Tag Archives: humor

Why do we care about the Rapture? Living with the fear of the end

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For those who have been living under a rock (or worse, been offline), the world is supposed to end today.  More accurately, a group of fringe evangelical Christians in California led by Harold Camping have taken to the airwaves on their Family Radio Network to proclaim the imminent arrival of the Rapture on May 21st–the removal of faithful believers of Christ from the earth and the cataclysmic beginning of the destruction of the Earth.

As Christian beliefs go, the Rapture’s a pretty marginal doctrine restricted to evangelicals, accepted neither by the Catholic, Orthodox or mainline Protestant groups.  Even for those evangelicals that do believe in the Rapture, the vast majority will think of Thessalonian 5:1-2 – “Now, brothers and sisters, about times and dates we do not need to write to you, for you know very well that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night.”  Most Christians know better to set dates for the return of Christ, though many have tried before.  The failure of Jesus to show up for one such date set by the Millerite movement in the United States in 1844 was called “the Great Disappointment” for good reason.  As the great holy text Battlestar Galactica once put it, “all of this has happened before, and will happen again.”

So this is not a widely accepted or particularly credible form of religious belief, it’s pretty safe to say most people do not believe the world is ending at 6pm tonight.  What is more astonishing is the degree with which this apocalyptic story has been taken up by atheists, dominating the news for the past few weeks.  Mother Jones reports that Channing’s PR person has fielded 400 interview requests in the past few weeks; bucket lists and music playlists to soundtrack the apocalypse have been posted, and as I write now, the trending topics on Twitter include #rapture #iftheworldendsonSaturday #Harold Camping and a nostalgic apocalyptic throwback in the form of #Y2K.  Most of it is mocking, with a sense of incredulity that someone could honestly believe in the end of the world.  So why all the fuss?

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The Miami Gym: A safari

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I’m grateful that gyms exist; without them, I’m sure I would have turned to messier alternatives for stress relief, such as pooping in mailboxes and shouting at small dogs. But the more time I spend there, the more I can’t help but notice that gyms are their own miniature ecosystems, with different characters playing unique and wonderful roles. So come with me on a social safari through Your Local Gym.

“Alligators pretending to be logs”

If you’re me, the process of entering the gym is a very simple one: I walk through the doors, have my membership card scanned, and proceed to have my ego deflated as I lift relatively tiny weights next to a genetic hybrid of Enrique Iglesias and The Incredible Hulk. But if you’re an attractive girl, then you’re obligated to stop, smile, and chat for a few minutes with the guy behind the desk because he’s like, so happy to see you here! Isn’t that weird? Seeing you here? You know?!

Speaking realistically, you can only be so surprised to see somebody when they show up at the same time every day. Also, it’s a little suspicious when you’re only surprised to see the people the people with wavy hair, high cheekbones, and ≥B cup. It’s even more suspicious when you come over to see how a gentle walk on the elliptical is going, and just happen to strike up a conversation about favorite colors. And “suspicious” goes right out the window after lines like “How do you manage to work out and smell so good?” You might as well just take things to their logical conclusion and start talking about how the bottle of warm tequila in your cupboard at home is filled with anti-oxidants and omega-3 fatty acids. Continue reading →

The traveler hypothesizes

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I’m traveling again. I’ve found that this sort of experience gives rise to much scientific thought. While many travel writers use the tried and true “stream of consciousness” approach, I prefer to use punctuation and not slaughter the English language because I’m incredibly lazy/”creative.”

Hypothesis: I will not find any bookstores open at 4 am, and will consequently be doomed to boredom for about 20 hours as I fly back to the States.
Conclusion: Hypothesis Rejected.
Results: As it turns out, the Bangalore airport might actually be the cheapest place to buy books. Not only does the mighty and domineering dollar stick the rupee’s head in the proverbial toilet, but I am pretty sure that nobody really “buys books at 4 am” at the duty free stores. Furthermore, I pick books in English, instead of Hindi or Kannada. The end result is that the guy at the counter literally just gives me the books. For the next two plane rights, I’ll split my time between reading The Godfather and watching The Game Plan about 2.5 times (I swear to God, just a single decent movie on a single flight would pretty much be the equivalent of the Mile High Club for me.)

