Save Your Confederate Bills

Part 1 of  2

My good friend Bart, aka Dromedary Hump, aka The Atheist Camel recently posed a question on Facebook about the southern mentality.  The southern United States is often known as the Bible Belt.  We're a - pardon the expression - hot bed of hyper religiosity, ignorance, and outright stupidity.  Throw in low incomes, substandard schools, racism, a lack of intellectual curiosity and just plain stubbornness, and you have yourself a typical redneck.  Bart was curious as to why this is so prevalent in the southern United States.  I can sum it up in two words:  It's complicated.  In fact, it's way too complicated to explain on a Facebook thread, so I must bark about it.

First, let's talk about that Bible Belt business.  If the southern US is the Bible Belt, Arkansas is not the buckle.  It's the name tooled on the back of the belt.  That's another bark altogether, but a true southern redneck is not complete if his/her name is not tooled on the back of his/her belt.  It helps rednecks know who they shacked up with the night before when they got too drunk to see at the honky tonk.  It's also used as a form of identification when cashing checks and when getting pulled over by the cops.  Suffice it to say that the name on the back of the belt is every bit as important as having a buckle bigger than one's head.   

In some areas, there is literally a church on every corner.  Often, it's a Southern Baptist church.  Southern Baptists are not known for tolerance.  Not only do they not tolerate people who are different from them or dare to question their beliefs/directives, they do not tolerate each other.  That is the reason there are so many Southern Baptist churches in the south.  Each individual church claims to be the one that truly adheres to the bible and the other churches' members are all going to hell.  Oh, and they preach hellfire and damnation like nobody's business.  It's all they preach.  Everything is a sin.  Breathing is a sin.  Certainly, anything enjoyable is a sin. 

If Southern Baptists don't trust each other, they sure don't trust other religions.  They'll halfway tolerate almost all other practitioners of other christian beliefs.  It's the "well, at least they're a christian" thing.  That might be a foreign phrase to anyone north of the Mason Dixon line, but we hear it all the time in the south.  Anyone other than a christian might as well be a serial killer as far as the fine, upstanding christians are concerned.  It's always both infuriated and amused me that most christians, and Southern Baptists in particular, are convinced that the Jews are skydaddy's "chosen people"; and yet, they tend to hate Jews.  Except those in Israel, and probably even them.  They support the NATION of Israel because the bible tells them something about woe unto the nation who doesn't support Israel or something like that.  The people of Israel, on the other hand, can take a flying leap as far as most Southern Baptists are concerned.  I'm wandering off topic just  bit, but the gist of what I'm saying is that southerners tend to be leery of anyone whose religious belief differ from their own. 

Our schools leave a lot to be desired.  Many teachers are qualified on paper, meaning that they've obtained the requisite degree and passed the tests to obtain certification, but they don't know a hell of a whole lot themselves.  I know from first-hand experience that some teachers will either avoid a topic entirely or will teach against the text book if the materials deviate from the teachers' own beliefs.  My freshman year of high school, back when the Earth was thawing from the first Ice Age, one of the English teachers refused to teach mythology because it went against her christian beliefs.  Bear in mind that the mythology unit did not include proselytizing on behalf of the ancient deities.  It only introduced us to the ancient deities as characters in classic literature. 

Teachers don't have all of the blame for our substandard schools.  Parents and the students themselves shoulder some of the blame.  In the south, ignorance is a way of life.  Getting away from ignorance is frowned upon greatly.  Intellectual curiosity is not considered an attribute in the south.  Those who try to learn are often discouraged and even browbeaten into falling in line and marching with the rest of the herd.  My own experiences are a prime example.  I am and always was intellectually curious.  I love to learn.  While sitting in a classroom bores me to tears, I love to learn.  Knowledge is a tasty beverage and I want to drink it all up.  A certain relative whose own daughter was neither smart nor pretty (see more on the pretty vs. smart below) wanted to make sure that none of her pretty and/or smart kin succeeded.  She would wait until there were no adult witnesses and then make hateful remarks to the girls of the family who were either pretty or smart or both.  I specifically remember her talking about someone going to engineering school, and when I commented that it sounded interesting, her response was "well, you're not smart enough to do it."  I was nine years old.  Southerners are ate up with that brand of jealousy.  If someone succeeds, you hear a lot of "well, they think they're better than everyone else."  Kids in school will ostracize the kids who do well academically.  Make As and nobody wants to be your friend.  Make Cs and be popular.  The parents of the kids who aren't so bright encourage this behavior from their children.  Chances are the parents themselves aren't too smart and treated their more intelligent peers the same way.  

