I have a confession to make. A few nights ago was our monthly atheist bonfire and BBQ baby-eating competition that we hold down near the waterfront. Well, long story short, some of us ended up having a little too much to drink during the interminable hours of hedonistic debauchery and repeated drunk-dialing of Kirk Cameron and Ray Comfort from random pay phones (“Hey, I’ve got something that fits perfectly in your mouth!”) … and before I knew it, we were wandering the streets, singing horrible renditions of selected tunes from our favorite band “Pontius Pilate and the Nail Drivin’ Five”, and looking for trouble.
We had exhausted our supply of “Dawkins / Harris 2016” fliers pretty quickly after tagging just about every telephone pole and church door within a three mile radius, and were running out of ideas. To make things worse, by this point it well into dawn and people were starting to head to work. Do we “call it a night” or push on?
That was when we saw it.
You know how some people have those lit-up animatronic Santa Clauses, reindeer, and snowmen on their lawns during Christmas time? Well, not too far from the main road we caught a glimpse of this house with what appeared to be the entire passion of the Christ laid out – animatronic-style – on the front lawn. The Trial. The Sentencing. The Nailing of Jesus (complete with red LEDs for blood spatter; very nice touch). And, finally, the Empty Tomb complete with angels. I couldn’t have imagined anything so elaborate, and would have simply dismissed it as some alcohol-induced hallucination if my friends hadn’t been with me to witness it.
Knowing that the only thing more irritating than an atheist to a Christian of this level of exuberance would be a believer in the Flying Spaghetti Monster, we went right to work. We hit up the local 7-11, bought some markers, paper, another 12-pack of PBR, and a couple of loaves of Italian bread that looked like they were surplus from a local Olive Garden. Managing the best I could with barely enough hand-eye coordination to tie my shoes, my buddies and I whipped up a few posters, pasted one on their door, and mounted a few others on their lawn. Each one came with its own loaf of bread; I’m still not too sure why. It sounded like a good idea at the time. Then again, so did PBR.
You can see some of the results immortalized here, posted by the victims themselves. Apparently the bread didn’t make it through to the end of the day.
Goddamned seagulls. Next time I’m using Ziplock bags.
Yesterday I found out they’re issuing a public “call for the clasping of hands and muttering to one’s self” for me, in hopes that I’ll give up my heathen ways and turn to the path of the Lord. Not bloody likely. I do appreciate the concern, though … and the attention that comes with it, of course. Please keep me appraised on what God thinks of my work, since he never seemed to have the time to answer me when I was batting for his team.