Hypothesis: The British have mastered breakfast.
Conclusion: Hypothesis Confirmed.
Results: I actually gathered some delicious data on this during my trip to India. I had a breakfast of fried eggs, grilled tomatoes, sausage, and baked beans at an airport restaurant. Now, on paper, featuring the terms “baked beans” and “airport restaurant,” the experience sounds about as appetizing as a Bea Arthur sex scene. But frankly, it was awesome. It was a breakfast combination that just reaffirms the notion that the U.S. picked the right side in WWII.

Generally, in the U.S., my breakfasts consist of a) an apple, b) a waffle-styled entity that basically mugs me of insulin, or b) hopes and dreams. Sometimes, on occasion, there are omelets. Frankly, this is the biggest drawback to America that I have encountered so far. I’ve heard all of the criticism of our “national obesity epidemic,” and our blatantly outmoded sense of “cowboy diplomacy.” Frankly, in the face of grilled tomatoes and a sunny-side up, I just can’t see how any of that really matters.

Hypothesis: This baby will blink first. I am unbreakable Continue reading →

My Superhero Dream Team: prepare for glory!

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Like most men, I have very limited insight into the higher neurological functions of the American female. So, as far as discussing the themes that women find appealing in their television and movies, I have to take a scientific approach and only hypothesize about why the ladies like the things they like.

I do know what escapist fantasies dudes harbor, and why. We crave excitement, adventure, speed, and an unprecedented level of nudity. We crave movies based on comic books or similarly unrealistic premises. And summer blockbusters love to oblige us.

They don’t delve into the possible downsides of being incredibly wealthy, intelligent, and having your own cybernetic battlesuit with rockets in the arms and emergency flares in the nipples. There’s just the right amount of adversity; a prosaic and straight-forward evil villain generally puts the hero in a tough spot, and then forces the hero to do something epic. Not so secretly, my ilk envies the hero. We would love to clench our fists and solemnly vow not to rest until justice is delivered to every ass within a 2 mile radius via our mighty feet.

But movies aren’t enough for me anymore. As a dude, the appeal of watching a crime-fighting, justice-avenging hero has simply become mundane. As such, I’ve designed my own super team.

I’ve put a lot of though into this. A lot. For instance, as many of you may not know, there is inevitably a rivalry between the team leader and the resident loose cannon that doesn’t play by the rules and goes his own way.

That will not be an issue here, however, as I plan to be both the leader and the loose cannon. I might sometimes disagree with myself, but I’m sure I’ll be able to resolve the issue by dropping giant boulders onto myself, and then watching them shatter on my abs. Additionally, my biceps will be named Zeus and Odin, and they will probably star in their own spin-off movies. Continue reading →

A Morning in the Life: John McCain

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In some Best Western on the campaign trail in Red State America, the Republican Standard Bearer awakens.

“Psst,” he says, nudging his wife. “Psst. Cindy? Are you awake?”

“John, it’s 4:30 in the morning. Unless you took that pill and hour ago, there’s no way we can have sex and still be ready for the campaign bus. Remember the last time we tried this and you knocked the donuts off the table? It gave Candy Crowley the wrong idea.”

“No, no, not that,” John says in a huff.

“What is it?”

“Jesus, Cindy, pinch me. Can you believe this?”

“Believe what?”

“I have no right being in this thing. Those right-wing jihadists and their chucklehead cheerleader in the White House screwed things up so badly, I figured I’d be going down to a bigger defeat than Alf Landon against FDR in the middle of the Depression.”

“Why? Were you a staffer on Alf’s campaign?”

“Don’t be a smartass. But how in the hell am I in this thing? We’re losing safe seats in special elections suggesting an ax-handling of epic proportions, yet I am even in the polls with either that latte-drinking dilettante or Madam Defarge and the lounge lizard she married. How can this be when the country hates Republicans?”

“You hate them too, honey.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m a maverick, I get it. But I am still in the party of George Bush, and the only guy happy with him right now is Jimmy Carter because he is finally going to be off the hook. When a president steps on his own dick or her own boob, people will no longer mutter ‘this is the worst president since Jimmy Carter.’ They’ll mutter, ‘this is the worst President since George W. Bush.’ That pompous old coot Carter managed to live long enough to see someone actually raise the bar on presidential incompetence.”