It's even worse for the female of our species.  Girls can either be pretty or they can be smart.  They cannot be both, and pretty is valued far more than smart in southern society.  Look at Sarah Palin's crowds for proof.  If you can stomach it, go to her Facebook page.  Look at post after post of commentary about how qualified she is because she's pretty.  Her most rabid followers are southerners.  Sadly, there are a lot of southern women out there who have college degrees and are dumber than rocks.  It was all about the sororities and being pretty and popular instead of actually learning. 

Because learning is discouraged, good paying jobs are few and far between.  Once upon a time, a high-school dropout could make a decent living in a factory.  Thanks to NAFTA, those days are gone.  All of the good factory jobs pulled up stakes and headed south of the Rio Grande.  This left a lot of folks with no educations and no aptitude to learn looking for work that is not to be found.  This in turn perpetuates the "you think you're better than me" attitude, which in turn perpetuates people intentionally keeping themselves down.  Then they show up to church on Sunday morning and the preacher tells them that skydaddy is the answer.  Believe in skydaddy and he will bless you.  For every dollar you put in the collection plate, skydaddy will bless you with 10, 100, 1000.  It's those elitists fault you can't get a job.  They want to turn away from traditional American values.  They've turned away from gawd and that's why gawd has turned away from American.  The un/undereducated sitting in the pews eat it up like ice cream.  The educated and employed in the pews tend to have a Calvinistic view of their wealth - they have it because skydaddy blessed them with it. 

Southern people have, well, different ideas about things.  They love skydaddy because they fear skydaddy.  To me, that makes as much sense as a woman who loves her abusive husband because she fears he will beat her.  To the average southerner, the abusive husband scenario makes perfect sense.  You cannot have a reasonable discussion with someone who has that mindset.  The fear of skydaddy's hell is so ingrained in these people that it would take several generations of removal from any exposure to skydaddy at all to be rid of it.  I believe that this contributes to the willful ignorance that is often seen here.  Even allegedly educated people are polluted with willful ignorance when it comes to science versus skydaddy.  They will come down on skydaddy's side every time - not because of proof and hard-core evidence, but because they fear skydaddy will scorch them forever if they don't.  Skydaddy loves them, after all. 

Next week, we'll discuss old times, small times and king cotton.

Rapture Here, Rapture There

He changed his mind.  He likes May 21, 2011 better.

Alright, Moonbats, I know every blogger in the cyber world is writing about the rapture this week.  Ordinarily, I would avoid going along with the crowd; but every now and then I make an exception.  This one is too juicy to not pick (on).

Some fundamentalist loon goon got a bright idea and put himself in charge of a pack of fundamentalist loon goons with IQs lower that his and called this pack of stupidness We Can Know.  Apparently, the whole key to knowing when Jebus is coming for his sheeple is found in some of Paul's natterings.  There's that "no man knoweth" business, but according to the We Can Know geniuses, man means someone who doesn't believe, but believers aren't man.  They are spiritual beings, and thus they can know.  Or something like that.  Reading that bullshit gave me a headache and it didn't make a lick of sense.  The gist of it is that the loon goons have it in their heads that they KNOW Jebus is coming on May 21, 2011. 

