If God Exists, He is a Mentally-ill, Self-Replicating Robot

I have never understood how anyone can believe in God and, at the same time, also believe in, say, math, or logic.

And so we’re clear, when I speak of God, I speak of the Western version of God. You know. The old guy with the beard and the white robe. Or is it the younger hippy guy? Or the ghost? I just know, whichever one it is, it has laser eyes.

For instance, consider the implications of a civil engineer who believes that an all-powerful being with magic powers exists somewhere. (In the center of the Earth? I’ve never been clear on that particular specific.) If he runs into a particularly difficult problem, at any point does he give up and decide that God will guide his hands to the right answer? I’m certain the Bible does not say to limit your religious beliefs to non-professional activities, so excuse me if I don’t Google the engineering firm that built the skyscraper I’m about to die in.

One of the main reasons I will never believe in God, Santa Claus, or the Rock Biter in The Never-Ending Story (no matter how much I want to) is because I am logical. Many Christians will have you believe that the Bible is logical, and then they will talk a lot, at which point you should back away slowly while maintaining eye-contact.
There are precisely three-beardzillion ways in which the Bible is not logical, but I will point out one glaring error:

If God is all-powerful, wouldn’t he be able to do his job better if there were two Gods? If I were God, well…I’d be lazier, so I’d create a copy of myself to do all the work and I’d relax in my hammock, sipping a whiskey, watching the lava men in the center of the earth build their lava Snake Mountain castles. But, God being God, it seems logical that he would simply keep replicating himself to maximize his ability to perform his job, whatever that is. Judging people and tsk’ing a lot, I’ve surmised. But then, we are faced with the philosophical problem: Are two all-powerful better being more efficient than one? If they are all-powerful, shouldn’t one be able to do the job of a thousand Gods? Drop that one on the Freshmen at your local Christian university and blow their God-damned minds. It’s pretty similar to that age-old question: Could God create a Rubix Cube so delicious that even he couldn't not eat it?

Feces Streaks? Discolored Uvula?BEAUTIFUL TECHNOLOGY® says:No Way, Jose!

One of the greatest, most insufferable problems mankind has been plagued with since he crawled out of the goo is uncleanliness. While many would quickly point out that disease and things that make you die would be higher on their list of Things That Are Big Problems, these issues have actually served mankind by weeding out those who are weak, or not proficient at passing on their genetic load before getting their head crushed by an irritable alpha male. If not for these evolutionary functions – Mother Nature’s chastity belt for the undesirable - we would not be the perfect images of God we are today. And yet, we sully our thumby, bipedalled bodies by letting our hair become oily and dull, and our various crevices smelly.

Though it is inarguable that mankind is at the apex of its growth as a creature of beauty, intellect, and culture; that we live in a veritable utopia on Earth where all of its citizens can revel in a life untroubled by poor fashion and manners, couthly traipsing about the downtown thinking only of lunch dates and rewarding careers; our species’ stranglehold on pleasure is severely lessened by dull, unflingable hair; bottoms coated with invisible, though prevalent, feces streaks; and musty closet-like breath. This is where Beautiful Technology comes in.

Beautiful Technology® is the Industry leader in developing new technologies in anal and oral cleansatories, as well as hair beautifies. Our research and development budget currently exceeds the combined R&D budgets of both cancer and HIV research on the west coast, and the results speak for themselves. You have most likely seen our products overwhelming the aisles of your local drugstore – we produce over forty-two variations of toothpaste alone, addressing a wide range of oral issues, such as sensitive teeth, discolored uvula, and overbearing gums. (Fun science fact: According to the Henry Egan Colgate Principle, toothpaste’s molecular structure collapses when more than three dental issues are addressed in any one tube.)

