Yes folks, I've gone and got religion! Halle-frickin'-loola!
It happened, Gentle Reader, thusly…
Having spent a few hours wandering around the house, bored out of me skull, this afternoon, I finally hit upon something to while away some time.
"I know," I thought, "I'll get religion. How hard can it be?"
Turns out it's not difficult at all. I mean, I'd always assumed that to believe in something you've seen no evidence for would be, well, pretty damn hard, but nope! According to several theists… Oops, I s'pose I should say "other theists," now. According to several other theists I've spoken to lately, it's merely a matter of choice. Just like Pascal implied, all I have to do is choose to believe, and I'm a believer. Wahay!
So, "Okay," I thought, "I believe. Now; what do I believe?"
Well, casting around for some ideas, it soon became apparent that the majority verdict would definitely be in favour of the Abrahamic god, in one of his many and varied hats. Thing is though, that cat's just plain nasty! Plus I've never been one for hangin' with the in-crowd, y'know? Plus there's all that shit about talking snakes, worldwide floods and so forth. And, in the Christian version, what's all that three-in-one mumbo-jumbo? Jesus H, but that's some crazy crap you guys believe. Maybe it's 'cause my belief-muscles haven't been used for forty-odd years? Maybe I need to work up to the big stuff? Whatever; there's no way I'm eating that apple in one bite. So to speak.
Well, long story short, I decided, eventually, that I like the ancient Egyptian idea of a corporeal, personified god. And—with yet another long story cut mercifully short—I decided to worship Barry Duke. No, not the speedway rider. This Barry Duke.
"Hold on a minute," I can hear you saying. "You can't confer godhood that easily!"
Well it turns out that I can; and believe me when I say, Gentle Reader, that I was as surprised by this as you will be, when I found how easy it was.
All I have to do is personally define the godhood of The Great Lord Barry,
Scourge Of The Spaceways Ruler Of The Universe, as "uncaused and necessary," and lo and behold, he is, of necessity, a god. The god, in fact.
Plus—and you'll like this one!—if you put "barry's coming" into Google, you'll find pages and pages of results; most of them not even of a sexual nature, but actually referring to the imminent arrival of a person (or, as I contend, a god) named Barry. Prophecy! His goodhood is foretold by Saint Google!
Don't blame me! I didn't make it up, and it's your fault, not mine, if you don't follow the logical, erm, necessity of the arguments. I have been assured many, many times that this is perfectly good theological logicky talk.
And did you notice? This religion's only a few hours old, and already it has its first saint. Damn, but this belief stuff is easier than I thought!
So, anyway, "Why Barry Duke?" you may be forgiven for asking. (And I do forgive you.)
Well, I took a look at the False-God Yahweh and decided that, morally speaking, I wanted to worship a being who is everything the False-God most definitely isn't. And vice-versa.
Barry, to date, has not been known to drown an entire planet. Admittedly this could change, should unlimited supplies of alcoholic beverages become available to The Great Lord Barry, but we'll cross that bridge—or possibly build a much higher one, in some haste—when we come to it.
The only rule Barry has, regarding the ownership of slaves, is: don't.
The only rule Barry has, regarding stoning people to death, is: don't.
The only rule Barry has, regarding tricking a town full of men into being circumcised, killing them whilst they're still in pain, killing any non-virgin women and abducting and raping the virgins, is: don't.
Barry doesn't care who you have sex with, as long as all parties involved are happy to be involved.
Barry believes in equality for all, in all things.
Barry, though, doesn't even know he's a god. Barry doesn't need to know he's a god. All that's required is that I, and the millions yet to join me, should worship Barry as a god.
That said, Barry will soon find out, to his regret, that he is indeed a god, for this is my other reason for proclaiming his godhood…
I have a twisted and ironic sense of humour.
Barry is one o' them there nasty god-denying, baby-eating atheist bastards.
Barry will find out, to his shame, that a god does indeed exist and that he is the living, walking proof of this, when my 6:00 AM prayers smash through his depraved atheistic dreams and reverberate around his god-self-hating head, waking him, much too early, into the living hell of his hedonistically-acquired, atheistic-nihilistic-lifestyle-engendered hangover. Every. Single. Morning. Take that, Atheist scum!
Oh, and one final thing. I demand that I should be legally allowed to ignore any uniform-code which an employer might wish me to abide by, in favour of the Church of Barry's mandatory hot-pink leather cowboy suit. This is my right—my right, I tell you!—as a believer in the one and only true god.
Right then—that's all for now. I'm off to unlearn everything I ever knew about grammar and punctuation. Apparently it's a mandatory requirement for committed fundamentalism.
Yours in newfound belief,
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