I don't believe any rapture is going to happen, primarily because I don't believe in skydaddy, junior, or the righteous spook.  If junior wasn't here in the first place, he can't come back.  However, I'm going to entertain the idea that the skydaddy, et al. are out there and about to swoop.  What will a post-rapture world be like?  I guess the first thing that we non-believers will do is make some sort of statement expressing shock and dismay.  I'll probably say something to the effects of "Well, smack my ass and call me Judy.  The fuckers DO exist."  I might have a momentary second thought about the whole "fuck the righteous spook" thing, being as it would be proven that the righteous spook exists and doesn't forgive being told get fucked.  That will only be momentary, because even if it's proven that the trinity exists, I don't like them.  They're hateful, bloodthirsty, warmongering, egomaniacal, narcissistic asses and I don't want anything to do with them.  I'm pretty sure I'm not the only atheist out there who feels this way.  I'm also pretty sure I'm not the only atheist out there who will be glad to be rid of the fundies.  Let the looting begin!  I've got dibs on the baptist church down the road from me.  It's not a mega-church, but it will fit my purpose.  It has three buildings, a fishing pond, a volleyball court, acreage, woods, and plenty of room.  One of the buildings has a partial basement, and one of the buildings has a gym.  Not only would this be the perfect spot to relocate and set up homesteading, it would be perfect to convert into an animal shelter.  Directly across the road is the office building for a baptist association of something or another.  It's not part of the church, but it's right across the road from it, and just a trot thru the woods from my house.  It's a nice, big building and would be a good house for some member of my atheist family. 

I can't help but believe that we won't experience all of the chaos that the bible says will happen next.  Those of us who will still be here tend to be the rational sort.  We'll have some fun looting their shit, but we'll be civilized about it.  After all, how many flat screen TVs do you really need?  I'm curious what our goverment will look like.  I would hope with the fundies and proseltyzing panderers gone, we would have the best, brightest and most level-headed in top positions.  The one drawback is that if a rapture happens, that means skydaddy exists, and our best and brightest might lose their damn minds and go off the skydaddy deep end.  That would suck, and it would create the chaos that would lead to the tribulation the fundies get giddy about.  Leave it to skydaddy to fuck up a wet dream - ours, not his.  He touches himself at the thought that our intellectuals could turn stupid.  I'm still not going to worry about it because I'll be living the good life in my church converted to a house, taking care of rescued critters, fishing, growing veggies and not putting up with fundies.  Ah, paradise. 

Back to reality.  There is no skydaddy.  There is no impending rapture.  Come May 22, these fundies are going to be babbling every excuse in the book as to why jebus didn't come get them.  For as much as I'd like to see Billygoat Graham finally kick the bucket, I'm going to be real pissed if he does it on May 21.  Someone will proclaim the rapture came and only Billygoat was taken up. 

The Best Laid Plans of Moonbats and Men

But Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often askew,
And leaves us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

                                                                  from To A Mouse by Robert Burns

This past Thursday - May 5 - was the fundies' National Day of Prayer.  It was also Cinco de Mayo.  Just as everyone's Irish on St. Patrick's day and it's an excuse to drink green beer, everyone's Mexican on Cinco de Mayo and it's an excuse to drink muy bueno Margaritas.  Ah, good times, but they are another blog, especially since I didn't get my muy bueno Margarita. 

For those who are unfamiliar with National Day of Prayer, once a year, on the first Thursday in May, the POTUS declares that we fine, upstanding American citizens are to pray.  This lovely bit of legislation, codified as 36 U.S.C. 119, wipes its ass with the Establishment Clause.     That nifty little series of numbers I just threw at you are National Day of Prayer's Federal statute number.  Being a Federal statute, it made it through both houses of Congress, landed on the President's desk, and was signed into law.  Here it is, in all of its blazing glory:

TITLE 36 > Subtitle I > Part A > CHAPTER 1 > § 119

§ 119. National Day of Prayer

The President shall issue each year a proclamation designating the first Thursday in May as a National Day of Prayer on which the people of the United States may turn to God in prayer and meditation at churches, in groups, and as individuals.
**************************************************************************

The 7th Circuit Court of Appeals missed the point recently in overturning the trial court's finding that this is unconstitutional.  You can read about it here.  The point is not that imposes a duty only upon the President.  The point is that Congress enacted a law respecting religion. 

