Merry Santamas from Jesus Claus

Merry X-mas heathens!  Winter Solstice, CHRIST-mas, Post-Hanukkah, Santamas, Clausmas... call it whatever the hell you want, because the name don't matter a BIT!  Let's call it what it really is.  A DAY OFF FROM WORK (paid day off if the evil empire you work for has enough money).  I mean let's face it... parents can preach, teach, and brainwash the Christ into their kids all season long.  But when you have a mountain of shiny wrapped presents sitting under the tree with your name on 'em, there ain't a kid alive who'd rather think about Jesus.  You know it's true

So on the eve of this December paid day off, I've taken some time to remember my childhood a bit.  This post is really going to be extra cynical.  But that's how I kinda feel about the whole Santa theology.....

Cynical.

I don't really remember a time that I ever truly believed in Santa.  I wanted to believe in him.  I tried to fool my mind into thinking he was real.  I even made up stories to tell my younger sisters about catching glimpses of him walking through our house on X-mas eve.  But I never believed in him.  I don't know if I was just born a skeptic, or if I just had trust issues.  But he never really seemed real to me.

My mom talked about Santa ALL the time during December (even more than Jesus)!  One year my dad walked around on the roof, X-mas eve to make it sound like reindeer were landing.  But early on I figured out they only used Santa as a way to send us to bed early.  "Santa's almost here!  He won't come until you're fast asleep!"  They even used it randomly throughout the year... "Uh oh, remember Santa's watching you!" 

All the grown ups I had contact with as a child would always talk about Santa with this patronizing Cheshire Cat grin on their faces.  "I know something you don't know," was written all over them.  And the only thing going through my mind was "Why are they lying to me?  Do they think I'm stupid?"

It irritated me.  It confused me.  And it kinda pissed me off.  But being the peacemaking good boy I was... I just played along.  I played their game because it seemed to amuse everyone.  They felt so special when I would leave cookies out and act excited when they were eaten the next morning.  I chose to believe in Santa because I saw how happy it made my mom.

Years later, we moved to Utah.  I'll go into THAT escapade another day, but essentially I felt left out being the only non-mormon in the hood.  So I took a swim in the font, they gave me a Book of Mormon, and taught me all about Jesus....

...Then I had a major Deja Vu attack.

Santa sees you when you're sleeping.
With Jesus, you are never alone.

Santa kept a list of all the nice and naughty boys and girls.  The nice ones got presents.  The naughty got a lump of coal.

Jesus kept a book of all the righteous and wicked.  The righteous got to go to heaven.  The wicked went to the "lower" kingdoms.

It went on and on... and all I could think was "Do they think it will work THIS time?"  Be good because God is watching.  He's coming soon, better be good!  Remember Jesus is watching you.  It was the saaaaaame shit.  Why would I believe the grown ups who lie to their kids about Santa?  Why is Jesus any different?

But I saw how happy it made everyone when I testified that I KNEW Jesus was real.  I saw how I could make up a story about some imaginary experience I had with Jesus and it would make the grown ups cry.  They would come up to me after Testimony meeting and tell me how much they felt the spirit, and how much my story meant to them.

"Is that all I gotta do to stay on the grown up's good side?"  I thought... "Hell, I can do this shit all day LONG!"  So I chose to believe.  I chose to believe because it made the grown ups feel like they were doing something good with their lives.  It made them feel special.  It made them happy.

The difference from my childhood days was that I played their game so well...  that I actually started to believe it MYSELF this time.  And it took me a loooooong time before I came to my senses and remembered.....

They lied.

Merry X-mas Bitches!

My Repentence...

So back when I was Mormon (otherwise referred to as Before Heathenism, or BH), whenever I screwed up I would willingly put myself through a series of rigorous, self-deprecating ordeals so that Daddy (otherwise referred to as Heavenly Father, or GOD) wouldn't be mad at me anymore. First I had to feel guilt. The gut wrenching pain of knowing that what I did made Daddy so mad, he was ready to put me in a permanent Time-Out for time and all eternity (otherwise referred to as the Telestial and Terrestrial Kingdoms).

However... there was a way to make Daddy not mad at me anymore! See, Daddy owned a huge corporation and had a ton of workers. In fact he didn't have to do a goddamn thing because all the employees did all the work. Anyways, there were steps that needed to be taken in order to make Daddy proud of me again. First, I had to go talk to one of Daddy's employees in his office.... all alone. He wasn't the big manager or CEO or anything, he was just the supervisor on shift. But I still had to tell him what I did. THEN the supervisor would get really disappointed in me for messing up Daddy's business. This was an important step because it made me feel REALLY guilty. That let me know how mad Daddy really was. But the supervisor told me that I could get back on Daddy's good side again because it said so in the company manual. On top of that, the CEO talked to Daddy (since I wasn't allowed to talk to him directly) and he told the upper management, who told the mid-level management, who told the branch managers, who told the supervisors what we need to do to make my Daddy happy again.