“Aren’t you getting a little confused, like that Sunni, Shia thing Lieberman bailed you out of? Don’t you mean lower the bar?” Continue reading →

Cristiano Ronaldo and the coming of the Antichrist

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Author’s note to her faithful American readers: yes, I mean football as in “soccer.” “Soccer” is an ugly word and the rest of the world barely uses it.

I wake up today to a sad world. Sure, things may presently be peaceful in my corner of the universe, with birds singing and cockroaches scuttling happily about their business of scaring me to death. Yet there is a melancholy note in the birdsong and the scuttling of the unholy abominations known as blatta orientalis has an automaton, going-through-the-motions feel about it.

Precious is lost. And by “precious,” I mean the Champions’ League title. Well, for Chelsea, anyway.

There’s a reason why I don’t write much about football. My two favourite teams, Chelsea and Dynamo Kiev, are like the dorky, gifted kids at school, forever getting stuffed into lockers and denied the glory that’s their due. While Hollywood and modern technology have been busy fulfilling the “and the geek shall inherit the earth” prophecy, things are a little different on the pitch.

Last night, as I watched the Champion’s League final (held inside Moscow’s Luzhniki Stadium, the hallowed ground where my father went with his father to see many a Dynamo Kiev away game), I expressed my hatred of Manchester United many times over. The expressions I used were creative, and not entirely suitable for this publication. In my defense, I’d like to point out that if it wasn’t for Cristiano Ronaldo’s face, I might have been more civil.

This might seem superficial, but I just can’t stand dudes who smile like evil ferrets advancing on a nest of baby chicks. One of these days, the fall of civilization will be traced to this smug, self-satisfied countenance. You’re laughing now, but you’ll be sorry later, as ashes fall from the sky, the locusts advance, and, somewhere, Cristiano Ronaldo continues to grin maniacally.

Let’s put it this way, if Cristiano Ronaldo lived in the States, he would have already made at least one sex-tape with Paris Hilton and/or Tom Sizemore, then gone on some third-rate reality TV show to brag about it.

You might argue that football is, ultimately, for the smug and the self-satisfied. After all, confidence is what helps plant terror in your opponents’ hearts, no?

Continue reading →

There and Back Again: my trip to Orlando

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I’m like a million other people: I’m at the airport, waiting for a flight. I packed last night, and even checked in on-line; it was all extremely organized. I’m that sort of person. Of course, I’m also the sort of person that you see hip-sliding across car hoods in the parking deck and vaulting over old ladies to get to class on time.

Sometimes, when I’m in an airport, or a mall, or any other sort of crowded place, I feel totally unique. This is, of course, ironic, because there are probably thirty or forty other people that feel the exact same way. I find this notion charming. If you can understand this – and perhaps you can – it makes me feel like a writer.

The people around me are a blend, a spectrum of human existence. I look at individuals, and see a few facets of their lives – and I feel like I know them. As different and anonymous as we all are, we are temporary siblings in the fraternal order of Those In Transit.

I do not know the elderly woman sitting across from me, but when we board the plane, there is every chance that our eyes will meet and we will attain an instant, unspoken understanding over the fact that this food would give diarrhea to a wharf rat. When my stomach burbles, signaling that the “chicken” I ate wasn’t exactly “dead,” and is plotting some sort of internal coup, hers will burble in sympathy. And when she gasps, wheezes and shifts over to relieve the pressure on that G-D sciatic nerve, I will do the same.

In short, I’m in a singular situation, and it’s awfully interesting from the perspective of a nosy bastard that likes to turn phrases.

Do you know why every comedian has at least a few things to say about airports? Because it’s just what a comedian does. I suppose it’s similar to the way that about 95% of police chow on donuts and hot dogs until they’re too overweight to protect or serve – it’s not necessarily important to the job, and it’s even kind of cliché, but you don’t just ignore tradition. But why exactly did airport mockery become a tradition?

I think it’s because airports are a common experience for all. Additionally – and this part’s important – airports are brimming with stupid. Making fun of airports is like playing chess with Nicole Ritchie, or arm wrestling a baby turtle, but I am not above any of those things. Continue reading →

The Unholy Union of Starbucks and “Juno”

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I’m fairly neutral on the subject of Starbucks, because I don’t care about coffee. Coffee generally reminds me of dirty, boiling water that has been poured through a rusty grating and into a cup by somebody who hates me.