My good atheists use this as National Day of Reason.  Many atheist organizations sponsor activities such as food drives for local hunger relief organizations and homeless shelters, and many sponsor blood drives.  National Day of Reason coincides with the local bar association's Law Week.  I don't know if there's a closet atheist lurking around somewhere, or if it's just a coincidence, but the Bar's blood drive is always on National Day of Reason.  Being a member of the legal profession (paralegal), I take advantage of the Bar's blood drive to give a nice pint of my type A+ atheist blood.  I get to take off work to do this since it's an official Bar function, which is a nifty bonus.  It's always at the Courthouse rotunda.  This year, the boss was going to take me to give my pint of blood while he made an appearance at another part of the Courthouse for some ceremonial something or another.  Here's where the plans go astray.  I won't bore you with my health issues, but I have a fainting disorder.  It causes me to lose consciousness for no apparent reason.  Neither I nor my doctor know all of the causes, but we do know a few things that set it off.  Dehydration / volume depletion is high up on the list.  I know that giving blood causes volume depletion and can cause fainting, so I always load up on Gatorade the day before and day of giving blood.  I had stopped on the way home from work and got my load of neon green goodness so that I could be the answer to some fundy's prayers without causing myself problems in the process.  I go through a glass and working on the next one, sitting at the dinner table, when the husband asks if I'm alright.  No, I'm not.  I've turned ghost white, I'm sweating like a construction worker in late July, and the room is going counter-clockwise.  He gets me to the floor before I go completely out; but giving blood is out of the question this go-round.  I'm pissed.  Really, royally pissed.  I look forward to giving my pint of atheist blood every year.  I always envision some fundy family praying fervently to skydaddy to save their loved one, when, da-da-da-daaaa-da-da, here comes a pint of atheist blood to the rescue.  Yeah, I know they're going to give skydaddy all the credit.  They're not even going to consider that someone put herself at risk of a fainting spell, and oh, I bruise easily, too.  I spend a couple of weeks after giving blood looking like a needle junky gone wild.  I'm not complaining, and I'm not looking for glory.  I do like to make people aware of how priceless a gift a pint of blood is, though.  For the brief physical discomfort I have, someone has a fighting chance at life. 

I just love the irony of it all.  I also wonder how many fundies who have had a loved one whose life was saved by donated blood are also blood donors.  I wonder what they would say if they knew Grandma was getting atheist blood.  I wonder if the phrase "fuck skydaddy and fuck the righteous spook, too" ever crosses the mind of anyone who got a pint of my blood or any of the products possibly made from my atheist blood, such as plasma or packed red cells. 

I'm still so disappointed that I didn't get to give on National Day of Reason.  I'm back to normal, now, and will probably give this weekend.  To the person who gets the blood, it doesn't matter what day I gave.  It only matters that I gave, and I know I should also look at it that way.  I will give on National Day of Reason next year.  I will start loading up with fluid and potassium several days in advance.  And those are the best laid plans of moonbats and men. 

Spooks - Righteous and Otherwise

Today we have yet another chapter in the story of Bob.  I promise not to turn this into a Bob Blog, but I have to share this tidbit of dumbfuckery and the nefarious plot it has spawned. 

Bob (bitter old bitch, for those who haven't read my previous blogs) is a liar.  She lies a lot.  Her problem is that she doesn't have a good memory, which is something a liar really does need.  Years ago, when I first started working at this firm, she told me that the wierdo I replaced had done extensive research on the property on which our building is located, and it was a slave burial ground.  My first thought is why in the hell would she do research on this land?  We're not in the historic district, and the building isn't old.  In fact, my boss had it built.  WTF-ever.  I just blew it off as Bob nattering.  She seems to forget that she's a transplant and I'm a native.  I was also a bit of a museum rat when I was younger and pretty well educated on Little Rock history.  Well, 7 or 8 years go by (or however long Bob was gone - not long enough to make me happy, but long enough that I enjoyed the peace), and Bob's back.  Now, the story is that a lawyer who worked at the firm did research on the land and it was a slave hospital.  WHAT THE FUCK??!!  First, I have a damned good memory.  I might not be able to remember what I walked into a room to get, but I can remember details of a conversation that happened 20 years ago.  Next, slave hospital??????  There was no such thing as a slave hospital.  Slaves either got better or died in the slave quarters.  Now, considering that we're close to the river and to railway access, I would not be surprised to learn that slave labor was utilized for shipping King Cotton.  Nor would I be surprised to learn that slaves died in the area and were possibly buried nearby.  However, the rest of the story should set off every rectal smoke dector within a 5 mile radius. 