Let’s take a look at two innovative Beautiful Technology® products that use our exclusive, patented technologies, and are being enjoyed by consumers all over the world (excluding Alaska and Hawaii):



Southern Breeze ™

Southern Breeze ™ is a toilet paper made from hippopotamus skin cultures. The skin of hippopotami naturally produce an extremely effective emollient, which soothes and smoothes the anal glands, providing for a much more pleasing anal appearance. Hippo skin also naturally produces a crystalline sweat, and is one of the most effective, not to mention 100% organic, sunscreens in the world. We at Beautiful Technology uphold that the sun does indeed shine “down there” occasionally, such as when retrieving an errant bocce ball from an ambition's youngster’s sand castle moat while also wearing a slippery thong; or certain styles of making love on the beach.



Forever Young ™

Forever Young ™ is a toothpaste developed from a refreshing mixture of mandarin orange peels and stem cells. Our stem cells are harvested internationally from countries blessed with a legal abundance of stem cells, such as Angola and Guinea. These cells are then carefully blended with our organic Vietnamese mandarin oranges to produce a refreshing toothpaste that leaves one’s mouth fresh, and free of virtually all oral disease, bacteria or wounds.



The most significant obstacle our planet faces in the pursuit of happiness is unwelcome hygiene issues, and Beautiful Technology® will continue to fight this battle head-on, wielding our products like a crusading knight does his righteous sword. And just as the Allies stood tall and proud against the Third Reich, so shall Beautiful Technology be at the forefront of this new, equally important battle. Rest assured, World: We have your back, and shall wax it.

Beautifully Yours,

Dr. Lindsey Borscht

Beautiful Technology Research

YOU WEREN’T AT MY BASEBALL GAMES; I WON’T HELP PAY YOUR RENTBy Todd Braiser Jr.

Dear Dad,

(FYI, the only reason I didn’t communicate your failure as a father by putting quotation marks around “Dad” is because that is an incorrect use of quotation marks, but rest assured, the sentiment is there.)

I’m not sure what I have done to make you think I would loan you the $135 you pay each month to sleep on your friend Rick’s couch, but if I have done anything to make you feel like I would, I profusely apologize. I would sooner cry myself to sleep each night for ten years because my Dad loves poppers and moustaches more than me.

Don’t get me wrong, Todd, Sr. I applaud your “journey” into “Who Todd Sr. Really Is”. I’m glad you’ve “found yourself”. But couldn’t you have found me along the way? While you were off at Dave and Buster’s getting trashed and riding the mechanical bull, I was at home riding The Bull of Neglect. While you were cramming jalapeño poppers in your deceitful face, I was riding The Bull of I-Don’t-Know-How-To-Shave; the Bull of How-Do-I-Please-A-Girl-Down-There; and The Bull of Why-Does-My-Father-Smell-Like-Old-Spice-Which-Is-Not-A-Deodorant-He-Owns. Those bulls don’t stop bucking after the $1.25 runs out, Dad.

And what about Mom? She sits at home drinking wine and sighing while doing Sudoku, pining away for the man she fell in love with twenty years ago. What do I tell her when she asks where the man that loved curling up with her on the couch for a Golden Girls marathon is? Where is the man that shared her passion for Nora Roberts and spinning class? All I can say to her is that I wish I knew that, too, and slowly back away from her knuckley hands, vaguely clawing out at me for support while her Aquanetted bangs shine the kitchen table.

I get it. Mom’s large floral-print dresses and Precious Moments figurines are tough to deal with. We both know that. I know being a Level 24 Paladin LARPer doesn’t make me a prize son, either, but please - Mom and I need you. Put your Captain’s hat back on and let’s get the SS Braiser Family back on course.

Sincerely,

Todd Braiser, Jr.

EVERYTHING IS ACREAM PIE IN THE FACEBy T.J. Pickles

Ba dink-donk ga-goo! Howdy doo, ladies and germs! Looks like your friend T.J. Pickles got up on the wrong side of bed this morning because boy, are my arms tired! Ha HA! Also, I ate my last can of Pork and Beans last night and this clown tummy is hungry!

I tell ya, Real Life is difficult. Ha HA!

