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Two older gentlemen come to the door and talk to me about Jesus. They are an improvement on my last Religious Zealots. I like the look of them. They have on their Sunday best, which is out of fashion, and worn at the elbows, but they look like nice, kindly fellows, and they both wear hats. I like hats. I’m cheering for a major comeback in men’s hats.
I would like to say we had a nice talk. It was pleasant, but not much of a conversation. I ask a few questions, but they do most of the talking. We are operating on their agenda, not mine, and the theme today is Satan, and how he controls politicians and governments.
I don’t believe in God or the Devil. I politely interject this into our conversation, because it seems highly relevant, but it doesn’t appear to have any effect on the prepared dialogue. A guy who starts selling you a vacuum cleaner, before he asks if you have carpets, is a bad salesman.
I nod and listen attentively until they have concluded their business. Truthfully, it feels like I keep them longer than they intended, and my questions drag them off the point, although I’m never sure what that is. Are they trying to inspire me, scare me, save me, or is this not about me? Is this for their benefit? Does our meeting accomplish something, because I’m not sure what that might be.
They leave me with reading material which elaborates on the-Devil-is-running-the-world motif of our conversation, which feels one dimensional. So, God does not run any of it? That just makes him sound lazy and apathetic.
The pamphlet also warns against astrology, fortune telling, and Ouija boards. It is not clear if it is only Ouija boards that are the work of demons, or if other Parker Brothers games, like Monopoly, are also a risk. I am understandably concerned. I’ve passed “Go” and collected $200 on more than one occasion.
I search the pamphlet for a website to do further research, but it only lists a postal box in Ontario. No website, and the copyright is dated 1992. Jesus needs an editor and a better Marketing department.
As always, I am fascinated and confused by people that come to my door to hand me religious propaganda. It seems like an entirely unproductive way to spend your time. I am probably missing the point. I really liked their hats though.
Is God willing to prevent evil, but not able? Then he is not omnipotent. Is he able, but not willing? Then he is malevolent. Is he both able and willing? Then whence cometh evil? Is he neither able nor willing? Then why call him God? – Epicurus
Related Post: If you liked this one read my first post about Religious Enthusiasts.
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We must walk to the end of our street and around the row of houses to get to the dog park. Well, I walk, the dogs like to run, it takes them about thirty seconds. Keeping them in check for the short walk is more bother than it is worth, but letting them run ahead puts them in danger of traffic, and into the park a full minute ahead of me. So I make them wait.
I lost my innocence last week. A person I don’t know went out of their way to tell me I sucked. I got my first heckler.
I began to write in the cheapest notebooks I could find. Coil bound things I bought for about two dollars. The contents evolved into something that was worth more than two bucks to me. This began my search for an alternative that has resulted in a virgin sacrifice.
Each book comes with an insert that tells the history of the “legendary notebook used for the past two centuries by great artists and thinkers, including Vincent Van Gogh, Pablo Picasso, Ernest Hemingway, and Bruce Chatwin.” I understand the marketing slant, but for fuck sakes. Great literature has also been created using ink jet printers, but I don’t think they share the credit.
I wrote about Mya for selfish reasons. It was cathartic. I thought a few people I know would be interested in the news, but thousands and thousands of people read about Mya, more than have ever come here before. Some people, most of whom I have no other connection to, were touched, and went out of their way to share personal stories, email good wishes, and generally to say lovely things. That is unexpected, and it moved me.
I have a poor memory for details, which is a polite way of saying I am both unobservant and forgetful. My wife recalls things I rarely do, or never noticed in the first place. This frustrates her. We often have conversations she begins by saying, “Remember when…” but, or course, I don’t, so they end with, “It’s a wonder you find your way home at the end of the day.”
Many friends of Michelle and I have newborns. As we tour our old stomping grounds in Edmonton, visiting from house to house, it becomes clear that we are the victims of a conspiracy. Each baby contrives to portray its very best: smiling, giggling, interactive, and beautiful. Driving away at the end of the day, after five of these sessions, I look at my wife and say something for the first time in my life, “I want to have a baby.”
Chicken Pox never goes away, it lays dormant in your spine. It can reactivate and travel from its hideout along a nerve until it gets to the skin and makes you itchy and miserable, just like it did when you were a kid. This fascinating information I learned after the doctor informed me that I have a case of Shingles.