The importance of the whole slave burial ground / slave hospital is that Bob is convinced the building is haunted.  The spirits of the slaves inhabit our building.  She hears them, and she smells them.  I'll give to her that sometimes the building has an unpleasant odor, but it has nothing to do with slaves.  Little Rock Municipal Water Works occasionally flushes out the sewer lines in this area and it causes a toilety odor.  Considering they're sewer lines, I would expect such a smell.  A little Febreze goes a long way to solve that problem.  Even seeing the Water Works trucks outside doesn't convince Bob.  She's convinced it's "spirits."  She even told me that she's done an exorcism on the building.  She is truly convinced the place is haunted.  Either that or she thinks I'm as stupid as she looks. 

Now, next delimma.  Bob was supposed to be part-time, temporary help, just helping one of the guys catch up on the filing and paperwork.  When Partner in Crime asked Bob's supervisor when Bob is leaving, supervisor rolls her eyes and says Bob has decided to stay "until God tells her it's time to leave."  Balls Mahoney!  You mean Partner in Crime and I (along with the rest of us poor slobs) have to put up with Bob until skydaddy tells her to give it a rest?  God damn.  Or maybe not.  Being the wicked types, Partner and I cooked up a scheme.  The "executive washroom" that my boss and Bob's boss share has a door from each of their respective offices into the foyer of the bathroom, and then another door to the bathroom itself.  If one of the foyer doors is opened and then closed, it creates a vacuum that pulls the other door closed and makes a loud noise.  Around about 3 every afternoon, everyone on that side of the building is gone except for Bob and me.  Do you see where this is going? 

Partner in Crime and I have decided that every day at around 3, about the time that the ghost of Robert Goulet is messing with my stuff, I'm going to sneak into the bathroom and mess with the doors, then sneak back into my office.  Partner will make some comment to the effects of "did y'all hear a door close" or something.  I feign ignorance, but say it sounded like the bathroom door.  Maybe every now and then strike a match and get that good ol' sulphur smell going, and maybe put a few dead bugs in her office.  Six dead bugs a day for three days.  666.  I wonder if she'll take it to mean that skydaddy is telling her to haul ass?  Or, dog forbid, this could backfire and she'll stick around forever because skydaddy told her we need her to ward off evil spirits. 

Here's Why Your Life is Difficult

Send money and skydaddy will fulfill all your needs.

A few days ago, my niece posted the following as her Facebook status:  "I sometimes wonder why my life is so difficult. I sometimes don't understand this world. I wonder..."  Since I don't think I could say something nice to that, I opted to say nothing at all.  This is one of those situations where it's probably not the time or place.  This particular niece is going through a bad depression, as her mother died approximately six months ago (see my previous blog Eulogy for my Sister-in-Law), and she has a host of other problems.  She was born with physical handicaps - one side of her body is notably smaller that the other.  She has a heart of gold, but mentally, she's a bit slow - not retarded, but a bit slow.  The combination of the good heart and being mentally slow, along with self-esteem issues because of her physical appearance, have rendered her easy prey for the pray.