Anybody out there go to the gym? I’ve been running a lot of laughathons myself, but I tell ya, I should have been practicing my squats. I’ve been doing a lot of those lately. My busker income has been pretty light this winter, and my old buddy Tony the Landlord doesn’t look too kindly on late rent. No sir! Life and/or Tony might throw you down a flight of stairs, but Pickles always gets up laughing! Ha HA! Don’t cry over spilt milk, right? I do wish I had some spilt milk, though, because all this laughing parches a clown’s throat, you know?

But still, I’ve always said that no matter how hard times get, there’s always a demand for laughter! That’s why I dropped out of 11th grade and high-tailed it right over to St. Sebastian’s Clown Academy! Four years and forty-thousand dollars in school loans later, and boy, are my arms tired! Ha HA! They really are very, very tired, though.

ANYHOO! After I graduated from the academy I was lucky enough to get an internship with a small Ethiopian circus that taught me a lot about the business. It didn’t pay any money, per se, but I did get a free cot in the elephant tent to sleep on, and all the peanuts I could eat! My Mom always used to say, “All we’re feeding that bastard is peanuts!” Then Dad would say, “I’m not buying him any god damn fancy nuts, you diabetic whore!” I got pretty good at napping.

I graduated from Sebastian’s with a Bachelors of Science in Post-Modern Improv Clowning, but lately my career has naturally evolved into a bit more of the classic Hobo Clown shtick. It’s pedestrian, but whatever works, right? I’m in-between places right now, as they say, so the costume pretty much makes itself! Luckily, the city just condemned a crack house down the street, so I’ve been doing some urban camping there till I can pay Tony my back rent. It really is a nice place, though. People poo-poo crack heads a lot, but they are a very tidy people! For a condemned crack house there is a minimal amount of feces outside of the bathroom.

After a long day of pounding the pavement – I visit the Ringling Brothers’ office every other day just to make sure they still have my resume on file – I come home, slip into my little fort of non-soiled sofa cushions in the living room, and just relax, y’know? Who needs that old rat race? Not this clown. I’ve got my health, a roof over my head, and food to – well, who couldn’t stand to lose a few pounds, am I right? Ha HA! Who ever heard of a fat clown, anyway? NOT ME!!!

Tell me if you’ve heard this one: What’s all smiles and has two thumbs? This guy! Ha HA! No two ways about it – next time you turn on the TV, there I’ll be staring right back at you! T.J. Pickles, clown extraordinaire! People will say, “J.P. Patches? I’ve never heard of that old fuck! You know who I have heard of, though? T.J. fucking Pickles, that's who! And he’s a million times funnier than that Patches cunt. A MILLION.”

Keep a look out for me, America! This rising star is going supernova, and nothing’s gonna stop me now! Fuck you, Dad!

Yukfully Yours,

T.J. Pickles

ON SEX AND GENDERBy Female Hyena

Hey! Bigots! When you die, I’m totally eating your carcass!

It’s the 21st century, and we still have to deal with sex and gender prejudice? Bullshit! I’ll cave your face in, Prejudice!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve been hanging out with my bitches chomping on some sweet carrion, when some stupid-ass lion tries to tell me some stupid-ass sexist joke, like we’re high-fiving over brewskis. Hey, Lion! This is a clit, you hick! I may have more testosterone in my fused vulva than you have in your entire dumb face, but this ain't man-meat! Babies shoot out of this thing like I don’t even know. I shot one out this morning when I was beating your brother and your Mom up.

Just eff-why-eye, hyena bitches don’t take that shit, and we will burn your house down. We crap babies out through a one-inch diameter fake shlong. The only thing more badass than that is setting a unicorn on fire and then skateboarding off some badass helicopter while shooting Uzis off and shit. Your mind can’t even comprehend how intense we are. I will climb straight into your dreams and drop some judo on your god damn face.

