Letter to God, part four.

God:

Happy Veteran's Day! I figured this day would mean much more to you than anyone else seeing as so many people have fought battles in your name.
How do you choose sides? If Christians and Muslims are strapping bombs to their chests, how do you decide whose dynamite malfunctions and whose body gets blown into a bloody mass? Football must be easy because I'm sure you have a coin or something that you toss, but holy wars must be a difficult thing to determine the outcome of. One of my friends tells me that you probably choose the group who go to church the most, but I disagree because nobody like a kiss-ass. I have a theory, and correct my if I'm wrong, that the group who you favor in battle is the one who has murdered the least amount of people. It seems to make the most sense since murder is a mortal sin. I would appreciate any insight.
Enjoy your day off!

Phil

Goodbye, cruel world. Do you need anything while I'm out?

My official last day at Longfellow Elementary came and passed this week. I'm leaving behind some great friends and some great kids. However, this sudden change has inspired me to pursue by next big project: Earning my masters degree in Televangelism.
It came to me on Friday. I thought to myself, "You know, Phil, you're really being taken advantage of in this situation." After I replied, "I know!" I continued. "Just imagine- someone is being paid lots of money to do this to you. You could be that person taking advantage of others!"
This morning I met with the executive producers of the CBN and gave a power point presentation for my idea. My show would consist of the following elements:

1. A giant cross with the words "He is risen... what have you done lately?"
2. Baptisms by special celebrity guests.
3. Holy water guns for the kids.
4. Communion PB and J.
5. Piggy banks in the shape of Jesus instead of offeratory plates.
6. Go-go dancers to accompany all hymns.

The pilot episode will be aired this Sunday.

Letter to God, part three.

God:
I really admire the way you struck down the tower of babel in the old testament. I did the same thing when I discovered a nest of hornets on my patio. I thought it was fair. You really don't need people up in your business like that. I also thought that dismantling our language so that no one could understand each other was a nice touch. It was like saying, "And stay out!" without actually having to say it. That was very diplomatic.

Did you intend for the destuction of our language to continue over thousands of years, and if so, are you slowly turning the language sections of our brains into hummus? The reason I ask is because I've noticed a startling increase in the frequency of the word "thingy" when people speak. At work yesterday I was asked to send the "thingy" down to the office. My mechanic told me this morning that I needed a new "thingy" because my old one didn't work anymore. And at church the congregation was asked to put money in the "thingy" that was being passed around.

I fear that one day nouns won't work anymore. I fear that one day I'll ask someone to pass the salt and I'll be viciously attacked because I'll be mistaken for a Frenchman. If you decide not to halt the dillusion of our language, please consider giving me bigger muscles.

Best Wishes,

Phil Atherton

Letter to God, part two.

God:

Thank you for replying to my last letter so quickly. And yes, I will be sure to tell everyone I know that all letters to you should be business format.
How is Mrs. God? Tell her that the brownies she sent me were fantastic. Did I detect a hint of nutmeg?
I appreciate the answer to my question about the colors of the rainbow. I didn't realize that it was actually made of several thousand colors but you created our eyes to group colors into distinct groups. That's very interesting.
I have another question for you. Could you tell John the Baptist to take me off of his mailing list? It's nothing personal. The jokes he sends are very funny, especially the ethnic ones, but I don't like the chain mail he sends. I understand that it's all in good fun, but I don't like being told that my crops won't grow for two years if I don't forward his message.
Enjoy your trip to Athens.

Cordially,
Phil Atherton

Letter to God, part one.

Dear God,

I wasn't sure if this letter should be business format or friendly format. It is, after all, my first time writing to a deity if you don't count the letter I sent to Poseidon after Hurricane Katrina. Perhaps for my first request you could let me know how I should format letters to you in the future.
I've decided that e-mail might be the best way to contact you. I tried to text message you a few weeks ago, but I may have accidentally sent it to my friend Gary whose name is near yours in my list of contacts. I've also become aware of the possibility that my prayers may not be penetrating the vast amounts of radio waves in the atmosphere.
I'm writing to you today because my friend and I were having a philosophical debate that I was hoping you could clarify. My friend says that there are seven colors in the rainbow while I say there are only six. Who the hell really looks at a rainbow and says, "What a lovely shade of indigo"? Who goes to Home Depot to ask for a paint that is an exact match for the indigo which appears in rainbows? Even a leprechaun defending his fabled pot of gold could tell you that there is no indigo. There are three primary colors and the three secondary colors which fit nicely inbetween them to create a circle of monochromatic harmony. Everyone knows that indigo is a tertiary color. A solitary tertiary color among several primary and secondary colors disrupts circles and creates polygons.
I know that you are very busy helping football teams win games, appearing in loaves of bread in Mexico, and trying to discourage people from killing in your name, but I hope you find time to answer my question. TTYL.