Like her mother and her grandmother before her, she's horribly infected with the god virus.  I look at these three women and I daresay the god virus is a terminal illness.  I watched my mother-in-law and then my sister-in-law put all their eggs into the skydaddy basket to their own detriment.  Waiting on skydaddy to heal breast cancer shaved years off both their lives.  They both thought all they had to do was pray and believe skydaddy would heal them and they were healed.  It's that whole faith the size of a mustard seed bullshit.  While that faith the size of a mustard seed didn't do jack shit, those tumors the size of a mustard seed grew and becamer something much larger and took on a life of their own until they took the life of their host.  While arguably there is an element of malpractice where my sister-in-law is concerned, had she dealt with the cancer years earlier when it was first detected instead of waiting on skydaddy to do something, the malpractice wouldn't have been an issue because she wouldn't have been in the position for it to happen.  No, I'm not blaming her for what happened, but I'm having trouble getting past that anger stage of grief.  But for the god virus, she would more than likely still be here.  I'm angry with those who spread the god virus.  I'm angry with those who use fear and greed to proliferate the god virus.  I fucking hate those who have profited from infecting others with the god virus. 

This particular niece has possibly one of the worst doses of god virus I've ever seen.  There have been times that but for moving in with relatives, she would have been homeless because of the god virus.  She literally gives ALL of her money to TV preachers.  They talk about how skydaddy will reward you one hundredfold for all you give to him, so she gives all and then gets nothing in return.  She is what the fuckers who profit from spreading the god virus look to find.  Not too smart, self-esteem issues, and people who occupy a significant place in her life who not also fit that bill, but are also ate up with the god virus.  She'd actually gone for quite a while that she was doing alright.  She still believed in skydaddy and all that good stuff, but not to her own detriment.  Since the death of her mother, she's had a bad relapse and is once again starting to reach the point of causing herself harm.  Bear in mind, harm isn't always physical.  She has lost the roof over her head and as I understand is couch surfing, and I note that every day on Facebook she posts some praise skydaddy something as her status.  I hold my tounge for a variety of reasons.  My biggest reason is that if thinking that her mother is in heaven where everything is all that the preachers say it is gives her some comfort in grieving, let her have it.  My other reason is that anything anti-skydaddy I might say would create hard feelings and ill will where it's best to not have those things.  In another time and place, however, I'd probably scream:  "Your life is a clusterfuck because you've given up, sat on your ass, and expect your imaginary skydaddy to provide all your needs for your entire existence.  The fucker isn't there.  He doesn't exist, and if he did exist, he's a bastard and he would touch himself at the thought of telling you no every time you ask for something.  He'd flat out beat his meat watching you suffer because of his no answer.  Don't believe me?  Read the fucking bible.  No, really, read it.  Don't tell me what your pastor said about it.  Read it.  Look at how he gets off on hurting people.  The sooner you realize that the bible is nothing more than man's account of war and natural disaster and using a made-up deity and a made-up demon as a scapegoat for it all, the better off you'll be.  Snap the fuck out of it."

All factors considered, that conversation won't take place.  In the alternative, I'd like to kick every living preacher square in the nuts...repeatedly.  They do this kind of harm to people with no remorse.  It doesn't bother them to take from someone who doesn't have it to give and simply tell the poor soul skydaddy will bless them. 

The Story of Bob

As promised in my last bark, today I will give you the story of the Bitter Old Bitch I not so affectionately refer to as Bob.  Maybe I should take it easy on her, because if I was her, I'd be bitter and bitchy, too.  She's about five-foot-nothing, weighs around 200 pounds, and wears ugly, orange foundation makeup - a thick, heavy coat spackled on.  She looks like a goddamned oompa loompa.  Bear in mind that I'm not a superficial person and tend to look for the inner beauty; however, there is none to be found here. 

Bob is from New York City.  She is the living embodiment and epitome of each and every stereotype that anyone from the south ever had about folks from the north.  Prior to the internet and social networks, most of us from the southern US didn't have a lot of contact with people north of the Mason-Dixon line.  We tend to not travel much, and when we do, we either go to California or stay south of the Mason-Dixon.  Our contact with people from north of the Mason-Dixon line - yankees, if you will - was when they moved here.  We called them goddamned yankees.  The reason for this is that as a general rule, the minute their feet hit southern soil, they immediately proceeded to start bossing us around, tell us all about what we have wrong with us, what's wrong with our culture, our ways of life, our weather (as if mere mortal man controls that), and our speech.  Their voices all sound like Kyle's mother from Southpark.  Social networks, starting with the old MSN groups, has been a breath of fresh air to those of us with an open mind, as we can see first-hand that not everyone from the north is a rude asshole.

