Thursday, August 14, 2008


Just a little warning there, so I don't spoil the ending for those of you who like surprises or are in denial. But if you're still reading, brace yourself for this shocking revelation: when you die, you're dead. And that's it. When you settle down for that final big dirt nap, that's the end of the story. You're not going to be greeted by a choir of heavenly angels or a troop of hellish ghouls. In fact, you're not going to be greeted at all, because you are dead.

As much as I would like to think I'll be greeted by 69 vestal virgins on the other side (by the way, does anyone know what the hell a vestal is?), I have to be honest with myself. The only things that will be interested in me once I reach a non-breathing state are worms, bugs, and possibly very small rodents. That is, if medical science doesn't get their hands on me first.

Well, in truth I don't believe that. I will live on, or at least parts of me will, as long as I die in such a way that my organs are relatively healthy. Yes, I carry an organ donor card. I have to admit, though, that the first couple of weeks after signing it I jumped every time the doorbell rang. I kept having images of Monty Python's Meaning of Life flashing through my head.

We're here for your kidney, mate.
That Python guy sure is a funny dude.

But back to the subject at hand, the great hereafter. I'm sure it's not shocking that someone who describes himself as pro-pandemic (see Word Choice) is also anti-god. (I do hedge my bets, though.)

I am convinced there is no afterlife, no old man with a grey beard hanging down to his most holy knees watching me every minute of every day making sure to take notes of every terrible sin I may commit, like coveting my neighbor's ass. God forbid I should have immoral or unpure thoughts -- how much ink can the guy have, anyhow? Regardless, I don't believe any of that crap. I was raised catholic, for god's sake.

And here's the cover-my-ass (sort of) part:

If on the off-chance that I'm wrong (it's happened), and there actually is a god waiting for me on the other side, (although I know there isn't), then I doubt he (or she) cares a whit about where I am on Sundays, or how often I've used his (non-existent) name in vain. So do you get that? I don't believe there is a god, but if there is a god, I don't believe he cares if I believe in him/her.

So there.

Right about now my friend Ann Margaret* would be ducking for cover, certain the next lightning bolt would steer unerringly towards that exact middle point between my eyes.
But no, there is no god.

But the guy with the black cloak, big pointy scythe, does the reaping thing and speaks in all CAPS, in Him, I do believe.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

don't worry--I have a special rosary for days like this!