Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Truth - the anti-faith
Last year my switch-hitting mother-in-law and her last lesbian friend came to visit over the holidays. Normally, this is the kind of thing that is reserved for National Lampoon's but it happened to me in real life. Oddly enough, it included a Vegas vacation. Nina and I were stomping the shit out of whatever asian blackjack dealer was feeding me aces when we got the call to go pick them up. This pissed me off because the airport is about ten minutes from the hotel and I was getting ready to buy the whole fucking place. But after circling the terminal three times we saw them standing around like hobos.
After arriving at the hotel, we watched them unpack. I would much rather have been watching this than the topless review down the boulevard. But I did have my attention caught when Marcia (mother-in-law) told us about the music box that Linda (man-with-tits (sorta)) was carrying. You see the music box was endowed with Linda's dead mother's spirit. And on occasion it would play a note or two despite being broken. This was the work of Linda's dead mother trying to ease her troubled daughter's mind. What it was not was the logical result of a wound up music box after two hours of being handled by airport personnel and three hours in the high pressure cargo cabin of the airplane. Every time this ceramic chunk of shit would sound off a flat C-sharp everyone would freeze in amazement and Linda would get this knowing grin on her face like mom just sent her a personalized telegram from beyond.
Seeing as how it was Vegas and Nina didn't want me ruining the very spiritual structure of yet another ghost-believing moron, the whole ghost in the box issue was avoided. But once we got home the music box was set up on my entertainment center, which is as close as I could come to a center mantlepiece in my shitty apartment. Now the white, untuned, pinging box would randomly put a halt to whatever we were doing like watching my movies, or playing my games, or drinking my vodka while hating my guests.
But hey it's the holidays, right? I can hold in my desire to shred another dimwit's belief in ghosts with logic for a few days. But then came our friend and neighbor Vanessa. Vanessa believes in ghosts. In fact, pretty much anything that isn't immediately understood must be attributable to paranormal intervention. So I'm on my fifth shot of Absolut when she sits on my couch and extends her hand into the air toward the music box as though it were some antenna to the dead. She says that she has a very fine-tuned sense of "these things". Now Mr. Alcohol finally decided to step in with the kind of erupting laughter that could only come from three days of failing to call bullshit by its true name. Immediately after this, I beacame aware that my wife was pinching my supersexy love handle to let me know that this behavior was inappropriate. I clammed up. In my own house. And resolved that you can lead a human mind to evolution but you can't make it think.
People, can all just please agree that there is a logical explanation for everything that happens and let it be? No, you can't sense ghosts. And no, your mother didn't turn the wheel on the music box. I thought I might of heard a ping or two while it was in the other room in Linda's luggage. Was that mommy letting the socks know that it's going to be ok? Even if ghosts do exist, do you honestly believe that they would be hanging around in a music box? And if they could affect change in the physical world like turning a music box crank, why not just lift a marker and write "Linda, wear some fucking foundation!" on the wall? Why do ghosts only speak in symbolism? You'd think if they only get the odd opportunity to say something they'd just fucking blurt it out.
You believers boggle me with your baseless faith. At least religion admits that it's all a leap of faith into that which is promised and unproven. But you "spiritual" people just believe in SPITE of logic, and are usually raging against whatever religious beliefs they were raised with. But this is a moot point, because I've obviously never been touched by a spirit in unrest. I've heard that one before too. It came straight out of David Koresh's "How to Sound Like an Imbicile and Recruit Your Friends". When I die, I'm going to take the opportunities I get to give my family members and friends projectile diarrhea. there's your statement from the grave right there.
|
After arriving at the hotel, we watched them unpack. I would much rather have been watching this than the topless review down the boulevard. But I did have my attention caught when Marcia (mother-in-law) told us about the music box that Linda (man-with-tits (sorta)) was carrying. You see the music box was endowed with Linda's dead mother's spirit. And on occasion it would play a note or two despite being broken. This was the work of Linda's dead mother trying to ease her troubled daughter's mind. What it was not was the logical result of a wound up music box after two hours of being handled by airport personnel and three hours in the high pressure cargo cabin of the airplane. Every time this ceramic chunk of shit would sound off a flat C-sharp everyone would freeze in amazement and Linda would get this knowing grin on her face like mom just sent her a personalized telegram from beyond.
Seeing as how it was Vegas and Nina didn't want me ruining the very spiritual structure of yet another ghost-believing moron, the whole ghost in the box issue was avoided. But once we got home the music box was set up on my entertainment center, which is as close as I could come to a center mantlepiece in my shitty apartment. Now the white, untuned, pinging box would randomly put a halt to whatever we were doing like watching my movies, or playing my games, or drinking my vodka while hating my guests.
But hey it's the holidays, right? I can hold in my desire to shred another dimwit's belief in ghosts with logic for a few days. But then came our friend and neighbor Vanessa. Vanessa believes in ghosts. In fact, pretty much anything that isn't immediately understood must be attributable to paranormal intervention. So I'm on my fifth shot of Absolut when she sits on my couch and extends her hand into the air toward the music box as though it were some antenna to the dead. She says that she has a very fine-tuned sense of "these things". Now Mr. Alcohol finally decided to step in with the kind of erupting laughter that could only come from three days of failing to call bullshit by its true name. Immediately after this, I beacame aware that my wife was pinching my supersexy love handle to let me know that this behavior was inappropriate. I clammed up. In my own house. And resolved that you can lead a human mind to evolution but you can't make it think.
People, can all just please agree that there is a logical explanation for everything that happens and let it be? No, you can't sense ghosts. And no, your mother didn't turn the wheel on the music box. I thought I might of heard a ping or two while it was in the other room in Linda's luggage. Was that mommy letting the socks know that it's going to be ok? Even if ghosts do exist, do you honestly believe that they would be hanging around in a music box? And if they could affect change in the physical world like turning a music box crank, why not just lift a marker and write "Linda, wear some fucking foundation!" on the wall? Why do ghosts only speak in symbolism? You'd think if they only get the odd opportunity to say something they'd just fucking blurt it out.
You believers boggle me with your baseless faith. At least religion admits that it's all a leap of faith into that which is promised and unproven. But you "spiritual" people just believe in SPITE of logic, and are usually raging against whatever religious beliefs they were raised with. But this is a moot point, because I've obviously never been touched by a spirit in unrest. I've heard that one before too. It came straight out of David Koresh's "How to Sound Like an Imbicile and Recruit Your Friends". When I die, I'm going to take the opportunities I get to give my family members and friends projectile diarrhea. there's your statement from the grave right there.
|
Read my Dreambook guestbook! Sign my Dreambook! |
|