Now that you've had a bit of a background on why we southerners had a stereotype of what northerners are all about, let's get back to Bob.  Bob moved here at the age of 50-something.  She said she had to because her parents moved here.  What the fuck?  It would have been different if she'd been 15 and her parents moved here, but 50?  Her voice does indeed sound like Kyle's mom from Southpark.  In fact, every time she opense her mouth I want to sing the Kyle's mom is a bitch song.  She is bossy, nosey, sneaky and two-faced, and those are her good qualities.  If her lips are moving, she's either lying about something or complaining about something, or putting someone down.  She makes fun of the way I talk, oblivious to the fact that in this area, I don't "talk funny," she does.  I wish the oompa loompa bitch would get a boil directly on her asshole.  Then she could have a pain in the ass in addition to being a pain in the ass.  Partner in crime and I have almost decided to each pee in a cup and then pour it into the carpet under Bob's desk.  That'd give her something to bitch about. 

Now that I've vented my spleen about how bad I hate Bob, I'll move on to something interesting.  I've said before that Arkansas is not the buckle of the bible belt; we're the name tooled on the back of the belt.  However, the southern US doesn't have the market cornered on religious nut jobs.  Bob is a more whacked-out fundy than my grandmother.  That there is a mighty powerful statement.  The thing is, it's a brand of whacked-out fundamentalism that I've never seen.  She's xtian, but she's heavy-duty into all things Jewish.  It would be understandable if she was a Jewish person who converted to xtianity but held onto the Jewish customs, but she's not Jewish/Semitic.  Granted, my knowledge of Judaism is very limited.  I know that it is the father of the Abrahamic beliefs and it's two bastard children (xtianity and islam) are little motherfuckers.   I know there are dietary rules, but I don't know what they are.  Bob wears all sorts of jewelry with xtian and Jewish emblems, has nattered something about prayer shawls, and her bumper is polluted with jebus fish and all sorts of stickers about the buybull says support Israel.  I wouldn't give two hoots in hell what she believes except for the fact that she wants to convert everyone.  She believes Benny Hinn.  She agrees with Fred Phelps about America being "doomed" because we're becoming tolerant of gay people.  And she's convinced our building is haunted.  She says she can smell the spirits.  I think she's just trying to blame after she let out a silent but deadly. 

Whenever I comment that the bad behavior of fundies amazes me, I have to stop and ask myself why it amazes me.  After all, skydaddy is one sorry fucker and apples don't fall far from the tree.  Bob is no exception.  The golden rule is a one-way street to her.  She believes others should treat her as they would want to be treated, but she is under no obligation to reciprocate.  And that is what started the shennanigans with me and Partner in Crime.  Bob just couldn't leave it alone.  She just couldn't mind her fucking business and do her fucking job.  Nope.  She had to mouth off about the collection box for cans to be recycled, the fact that we've had the same fax number for as long as we've been in business, bitched about the coffee pot, follows partner in crime around just staring at her (very weird), and then, the last straw, squawking about my chair AFTER hearing me mention that I needed a can of WD-40 to fix the squeeky wheel.  I've about decided that Bob is a squeeky wheel, and a hunk of limburger cheese dropped down behind her filing cabinet might be good grease.

So Much For A Little Fun

This mentality is more prevalent that you think.

Today's bark was going to be about the creature from hell that has invaded/reinvaded my office.  A turn of events has made that bark take a back seat.  The creature from hell does factor into today's bark, which is now going to be a two-parter.  The next part will be a prequel of sorts to today's episode. 

First, the cast of characters.  There's me, my sidekick and partner in crime, the creature from hell, and the brain-damaged fundy.  The creature from hell will be referred to as Bob - short for Bitter Old Bitch.  Bob was the receptionist at my firm when I went to work there 14 years ago.  She's been gone for 10 years, and she's back doing some part-time clerical work for one of the guys in the building.  She a fundy, nosey, bossy, bitchy, bitter, has a nasaly voice that sounds like a chicken squawking.  Brain-damaged fundy will factor in later.

