WHY I AM NOT A HUMANIST

I can’t say that Humanist have upset whatever idea of Heaven I held dear, but it must said that theirs is a collective habit of showing up at any weenie roast you and your buddies and gal pals might plan on an asphalt driveway in the La Mesa suburbs and informing you and your collected pals in pleasure that the virtues Americans ascribe to a God who communicates only through costumed ritual are merely the frightened projects of qualities native in humanity itself. You know exactly what I’m talking about, smirking , shapeless freaks in second hand loafers and coke bottle lenses sliding down both long and snub noses, smirking a line of yellow teeth while insisting that there is no God nor a good grilled sandwich within a thousand mile radius of Dogpatch. Your entourage forgets the weenies they roasted and pick up whatever spatulas and paper knives they can find within their wrathful grasps and then they all stand up and do a rank Hatchy Patchy dance. And they the sirens, the goddamn sirens go off and the next thing you know all the stations have racist caricatures of Native Indians in full head dress plastered on your home TV, although others do fancy a headshot of George Michael in fuck you shades sticking his snout into a fish-eyed lens, a little something for the kids under the bridge listening to disc jockeys bust their nuts from old transistor radios. What a scene. This is why I am not a humanist. But one cannot stop there, there needs to be mention of the gasping blandness of a kitty chew toy squeaking under the dining room table on Wipeout Wednesdays, the stack of Bent Fabric vinyl albums next to the woodchipper in the lean to attached to garage with wood doors that have sagged with the weight of age and no longer close all the way, the gazebo fiestas neighbors arrange for 3 A.M. starting points just when you reach that perfect state of REM sleep, the dead dog that remains buried all those covers you provide yourself with when you are out of chocolate, mother of Gabriella’s Lotto Ticket Extreme, that’s a whole lotta Lenya going on in the average American male’s pant leg, don’t you know? All my best friends are recycled last lines of home movies when the film gets stuck and the image just burns up in a very cool manner that is Hindenburg Mangoes to the zitsburg compound. I am a libertarian over all else, which means I will pay for my own goddamned sins with the money I invested in the carpool .I mean, what, huh?? Dig it, chump.