I address the issue by adding a ton of cream or milk, and then enough sugar to create something that has been referred to as both a “diabetic Chernobyl” and “liquid renal failure.” But since I generally don’t care for coffee, I leave Starbucks alone for the most part, and Starbucks returns the courtesy.

That isn’t to say I haven’t given the whole enterprise some thought. Yes, Starbucks is a soulless, lumbering, obese corporate entity that sweats overpriced, fancy-named coffee into the mouths of the public. And yes, I’m unwaveringly annoyed by the way they try to sell me CD’s of music fresh from the rainforest when all I really want is to pay too much for an overly complex milkshake.

However, as a business distributing a product that isn’t definitively proven to harm us, they are legally protected in their pursuit of profit, no matter how aggravating it gets. Apparently, the upper-middle class can only drink coffee brewed by an ancient sect of Brazilian coffee monks in a remote bean-temple. And if this is the case – if there really is a population that needs the bland, heavy-handed illusion of worldliness and “alternatude” along with their income-accino – then so be it*.

I wouldn’t say that I choke on the atmosphere misdirected liberal guilt when I enter a Starbucks, but I do sometimes gag a little. Of course, this same atmosphere plays a large indirect part in Starbucks’ astronomical profit margins, so it’s not like they’re putting on the whole show just so that my gorge starts to rise.

Finally, we must remember that most dyed-in-the-tight-jeans hipsters tend to despise Starbucks for being mainstream, capitalist, and lame. And since the hipster view of just about everything is factually wrong, I can’t dislike Starbucks. Neutrality is about as hostile as I can get.

Now, I don’t know if many of you have heard, but Starbucks is selling the movie “Juno” on DVD. This is a case where two things that are blindingly alike have come together – it is both disorienting and inevitable. Continue reading →

The greatest hits of my greatest weaknesses

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I want to provide you with a mariner’s chart of my character: the contrasts and topography of my chipped, flawed personality. What the hell, you ask?

Well, this is based on that narcissism that all writers have – or ought to have. Maybe it also has something to do with the fact that I’m besieged by academic deadlines and need something to laugh about.

But the main reason? I’m sitting in a class that I am having trouble caring about (we’re watching a movie on bowel diseases. I just looked up, and was greeted by the sight of a very charming endoscopy).

Some of these tempt me severely, and some of these just make me cry: Continue reading →

The Black Beast Rides No More

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Having an attachment to an inanimate object gives me pause, but I have such an attachment nonetheless.

See, we’ve finally given the family transport vehicle, a 1994 black Suburban, otherwise known as the Beast, its walking papers. With one child in college and another soon to follow, we no longer have the need to cart six people around. This, oddly enough, has made me sad.

The Beast was quite the rig in its day. I distinctly remember being impressed with the two-zone heating system, noting that it wasn’t until my third move that I had such a feature in my house. Alas, the new features out there seem to have eclipsed the Beast.

There’s no DVD player for long drives, meaning that the annual, 400 mile trek to Mt. Ste. Anne in Quebec would quickly try the patience of the driver as children stuffed in against food boxes would tire of staring out at the flat, barren fields shortly after getting over the border.

We attempted to solve the problem with a portable TV/VCR combination that sat on the console between the driver and front passenger seat. It was great for the children, but the speaker on the television was on the rear left of the set, meaning it was loudest for the individual who wanted to listen to it the least.

This configuration likely shaved a few points off my license. One year, I distinctly remember coming up over a rise on 93 shortly after getting on it from 91 in St. Johnsbury and casually passing a trooper going 90 MPH or so, then simply pulling over to deny said trooper the thrill of the chase. My wife was certain I was a dead man, as was I.

The trooper sidled up to the car and looked in to three pre-teen boys at attention and a three-year-old girl with tears running down her cheeks. The Trooper asked how fast I was going, and I managed to give him an estimate that was five miles in excess of what he had clocked me at on his radar, causing him to compliment me on my reaction time.

He then asked me if there was a reason for being in such a hurry. I am not sure what look I had on my face, but what I was thinking is not printable. I managed to maintain my civility and said, “Well, we are coming from Quebec and are about halfway home. We had to pry my daughter out of the McDonald’s fun house kicking and screaming about 10 miles back and, frankly officer,” I said, tapping the TV/VCR that was my perpetual arm rest, “You can only listen to Thomas the Tank Engine on continuous loop for so long, you know?” Continue reading →