Phil

Why I Hate Mondays

I hate Mondays.

"Yeah, who doesn't," you say.

Well, people who have Mondays off, for one.

Unfortunately, my job begins its week on Mondays. So do most. And most people drive the same way to work on Monday mornings as I do. Or so I thought.

My least favorite thing about Monday mornings is the traffic. People drive 35 miles an hour on the freeway for no apparent reason. Two people almost hit me at the same time this morning. No one honked. I found this a particularly strange event for Phoenix. I've never known anyone to fart without getting honked at. So I looked into one of the cars which I thought contained a working drone, such as myself. Then it all became clear. I knew then why Monday morning drives are so terrible. I knew why traffic was so god damned slow. I knew why no one seemed to have any idea what the hell was going on.

I thought the man inside may have been eating a pop tart. Perhaps it was a granola bar. No. It was a human arm.

This man was a zombie.

When I got to work I did some research on my computer. According to Wikipedia, the zombies make their way back down out of the hills in Globe to their homes in the cemetaries of the valley. Needless to say, I was only mildly surprised. If zombies were going to come from anywhere, it would be Globe.

So you've decided to spread filth and disease.

Humans are a fascinatingly disgusting species. We've existed on this planet for over ten million years, and it wasn't until about five hundred years ago that a plague killed millions of us and someone finally said, "I reckon we better start washing our hands and leaving our feces in some place other than the street."

Unfortunately, 9.95 million years into our existence was a little late for this kind of epiphany. You can't even look at another person anymore without contracting Hepatitis E (that's hepatitis of the eyes for those of you who aren't medical students). In efforts to better control sickness I've been working closely with the FDA and the NRA. Together, we've developed a super-antibiotic that will protect anyone from anything. It's actually a combination penicilin/ microscopic robotic army. We call it the ROBIOTIC. And here's how it works:

1. Defrost the robiotic in a microwave safe container.
2. Mix the robiotic with a glass of cool water. Be sure to drink quickly while the water is still fizzing.
3. The robiotic enters through the lining of your stomach and into the blood stream in a fleet of tiny pirate ships.
4. The robots, armed with ray guns and chainsaws, are programmed to savagely and inhumanely torture and destory all foreign substances (it is stongly recommended that expectant mothers check with their doctors before using the robiotic).
5. After all threats are eliminated, the robot fleet returns to your softest and most comfortable organs where they remain in suspended animation until the next threat is detected.

So you've decided to freeze yourself in carbonite (pt. 2).

Been having a lot of strange dreams. I figure it's because I'm in a vegetative state.

I actually found out recently that broccoli can sense pain. I find this ironic because vegans, to avoid killing something, have to eat a lot of broccoli to get their iron. And here they are, the genocidal bastards, killing every helpless broccoli they can get their malnurished hands on! You patchouli stinking twits make me sick! What's even more ironic is that the word "ironic" contains the word "iron", which actually isn't ironic at all but simply a funny coincidence.

I trust the world is falling apart nicely. I'll be ignoring it if you need me. Tally ho.

So you've decided to get yourself eaten.

It occurred to me in a meeting as I was about to bite in to my tastey snack, a goldfish brand cracker. I felt suddenly perverse and ill to my stomach as the little fish smiled back at me. Then I thought of other foods that smile before you eat them: gingerbread men, gummy bears, chocolate santa clauses, etc. It really started to bother me and in disgust I tossed my goldfish brand cracker across the room where it shattered in a wastebasket.

The smiling foods bother me for one important reason: it's about to be devoured. Would you smile like an idiot if someone were about to crush you between their teeth, swallow your cadaver, and digest you without a moment's hesitation? Now don't get me wrong. I don't feel sorry for my smiling treats. I feel cheated. A smiling snack takes away the thrill of the hunt. I want my food to be terrorized as it nears my mouth. There's no fun in eating something that doesn't fear you. Prey should fear its predator!!!

That is all for today. Phil out.

So you've decided to stare.