I know you dudes are used to pushing your bitches around, but you better piss your pretty-boy clown pants if you think that flies with us. We use these Pringles cans for dickin’, too, and you better ask permission before you even try to get your sick-ass freak on. Our junk is like a freaking Rubix cube, and we’re the ones matching up colors on your punk-ass. Want your mind blown? How about this: to even get your pathetic pinky finger up in this milk shake, you gotta do a French toilet-squat behind us, and then bend your tootsie roll up and backwards to get that thing in the honey jar. And we might tear your face off anyway, too. We don’t give a shit.

So guess what? Can’t wrap your head around a lady who’s bigger than you, stronger than you, gets her junk done when she wants it and how she wants, and clowns you like nobody’s business? BAM. Hyena females are tagging your neighborhood up, and if you don’t watch your sexist attitude, we’ll hike a shorty hyena up your peehole.

Sincerely,
Hyena Female

EUGENICS IS A GOOD THINGBy Milburn Pennybags

Good day, and What What, Fellow Magnates. It is I, Milburn Pennybags, Railroad Tycoon and Man About Town, here to inform you on the state of our great city and properties, which I recently toured at great danger to my own person. Indeed!

As a fellow Captain of Industry, I feel compelled to impart upon you a recent experience I had in the slums of our town just one fortnight ago. On this particular evening I found myself feeling a bit restless as I sipped my cherry in the den, basking in the glow of a hearty fireplace fed by deer meat (the aroma of burnt ungulate is a known aphrodisiac in the East). My diet of roast quail and pig marrow exacerbates my unfortunate affliction of gout, and a brisk walk about the estate often invigorates the humors.

On this particular night I decided to take a tour of my real estate properties, of which most of the city commoners dwell in. These people are a filthy sort, inclined towards whoredom and gluttony, often found wailing in the streets pleading for a box of Crackered Jacks, or whatever sugary treats they can jam in their dirty maws. I find them wholly unpleasant. But still, a twinkle was in my eye and my broad mustache quivered, yearning to soak in the smells of the streets, unpleasant as they might be. Walking in another man’s stinking, rat-hide shoes can make the pleasures of a fine tuxedo and topped hat all the more acute. Thusly, I and my associate, Little Metal Car, sped off towards the shanties post-haste.

Upon arrival, I cautiously sauntered down Connecticut Avenue with Little Metal Car by my side, humorously tiptoeing on his tires. I carefully avoided eye contract with the various hobos peering at us from behind their sooty beards and distastefully wide-brimmed hats. Clutching my cane close to my side, I was ready to take flight immediately upon any indication of accostment. Little Metal Car, precocious as always, assailed the curious townspeople with humorous slurs and ribaldry, which seemed to keep them a comfortable distance from us.

Though I fully expected my senses to be assailed by unpleasant sights and smells, I was not prepared for the Sodom I encountered. Ruddy-faced women, whom I could only assume were whores, carried great bundles of possum carcasses across their shoulders, most likely for their illegitimate child litters to feed on. Hairy Italians bombarded people, flinging “pizza’d pies” and meatballs with little concern for the direction of the assault; and the occasional Pepick or Herring Choker skulked about the street perimeter, sullenly sucking on fish bones while eyeing others’ goods.

My heart recoiled at this jungle of sin, but I kept my chin up and my stride proud. These people can smell fear as keenly as you or I can smell the peaty undertones of an aged whisky, so it is imperative to walk amongst them with a high step and a firm ocular grasp upon one’s monocle. Little Metal Car, being a bit more pedestrian than myself, having been stuck in a muddy ditch or two, seemed to be enjoying himself playing a playful game of chase with the coal-faced children, intermittently catching their knobby ankles underneath his grill. They are a hardy bunch, these city folk, and heal quickly, I imagine.

As I and my wheeled companion neared the end of the shanty town, I let out a breath of thanks that we remained relatively unscathed, though our eternal souls and fineries alike would need a vigorous scrubbing to rid them of the overpowering odor of this place. It is a vigorous stench not unlike the smell of old meat. I climbed back into Little Metal Car and we escaped back to my estate; I, looking forward to a luxurious scrubbing in the bathhouse by my blind servant of vaguely Oriental descent, and Little Metal Car to a warm garage and tune-up by the our colored mechanic, Rastus. He is not a keen man, but he is hard-working and, by God, knows his creamed wheat.

