"Jesus died for your sins..."

She said. With a totally straight face.

She was collecting for a new church and had inadvertantly stumbled into the lions den.

"Talk about a waste of time." I said, as I was bored and she was annoying me with her constant harping on about the, so called, saviour of humanity. "My sins are what makes me interesting."
"Surely you don't mean that." She said with a look of pity on her face.
I pondered for a second the possible ramifications of offending the god squad again.
This took less than a quarter of a millisecond and I continued.

"Actually I do. My sins, and believe me there are many, seperate me from the herd of waste of space sheep who follow the herd blindly without questioning the reason or the logic of blind faith." I said, smiling.

Her face changed from a pitying look to one of minor offense. I knew I had her on the brink and all I needed was to give her a small shove to push her over the edge.

"Jesus gave his life so that you could live." She said.
"Actually, Jesus died because his own people handed him over to the romans and went "He said he's the son of God, get him." because if they had lynched him for his claims of divine decendency their god would have laid down a shitstorm on them." I challenged.

I could see by her face that there was anger welling up. So I carried on.

"You do know that Jesus, the real one, was nothing like the tall, fair haired deity you worship blindly don't you? When you think about it rationally and take into account his place of birth and the time in history he lived in you'll come to the conclusion that Jesus was a big nosed short guy who was less than five feet tall. Think along the lines of the love child of Tom Cruise and Barry Manilow and you're on the right lines." I ranted.

At this point she left the pub.

"When the time is ready I shall send my only son to the earth to show them how to laugh."

The Grand Whazoo.*

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And lo it came to pass that The Grand Whazoo did send his only son to earth. And you can join him in his quest to make the world giggle by joining him by clicking here.

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Family Friendly.
No service charge.
Tuesday is ladies night.
Special drinks promotions all week.
Happy hour all day.
Students of philosophy welcome.
Biker friendly.
No Scientists.
Please tip your waitress.
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*During an acceptance speech for "Best god in a humourous role" award during the realm of gods, deitys and martyrs awards ceremony held at the Valhalla Holiday Inn. **

**(Tell them Marty sent you for a special reduction in rates.)

It's saturday...

And it's the day I fly out to Florida.

In roughly five hours and forty five minutes there will be a phone call instructing me to get my arse out of bed and make my way downstairs to the car. Not that I'll be in my bed, oh no, I'll be wide awake and waiting expectantly like a kid at Christmas.

I've spent most of tonight whipping and ripping my favorite music onto my hard disk, finishing packing the necessities and pondering whether or not Florida, and the people of the state, will live up to my expectations. To put it more succinctly, all thoughts of Edinburgh could not be further from my mind.

My lucky t-shirt (I've never died while wearing it) sits on my armchair beside me in preparation for another test of its powers and my lucky mascot is safely stowed in my backpack.

That's him. His name is Jo Boo and he's the earth bound messenger of The Grand Whazoo, who as you all should know by now, is every God all rolled into one. And that's a damn good mascot to have on your side should the shit hit the fan.

I will, of course, be documenting my trip on this here blog and you can keep abreast of things by checking back over the next three weeks. Constant updates (courtesy of twitter) will be posted here on the main page, on my twitter page and via this rss feed.

Light from the torch illuminates the keyboard in the early hours…

The despair has struck…
Quiet voices in the night…

There has been a constant banging headache all day. As there has been for the past three days. Whenever I move my head pounds. Blood surges striking up the pain when I cough and earlier on in the night I was as sick as an inexperienced sailor, adrift on a schooner in the southern seas where the BIG waves are. They roll in the night. Not silent, just deadly.

I am currently stuck in some kind of nightmarish loop… The Gods laugh at me daily as my situation stays the same despite the changes wrought upon me by a power crazed fool with one testicle, a love of whiskey and a deep hatred of women… I wrote to stay relatively sane and able to function in the everyday doom that God wreaks upon us lost souls. And what do I get? A one way ticket to the scrapheap.

I make resolutions to change but lose interest as the futility of any project becomes clearer.

“I shall write a story” I think. I begin to write. My imagination throws out an image and I focus on it intensely. The image becomes as solid and real to me as the keyboard in front of me. I attempt to describe it and am always disappointed. The words cannot project my imaginations and the question of “What do I write next?” is gradually replaced by the more pertinent question “Why bother?”

Whatever I write will not change the world. This is easy to see. My name will not go down in history and Dear Reader, chances are neither will yours. No matter who you are.

A day will come when you are nought but a memory in the minds of lovers and loved ones. This will soon pass though and you, along with the billions of others, will be forgotten. You will be no more remembered than a second cousin twice removed on your great great grandmothers side is remembered by you yourself.

So what are you? What am I? Am I the creation of a loving god as it says in the bible? I doubt it very much. To all intents and purposes and without any evidence to the contrary, life is a punishment wreaked by an uninterested God. Fuck him and all he stands for.

God is the pimp to the many whores of life who tell you it will work out in the end. “We’re all here for a reason.” They cry, with disbelief clear in their eyes and the tone of a beaten person evident in their voices. “God makes us do his bidding so that we may rise above the level of dumb beasts.” They wail, hoping that you will swallow their bullshit and be a good upstanding member of their society and not burn down their churches upon a whim. Despite the fact that their churches should be the first to go.

And now in the early hours of the morning, when the quiet voices take the chance to make themselves heard, the headache is still there beating upon my brow like a hammer of the gods. Have I angered them? Is it divine retribution that causes the pain? Or is it merely a fact of life…

Where is the power of information when the information is lost through a lust power?
Forgotten.
Just like your Second cousin twice removed on your great great grandmothers side.
Just like you, dear reader.
And…
Just like me.

Take your belief system...

And have it kicked into touch with this fun test.

I did.