According to the supervisor, I was on the right track and I could move on to the next step. I had to go to my room and telepathically talk to Daddy with my mind and tell him what I did, even though he already knew that I had done it. Then I had to sit and dwell on my guilt until the next Sunday when I got to go to a company meeting. In this weekly meeting, I took the final step in making Daddy happy. The last step was to drink the blood and eat the flesh of a 2000 year old zombie (otherwise known as my big brother) while continuing to dwell on my guilt and promise to never ever ever ever do it again. This final step was offered every week, however, since Daddy knew that we would never be able to keep that promise. And that was it! After that, Daddy was happy again. And if I could just keep those cheerleaders out of my mind and get rid of that bottle of lotion next to my bed.... I might even be able to LIVE with my Daddy!

This was called repentance.

And back in BH days, I would be going through that process this week for what I have done. If you look back at my first post, I sorta left y'all hangin... I said to come back because I would continue the story of my journey. As you can see from the date of that post... I didn't keep my word. That is called breaking a promise (otherwise referred to as a covenant), and that is a sin. But since I discovered that I don't even have a Daddy (aka, a Bastard), I found out a much faster way to repent. Ready? Here it goes.....

Sorry guys. I'll try to do better next time.

Ahhh, that's better. I feel new. I feel reborn. I feel like a devil just got his horns. I also feel like I'll be writing a new post very soon. If not, maybe I'll resort to Zombie blood again.

I say these things in the name of the Zombie....
Amen Bitches.

Big Elder is watching.....

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In The Beginning...

In the beginning there was darkness...  I think I'll just chill right there for a while.  Light is overrated.  Especially when groups and institutions like Church, Religions, and BYU are what society considers "light."

Ok, hold up.  I'm getting ahead of myself, here.  Let me start from before...  Before I was a Peter Priesthood, Book of Mormon wielding Latter Day Saint.  Before I had left "the church" to join and follow a cult.  Before I was brainwashed.  Before I was Christian and before I was Atheist.  Before I was married, before I was going through a divorce, and before I was a father.  Before I lost my virginity to some random girl in college so that I didn't have to go on a mission.  Before I believed I was a blood descendant of Jesus Christ, and long before I believed Jesus was really just a made-up fictional character...  Back when I was a virgin.

Im not just talking about sex here.  True, at the time I'm thinking of I'd never had any physical contact with the female body beyond bumping elbows or "acidentally" rubbing my booty against a girl's.  But that's not what I mean.  I was a virgin.  I didn't know anything.  I had no experience whatsoever.  No Church ever had a chance to manipulate their way into my heart, make me fall in love with them, and lead me into an emotionally abusive relationship.  I was a virgin.

As a kid, I never went to church.  My parents were both inactive members of the LDS belief system (you know, the Mormons), but they never once talked about Mormons or church or Jesus.  Although my sisters and I were trained extensively in the art of pretending nobody is home when the Missionaries come-a-knockin'.  We did, however, have a picture of Jesus hanging up on the wall from as far back as I can remember.  It was a famous one, I don't remember who painted it, but that's the picture right there.  I remember thinking he looked like a chick with a beard.  Kinda femmy.  But for some reason that painting always had me scared shitless.  I remember hearing on TV, something about how "He is always watching" and "You are never alone."  I thought the picture was possessed with Jesus' spirit and he was always looking at me through the eyes of the painting.  Even though his eyes were looking upward and it was more of a profile shot, I swear to God his fucking eyes would move and look at me walking across the room.  I can't tell you how many nightmares this picture caused.  To this day, pictures of Jesus scare the living shit out of me.  Every Goddamn one of 'em.

That's where it really started.  With that picture right there.  My descent into dissent against Religion started when I was 6 or 7 years old.  With a picture of Jesus.  Eventually, when I did find a home in the Mormon church I tried to tuck away those fearful thoughts.  But when I couldn't get rid of them, I just convinced myself what I was feeling was the fear of God talked about in the Bible.  But that fear never went away.  In Sunday school discussions about what makes us afraid, I could never bring myself to tell my teachers that Jesus made me piss my pants.  So I talked about my fear of clowns and nuns instead...

That was the beginning.  Seems like a logical place to start telling the story of my journey from a Church-less, innocent little boy, to an all-out obnoxious, churchy Mormon, to a wacko, brainwashed, fundamentalist cult member, on to an Athiest heathen.  It's been quite a long journey, my friends.  And its going to take quite long time to tell the story.  If you are still reading this I can only assume you are somewhat interested in what leads up to the event of someone leaving the church without getting struck by lightning.  Maybe you're sitting on the fence yourself, and just want to know that there is someone else out there who feels the same way.  Maybe you're a spy sent from the Church to investigate Cyber-Terrorists and you've pinned me down as an enemy to the Church.  I won't deny that.  But you can kiss my ass if you think I'm gonna sugar coat my story with flowers and trees.  I keeps it real, biatches.  So continue to check back here as the saga continues. 

-Elohim's Bastard