I don't know about the rest of you, but I was a raised so that I knew it was rude to stare. I generally don't find people that interesting of a subject. Once you've seen one human you can bet money that the next one you see will be pretty much the same. Most of us could pick one out in a police line-up of mammals. So why is it that people feel the need to stare at each other?
There are two interesting facts about my apartment complex: 1. None of the toilets flush properly. 2. Everyone who lives here takes an interest in staring at me.
I've been in the works of contructing a suit made entirely of mirrors in hopes that when people stare at me and see their reflections they'll be so appalled by their idiotic expressions they'll feel compelled to take one of the mirrors from my suit and mutilate their own faces. Then I got a better idea.
In a fit of rage one day, I made moose ears with my hands and stuck out my tongue. To my surprise and self-disgrace, the person looked away. I thought it was a fluke so I tried it a few more times, but i shot every staring mother fucker down with my tongue! And if someone is brave enough to stand up to you and ask you why you did it, try this: stick it out again, this time rolling it up. Phil 1... World 0.

So you've decided to freeze yourself in carbonite (part 1).

Friends, I've recently realized my destiny and it is to awaken in a post apocalyptic future where apes and men coexist in decaying civilization.

I had this epiphany a few nights ago during a "Girls Gone Wild" television ad. In that commercial I saw reflected all of the idiocy and de-evolution of my fellow man. In disgust, I changed the channel to TBS and watched the last hour of Mad Max. That's when I realized: I want to eat dog food and blow shit up.

It really makes a lot of sense. I like nature and I like industrial music. What better way to bring the two together than to abolish all forms of government and social structure, and throw a bunch of charred metal all over the place. So I'm freezing myself until the year 2074.

It's been real. It's been fun. But it hasn't been real fun.

So you've decided to sell crack and eat top ramen.

Wal-Mart, as many of you know, is the gateway to hell. At first I considered making this blog an indictment of the political wrongdoings of a corporation whose sole purpose is to assist in the destruction of our economy while simultaneously exploiting their employees. However, I realized that there's this concept called 'supply and demand'. Just as Hitler was able to rise through the overwhelming indifference of a nation, Wal-Mart was able to rise through the the missing chromosomes of its customers.

I don't shop at Wal-Mart but I like to spend time there. I like to spend time there when I feel really bad about myself like when I start fight with my girlfriend over something trivial or I accidentally run over a bunny.

After fifteen minutes and seeing missing teeth, missing hair, extra hair, extra fingers, hundreds of pounds shoved into spandex, drawn-on eyebrows, children on leashes, food court hookers, vomiting alcoholics, coinstar tweekers, women who could be men, pregnant fourteen year-olds, grandmothered thirty year-olds, people who support the troops in Iraq who can't find Iraq on a map, people who can't find Arizona on a map, people who think a map is what you use to clean floors with, Vietnam vets who insist on testing the paint ball guns before purchasing, and people who wait in line for three days to buy new video game systems I like John D. Rockefeller.

So you've decided to commit a hate crime.

It occurred to me recently that deeming someone "Emo" is apparently the biggest joke of 2006.

This was after, a) getting an email that it was national kick-an-emo-kid's-ass day in april, b) the word 'emo' became the eleventh most popular word in the subject of my incoming emails, and c) i attended an emo-themed party in which no one actually listened to nor played any emo music.
I think the reason for this is that we always need a group to make fun of. World peace will simply never break out because there's always going to be a bunch of twits in high school doing something no one else likes or understands. And those kids always retaliate. I give to you the history of laughed-at high school groups.

60 bc: Small group of Roman high school kids made fun of for their new cutting edge, closely cropped hair style, popularized by their friend Julius
49 bc: Julius Caesar becomes emperor, sets new political standards on hair cuts. Has high school friends positioned in senate. Kills thousands.

17 ad: Jesus walks on water in a failed attempt to 'cannon ball' into the lap pool. Is made fun of by peers, disappears to India for ten years.
313 ad: Chicks dig Christianity. Becomes official religion of Rome, followed by hundreds of years of merciless killings.

Early 14th Century: Members of 'rat club' at Rome Valley High persecuted for obvious reasons.
Mid 14th Century: 'Black Death' spreads across Europe. Kills Millions.

1935: 'Conspiracy Club' at Boston High takes numerous made-fun-of-ings.
1963: Kennedy assassinated.

Early 21st Century: Kids who listen to 'Emo' made fun of for their sad eyeliner, androgynous haircuts, and avoidance of eye contact with anyone.
Mid 21st Century: Legions of 50-ft eye-lined robots destroy Earth. Billions left homeless.

So you've decided to eat a sandwich.