So, fellow Magnates of Water, Electricity, and the Railroads – I hope my tale has further elucidated what you already knew: The scurrying people of our city depend on us to cradle them in our fatherly wings of Christendom, and protect them from dreaming too big, as well as falling too low as to prevent them from tarring our roofs and shoeing our hunting steeds. The cream rises to the top, and it is our duty, as their creamy-skinned protectors, to keep them in the echelons God meant for them. Toil is good for the soul, and we must make their souls goodly for when they meet their maker (they die often, but thankfully, breed like hares).

Sincerely,

Milburn Pennybags

"OPEN RELATIONSHIPS ARE AWESOME" By Egan Rhys NapewoodProfessional Sensualist

Salutation and warm chest-touching hugs to all of you. It is I, Dr. Egan Rhys Napewood again, professor of flesh and emotion, here to fill your mind buckets with meat info.

Let me ask you a question.

Are you in a successful and rewarding long-term relationship?

Is this long-term partner not only your lover, but also your best friend? The one who knows you best; respects and loves you; and supports you in all your endeavors?

If yes, congratulations. You have found something that few can or will, and treasure the richness it brings to both you and your partner’s lives.

But answer me this: Do you also equally treasure having brief sexual encounters with strangers? If you answered “Totally!”, then I have the solution for you.

OPEN RELATIONSHIPS!!!

I stumbled upon this brilliant invention of what surely must be the greatest sexual genius EVER while perusing the Erotica/Catamaran section of Borders (the Erotica section is not large, but it afforded me the opportunity to discover the exciting world of Catamarans).

To explain exactly what an Open Relationship is one must erase their stodgy, social constructs of what a relationship constitutes, and take the sexual equivalent of LSD, which is required to blow one’s mind. Done? Good. Now let me explain.

An Open Relationship is when one has a long-term partner, but also greatly values boffing other people. It goes without saying that these both of these things are equally important. I can’t tell you how many times my spirit has been all : ( because the partner I love doesn’t want me intercoursing with others. Because of my ex-girlfriends’ constrictive, harmful needs regarding where I jiggle my midsection, I have ended many treasured relationships that could have afforded years, even decades of meaningful bonding. Their loss. Am I right? No kidding.

Your first step in pursing an Open Relationship is dumping your current long-term partner. They probably aren’t cool with you dancing the horizontal mosh pit on other peoples’ crotches, so we’ll just take a bath on that one. Now, your second step is finding that same magical connection you found with your ex-long-term partner, but with someone who really likes to do it with people other than yourself. This will take patience, so prepare yourself for a week or two of looking for that special person that completes you.

Now, to honor this new soul mate, you must be 110% honest with them about moving forward with this Open Relationship, and set some rules. Here are some starter questions: Can you do it with other people in you and your partner’s bed? Must you be emotionally monogamous with your partner, too, or can you fall in love with, like, a bunch of people? Since basic biology dictates that your mind, emotions, and body are inseparable since they are all physical structures and processes that interact, is it allowable to begin a long-term relationship with one of your sex partners, and then downgrade your long-term partner to sex partner? These are all important questions that need answering.

Tip: I would recommend making an Excel document signed by both you and your long-term partner so you can refer to your agreement when one of you has a completely irrational reaction to, say, you becoming more and more disinterested in your partner as you slowly whittle away at the emotional bonds that make long-term relationships rewarding. This is a natural hurdle to cross in an Open Relationship, but remember: She signed that Excel doc, and it is a legally binding agreement that says she cannot get upset.

I hope all of you, my students, are excited as I am to explore the heady, volatile world of Open Relationship, and who knows? Perhaps Professor Egan Rhyswood can become a part of your next Open Relationship (no fatties, please). Bless all of you.

Sensually yours,
Egan Rhys Napewood