gotten used to the metro tango. And by “used to”, I mean, suffering in awkward frustration while scanning the car for any opportunist pickpockets or (thankfully, rare) subway masturbators. I had only encountered one of those so far (as my warped mind will snark, that it’s probably the closest I’d ever gotten to any sexual intimacy).

My phone buzzes for the hundredth time. Probably the 70th message I’ve gotten from my nosy sister that, for all my dedication spent, still does not realize that I absolutely fucking despise her.

I honestly don’t know went wrong. We all went to the same home. We all hated the fucking home. This sudden engagement lasted only two months before she announced the date of the wedding for July 4th. As if a country-fried wedding booked at Pentecostal church wasn’t enough of a reason for avoiding it. This was such a bad idea, even worse than my absolutely moronic step-brothers insistence on celebratory gunfire after last year’s cataclysmic election resulted in Trump winning.

Carter, the eldest of the three step-idiots, had bent over to drag one of the farm cats out from under his pick-up and Daryl, in his ignorant, Republican joy, had picked up his hunting rifle and aimed without checking if the barrel was loaded with blanks or actual shells and fired blindly three times. The first shot shattered the truck’s side window, the second fired into the unknown, and the third lodged right into Carter’s left buttock.

Carter’s the one that used to hog-tie me up like a sow destined for the slaughterhouse and lock me in my closet while he got drunk and stoned with the high school girls he was fucking. So, when I received such horrible news about his accident and he would need skin grafts and therapy to be able to walk again, I could barely keep my voice level enough to fake sympathy because I kept nearly giggling thinking about how I was so going to call him Half-Assed until his dying breath.

I was jolted out of my memories when the metro crawled to a stop to let passengers off. I still had two more stations to go before I was back at 58th St. Metro Jesus had started up again.

“Look at how far humanity has fallen, letting terrorists and sexual deviants free to pervert children and lead them away from the glory of God. How can you stand it?”

My neck tensed and my head was beginning to throb with a beginning migraine. I had already had a shitty day at work. The coffee maker had been broken for a week so I had to waste money getting an expensive over-milked coffee just to survive the Wednesday traffic violations. Okay, I was addicted to caffeine, I could admit that. But try spending over eight hours a day listening to the irritating stenography machine ticking and tapping under your fingers and hearing the spoiled, self-important teenagers try to sniffle their way out of a DUI and you’d be drinking something much stronger to get you through the day.

Unfortunately, as a slave to the grind of law enforcement, there were no stronger pain relievers than ibuprofen allowed.

My headache was worsening and my overall discomfort was reaching a fever pitch as it became harder and harder to ignore the insane rambling. I could always just take the bus instead, but the metro was faster and I wasn’t changing around my schedule just to avoid one annoying loud dumbass.

“God is going to rain down judgment on all you harlots and your pretty little titties. You keep swinging those loose like forbidden fruit from the Tree of Life itself and Satan will be only too happy to fill you up–”

SHUUUUUT. UUUUUUUUP.”

The barking screech carried through the metro car like a gunshot. It was only till the near deafening silence that followed and the sudden ache in my throat formed that I realized the banshee shriek had come from me.

I blushed red to roots and stared down at the floor, wishing that a mantle-deep hole would open up and absorb me into the Earth’s molten core.

One guy at the very back had started clapping, but nobody joined him and he stopped, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly while the rest of the car averted their eyes in dumb silence.

The Metro Messiah was staring me down like he was trying to disintegrate me with his tweaked out mind. What was left of it, anyway.

If there was any god above, it was one of pure belligerent spite upon the weak.


I returned to my apartment after the incident. I wanted nothing more than to crawl into a bottle of moscato and forget I exist. At least for ten hours.

The noisy elevator clanked and creaked as it ascended up to the fourth floor. The apartment lease here took almost all of my paycheck and it was still pretty shitty in terms of basic maintenance. I got fed up with waiting for the jackass landlord to fix my sink, so I enlisted the help of the possibly Satanic (like actually worships the Judeo-Christian “devil” kind of Satanic) tenant from the third floor. I honestly don’t care who or what he sacrifices to whatever, but I’m pretty sure that four parakeets from three different owners don’t all spontaneously fly away on one weekend. And he knows quite a bit about plumbing and repairing appliances.

Still wasn’t leaving him alone with Mr. Buttons.

The doors creaked open on the fourth floor and I’m immediately accosted by the muffled din of some fellow tenant playing Chinese flute music. There was also sounds of low grunting and…what the fuck? Is that a goat bleating?

I hurriedly crammed my key into the lock on my door and wrench myself inside. I flicked the lights on and the first thing I witnessed was Mr. Buttons doing unsightly things to a stuffed Lambchop toy.

Mr. Buttons is a cat. A nine-year-old neutered cat.

I named him Mr. Buttons because as a kitten, he would chew the buttons off my blouses and sweaters. He had more “game” as a kitten than I will ever have in my whole life.

I stared down at the pathetic orange tabby as he sexually assaulted the puppet doll, yowling intermittently. He looked up at me.

“No! I refuse to praise your weird perversions. Why can’t  you do normal cat stuff like tear up curtains and chew on plants? Hell, kill a rat and put it on my pillow!” I yelled, shrugging off my blazer and leaving it with my bag untidily in the corner of the living room.