A wheel on my chair needed to be oiled and was making a particularly obnoxious noise if I rolled around too fast.  I was getting up from my desk and the wheel squawled.  Bob's office is down the hall from mine, and she started squawking, "what was that?  What was that?"  Her voice is like the sound of someone scratching their nails down a chalkboard at a farting contest.  Gilbert Gottfried!  That's it!  She sounds like Gilbert Gottfried.  She kept squawking "what was that" for several minutes until I yelled out "FOR FUCK'S SAKE, IT'S MY CHAIR."  She squawked out something that I chose to ignore (probably complaining because I say fuck a lot) and I went about my business. 

Later that afternoon, I tell Partner in Crime about it.  I was still annoyed.  I told Partner in Crime that I was half tempted to go stand outside Bob's office and rip a loud one and let her squawk what was that about it.  Partner in Crime gets an evil look on her face, holds up three fingers and whispers in a scary movie voice:  "Three days.  You die."  I laughed until I about pissed myself.  That got Partner in Crime laughing.  About the time we'd quit, one of us would start laughing again, and so it went for the rest of the day.  We decided it's like The Ring, only it's The Fart, and instead of seven days, we only give you three.  We're bitches like that and we like it that way.

The next morning, I walk in and devilishly whisper "two days."  The giggling starts.  Then we decide we want to make a you tube of our juvenile shenanigans.  The Fart comes from the chicken-chokin' Wanker Monkey with a devil's moustache and tail. 

Chicken Chokin' Wanker Monkey

If you hear chicken-chokin' Wanker Monkey rip one, you die in three days.  This was a Friday and the adult supervision (aka the bosses) gone, so we spent the day fucking off on Facebook with Wanker Monkeyshines.  Two grown women who are rather girly spending the day making juvenile fart jokes about a Wanker Monkey who kills off an old biddy with evil, supernatural farts and putting it all on Facebook for others to laugh at, too.  Happy times.

Well, we thought happy times until someone sends Partner in Crime a private message.  The message nattered on that he didn't want to say anything at first, but we're uplifting Satan and there's no innocent fun involved if we're uplifting Satan.  He then went on about skydaddy would do something bad to Partner's child if she continued to uplift Satan.  Yeah, he used that "uplift Satan" language a lot.  Partner in Crime got pissed at the fundy, deleted all of the posts from her wall, and the good mood was gone.  Fundy is a parental unit for Partner in Crime, so that accounts for her fun being ruined.

I held my tongue.  No benefit would have come from talking smack about Partner's parent at that moment.  She was already hurt enough.  However, I was pissed.  I wanted to choke Fucktard and scream at him.  We cannot uplift that which does not exist.  It blows my mind that some people out there are so fucked up about kissing skydaddy's ass that they have tunnel vision.  Chicken chokin' Wanker Monkey with a devil's moustache and tail is somehow "uplifting Satan."  What the fuck ever.  If Satan existed, he'd be laughing his red ass off at our shenanigans.  Then, there's the whole business of skydaddy doing something to Partner's child because he's pissed at Partner.  Who would want to worship a bastard like that?  You've uplifted my enemy, so I'll kill your child.  Fucker. 

I felt really bad for Partner in Crime.  We'd been having fun all day long - a well deserved Fuckoff Friday.  Then she gets that message from parental unit.  To see how it upset her that he acted like that upset me.  It has to suck to have a parent that ate up with skydaddy syndrome.  There is no innocent fun, just kiss skydaddy's ass.  Never mind the fact that she's a grown woman, it's still a tragedy to see a parent shoving their fears and superstitions down their child's throat.  He wrote in his message:  "Think about your child.  Do you want any harm to come to her because you're uplifting Satan?" 

How about this, Fundy Fucktard.  Think about YOUR child.  Do you want any harm to come to her because you're a tunnel-visioned, superstitious asshat?  Never mind.  Don't answer that.  Your actions already have.   

Next bark:  The Story of Bob