I'm standing in line at Blimpie on a Saturday afternoon and there's a man sitting at a table talking to himself. I have one thought. This man is going to try to begin a conversation with me. How do I know? Out of twenty customers, how do I know he's going to choose me? Because people who like to talk to themselves also like to talk to me. I must have the appearance of a beloved childhood friend that everyone once had. While I'm trying to figure this out, he comes and stands next to me. He looks at me, then down at the counter. At me, then up at the television. Then me again. I turn my head as he burns his gaze into my hair like he's going to make crop circles. And he says to me, "Where do you stand?" I'm speechless as I think this question over. The question seems strangely profound.
I remember all of the conversations I've had with homeless people and street crazies. One man imparticular once told me he was the King of America, so I heard him out. He talked for about ten minutes, ending his rant with, "because I'm the King of America." I just looked at him and said, "No you are not. If you were the King of America you'd have a crown or a harem or a procession following you around and picking up your shit for you or a neclace made of infant skulls or something. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? You're so dirty I can't even tell what your ethnicity is. You only have six teeth and you have a tattoo of one of the Allman brothers on your forearm."
But this man said this one sentence to me and I had no response. I couldn't even think of anything sarcastic to say like, "Same place you stand, o' slave of Newtonian physics." Then he left. I thought about his question all the way home and honestly couldn't think of an answer. I mean, I know what I believe in and I know what I want... don't I? Do I have a good short answer for that question? An answer that sums up my whole existence? When I'm dying will I be able to say to the nurses and the doctors and my family, "This is where I stand"? And what if at the ivory gates I'm being asked the same question by St. Peter? "Philip Atherton, where do you stand?"
In retrospect I should have been more socratic and answered his question by asking him the same question. I might have learned something. Or possibly have been stabbed in the heart with his plastic fork.

So you've decided to do something else to piss me off.

For as long as the sun shall rise... for as long as the seas shall wave... for as long as unfamiliar meats shall taste like chicken... there will be things that will piss me off.
My new one, fans of the MySpace music profiles, would be bands that classify themselves as 'experimental' that are not experimental.
If you're an Englishman who lives with an android spouse in the hills of Manchester and you create music with anything that is not a proper instrument and without any discernable beat or arrangement... you might be considered experimental.
If you're a band from California who write radio hits and use the same formula that's been used since plantation slaves started writing the blues... you are not experimental. You are pretentious.
That is all.

So you've decided to buy an SUV.

It came to my attention one day while trying to make a u-turn. A very large vehicle was blocking my view of oncoming vehicles so I had to wait until it made its trecherous voyage around the median. I glanced at the name of the vehicle on the back and noticed a pattern.

As trucks and SUVs grow in size their names become more large, intense, and violent.

1. Let's begin with the very tiny, non-threatening Ford Ranger. A ranger is a man who walks around with squirrels all day making sure everyone is enjoying their cook-outs. "Careful with that marshmallow stick, Billy. Ha ha ha." Very nice.

2. We move up to the Chevy Trailblazer. This is a serious hiker with a big walking stick whose canteen may or may not contain something alcoholic.

3. The Nissan Pathfinder is for the man who is bored with what people tell him to do. "Your path sucks. I'm making my own goddamned path. Neener neener neener."

4. The next step and maybe the smallest of the coveted SUVs is the Ford Explorer. This man doesn't just want to hike anymore. This man is looking for buried treasure, but he goes alone because he trusts no one.

5. For the family who has never heard of condoms, the next largest SUV is the Ford Expedition. We've moved beyond the realm of single men and solitary activities. We now have a group of drunks who just heard from a second grader that there is a city of gold somewhere beneath a burial ground on a sacred mountain that belongs to Apaches.

6. And what do you do when you can't find a city of gold? You go and shoot some animals. The GMC Safari. You gave some indigenous people small pox but that wasn't enough. Let's hang the heads of their gods above our fireplaces.

7. And now we have arrived at the Nissan Armada. A fleet of Spanish warships. And they don't want a pathetic city of gold. They want England. For the sake of all drivers on the road, I pray to God that we soon have a sudden plague of giant squids and sea monsters.

Coming soon...
The Lincoln Ethnic Cleanser

So you've decided to become a zombie.

it's not a choice for most of us. they come knocking at your door, they show you their brochure, and before you know it you're eating your neighbor's larnyx like a churro. you get a company car, you go to the company cook-outs, but at times when you accidentally bite into something electrical and it stimulates part of your decaying brain you can help but think, "is this really me?"
the answer is no.
while there is no cure as of yet, there are ways to control your affliction and slow the process. many people don't realize they've become zombies at first. look for these warning signs:

- uncontrollable shivering
- excessive clotting of the blood
- a new found taste for human flesh
- interest in voting for a third party candidate
- charlie horse in places you shouldn't get charlie horse (i.e. eyelids)
- weakening libido
- a strengthening scent of almonds when you're alone in a room

if you or anyone you know exhibits these symptoms, separate the head from the body.