Evelyn Colton, 26, stenographer, enjoys drinking spirits more than raising them. Also, yells about cats with puppet-fetishes to no one because she is unsurprisingly alone. 

I nearly toppled over as I shook off my heels heading to my bathroom. I slammed the green button on my answering machine and I sighed, readying myself for the torrent of bitchy messages I was about to hear. The first message is the unmistakable Kentucky drawl of my mother. I wiped off my makeup while clutching the side of the sink.

“Evelyn, this is yer mother. I know you hear me. You pick up the damn phone, now! I knew you were going to do this to us, you spoiled little brat! You need to call yer sister back and RSVP! You are not going to miss this wedding! Even if I have come up to Gomorrah and drag you here by FORCE!”

God, Gomorrah? Is she going to use the same Bible reference every time?

My parents honestly think that I won’t sic the cops on them.

They were demented enough in their beliefs that they think their religion makes them higher than the law. I thought I could escape the warped school of thought where they thought beating a child bloody and sending their daughter to a “corrective” facility was a blessing.

The next message was a doctor’s appointment reminder. Then one from my bitchy boss informing me that Judge Balmer is docking me pay for one measly mistake on a court document. I had typed out the wrong shorthand for “prosecution” — it had translated as “prostate”. As in “The defendant claims that his prostate is an inflammatory revenge tactic.”

Judge Balmer, an irritable tenured 62-year-old man that certainly seemed like he had his own “inflamed prosecution”, failed to see the humor.

I looked in the mirror and saw the sallow, pale face that was my own. I took off my bracelets, washed my hands, and placed my finger over the green contact lens in my eye to take it out. I did the same with the other one, revealing the horrid reddish-pink irises that were my “natural” eye color.

“Genetic abnormality” was the term the puzzled doctor had given my parents when I was seven.

“Demonic possession” was what dear ole mom and dad interpreted.

But even calling it a genetic abnormality was only half of the mystery.

I wasn’t born albino. 

If you went to my parents house today, you would see family photos on the wall of a seemingly happy church-going family, all with the coal-black hair, including the little girl with hazel-brown eyes that was me.

If you were putting together the family story after that, you would assume that the brown-eyed girl had died.

In a way, I had.

I was six-years-old, seven months when my fifteen-year-old cousin, Kerrin, had cornered me in his family barn to show me the cloying of mangled cats he had just flayed and fried by throwing them against the electrified barb-wire fence. He made a game out of it, seeing it if he could fling the poor, flailing creatures and make them stay on the wire until they had been completely and utterly killed by the shocks.

He told me he would do the same to Guff, the kitten that my family was taking home. Kerrin’s mother was the choir director at the church and she bred farm animals and just happened to have a couple litter of kittens, so my dad allowed us to pick one to have as our own. This was long before Mr. Buttons, so Guff was going to be my first pet. The deal was that I had to do…things to him or he would fry Guff like the others. I was already traumatized by the pile of dead cats he had already done in, so I agreed.

And I did the things that no six-year-old should ever have to do.

I was crying and vomiting by the end of it and he said that he would expect the same at the next family reunion or he would kill Guff.

I…don’t honestly know how I did it. After all he had put me through, the things he made me witness…I could still taste his putrid, unwanted poison and I was filled with a rage like none other. Was it the loss of innocence or maybe some supernatural force? All I knew was that one minute I was staring at his insipid, keening expression and his eyes had suddenly become wide with fear.

This boy was a sociopath that killed cats for fun and what I had done next had scared him shitless. 

What did I do? Your guess is as good as mine.

I woke up to a commotion of people gathered around me. My parents were there yelling at each other, the lady that owned the farm was sobbing and there were sirens screaming in the distance.

When I awoke, my skin was stark white. My once coal-black hair was like bleached hay. The warm brown from my eyes had become bloody. Kerrin’s body was nowhere to be found. The investigation would span over months to years, with no leads. Not that I was missing him.

My six-year-old mind thought I had somehow become a vampire. And for years, after the abuses I suffered from my parents and that damned home they sent me to, they probably thought I was one, too.

There was another secret. One that I’ll never be able to tell anyone.

I’m terrified to sleep. Because I know I’ll go back There.

There is never absolute because it’s always a different realm. A realm to the past. A realm to someone’s past. It doesn’t matter who I meet from day to day or how much interaction I have with them, even if it’s just small talk with a cashier or making eye-contact with someone on an elevator.

I never know whose past it’s going to be or what I’m going to witness. I don’t know if it’s real or if I’m real within these planes. I’m skeptical about religion or superstitious nonsense, but ever since that fateful day where the traumatic, the abnormal, and the completely batshit insane had all collided into the no-place that was There.

I had to sleep. There was no denying how heavy my mind was and the migraine was starting to blur my vision in its intensity.

I changed into my pajamas and swallowed a mouthful of Tylenol Sleep PM. No drug, prescription or over-the-counter, stopped me from going There but I needed to sleep. I had gotten used to going to sleep even when my mind was so objected to it. It was less about bravery and more about giving up the fight.

I climbed into bed and sunk my head into my pillow. I was diving off the plank into a sea of unknown beasts as I succumbed to fitful slumber.

 

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Don’t worry, I haven’t abandoned Drowning In Doctrine

These memories just tend to be difficult to write about and sometimes it just emotionally exhausts me for weeks to delve into that kind of misery. It’s cathartic, but such catharsis needs to be limited and taken one step at a time.

So, hang in there.

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