A solution for California drivers

"A woman drove me to drink and I didn't even have the decency to thank her."  --W. C. Fields

Anyone who has had the misfortune to drive in the Golden State knows that the average Californian is a lousy, inconsiderate, reckless, and stupid driver. Relatives from out of state mention it without fail.  Natives like myself, who choose to go places by bicycle, dodge death on a daily basis, riding like maniacs because experience has taught us that quick reflexes and a certain daredevil attitude are necessary to survival.  Meanwhile, in this high-speed jungle, drivers get away with all sorts of mayhem, with few repercussions.  Police write plenty of tickets (mostly to generate revenue), but tickets are a mere after-the-fact slap on the wrist, and they don't do the bicyclist spattered all over the sidewalk much good.  I say it's high time we implemented a new system to curb reckless driving, and I have, if you'll pardon the pun, just the ticket.

I have mused a number of times that if drivers were as vulnerable as bicyclists--stripped of the comfort and protection of thousands of pounds of steel, airbags, and air conditioning--they would either learn to pay attention very quickly, or they would perish.  Either way, problem solved.  Since this is not possible to implement until I take over the world, I have had to be content with role-reversal fantasies involving swerving Hummers at pink-faced, panting rednecks and soccer moms frantically pedaling bicycles.  But the other day, after witnessing an example of vehicular stupidity, I recalled a movie called The Fifth Element, which introduces Bruce Willis as a reckless cab driver with a scant few points left on his driver's license.  This concept of points got my wheels turning (if you'll pardon another pun), which led to the brainwave that birthed my magnificent solution.

However, before I unveil the solution, I have to introduce the problem, and all its various components.  The first rule of engagement is to know your enemy, so I will begin with definitions.

DEFINITIONS

You would think that such a diverse state would have a pretty broad spectrum of driving ability, but in all my 21 years here, I've only seen three kinds of drivers: good drivers, average Californian drivers, and the stereotypical Californian drivers who give us all a bad name.

Good drivers are just that--drivers who are competent, sensible, have regard for human life, and obey traffic laws.  Sadly, they are the only minority in California who have yet to reproduce themselves to majority status.  They account for perhaps 3% of traffic, and can rest assured that they are highly unlikely to find themselves caught in the machinations of my devious solution to California's traffic woes.

Stereotypical Californian drivers are technically a minority, but are far more numerous than good drivers.  These are the assholes on whom the stereotype of a terrible driver is based.  They do "California stops"¹, race each other, weave through traffic, drive drunk or high, speed, drive over sidewalks and lawns², and otherwise exhibit a reckless disregard for human life.  Fortunately, many of them favor extremely loud stereo systems and rap music, so whenever the windows shake and the air becomes polluted with noise, sensible people like myself can go "Shit, bassmobile," and prepare to dodge.  Unfortunately, this does not hold true in all cases--not every stereotypical Californian driver bumps rap music, and many average Californian drivers do.³

Average Californian drivers, as you've probably guessed, are those in between the two extremes.  They account for about 88% of traffic on the road, and are characterized by their lack of both recklessness (which keeps them from being stereotypical Californian drivers) and intelligence (which keeps them out of the good driver category).  They typically are more of a nuisance than a threat to others on the road, but one must keep an eye on them, as their incompetence occasionally proves deadly.

A SEXIST ASIDE

As long as I'm lumping people into arbitrary categories in order to pick on them criticize them more efficiently, I might as well answer the ever-popular question of whether men or women are worse drivers.  Keeping in mind that my answers are based solely on my own experiences, and that there are exceptions to each case, I will list the most commonly witnessed faults of each gender behind the wheel.  This is only what I've spotted with my own two peepers--it's not like I bothered to go out and conduct a study.  From what I've seen, the breakdown by gender goes something like this:

Men are far more likely to engage in reckless behavior--speeding, street racing, discharging firearms from a moving vehicle, etc.  However, they are also more likely to be paying attention to what they're doing, and are more likely to be at least somewhat skilled at handling their vehicles.

Women are far more dangerous than men, because they are less likely to pay attention to what the fuck they're doing.  A Californian woman behind the wheel is either a very good or a very bad thing, particularly when that wheel belongs to a truck or other large vehicle.  I have had a number of close calls over the years, and the hairiest ones all involved vehicles driven by women--not women speeding, or weaving through traffic, or driving drunk, but women who weren't paying attention.

To recap: Men are more likely to do something stupid, but women are more likely to kill you.  Adding insult to injury, they won't even kill you on purpose.  Now that I've pissed off the female readers of my blog, I might as well present my solution to California's driving ills.

SOLVING THE PROBLEM OF STUPID DRIVERS

The DMV Driver's Handbook lists some traffic offenses that can result in "points" being deducted from your license.  Lose enough points, and you lose your license.  Sounds reasonable, right?  Probably because it is--but many people aren't reasonable.  In the real world, people who rack up enough offenses to get their license taken away often continue driving without a license, until they're finally stopped by surer means, such as jail time or having their car confiscated.

Instead of a system of taking away points, and eventually taking away licenses, I propose the opposite.  I propose we give traffic offenders points, and when they accrue a certain number of points, we give them a penalty they'll never forget.  My system is as follows:

• Minor traffic violations are worth 1-4 SDP (Stupid Driver Points).  Since I can't be bothered to go through the traffic code line by line, I'll let law enforcement do it.
• Speeding is worth x SDP, where x equals the number of miles per hour over the speed limit you were driving.  (The points are assigned based on the highest speed the police clocked you at on a radar gun.)  Racing tacks on another 1-5 SDP, depending on how busy the street is.
• Driving drunk is worth 10 SDP for each point over the legal limit, as determined by a breathalyzer.  If you are intoxicated by some other substance, you get 15 SDP.  (These penalties stack, so someone driving drunk and high would get 25 SDP.)
• Texting, doing makeup, or doing any other activity that results in you taking your eyes off of the road while the vehicle is in motion is worth 10 SDP, as well as confiscation of the offending device, if applicable.  (Kiss that iPhone or makeup kit goodbye.)
• Discharging a firearm from a moving vehicle (unless you are an active member of law enforcement or the armed forces) carries a penalty of 10 SDP.  If you actually hit what you were aiming at, the penalty is lowered to 8 SDP.

At any point, you may turn yourself in to the police and serve jail time--your sentence will be a week for each Stupid Driver Point, and upon being released you will have 0 SDP.  The catch is, you have to serve the whole sentence--you can't decide to serve just a few weeks to clear a few points.  If you don't feel like going to jail, one SDP will be removed from your license each year, though you cannot lower your SDP below 0.

Now for the fun part.  If you have 50 Stupid Driver Points on your license, a high-priority warrant will be issued for your arrest.  Upon being captured, you will be forced to undergo Stupid Driver Rehabilitation, which consists of a nationally televised Gladiator-style demolition derby.  You and another 50+ Point idiot will face off in a broken glass littered arena, each of you driving your own car (or an impound, if yours is out of commission) and carrying 1d4 five-gallon tanks of propane in the trunk (the kind you use for barbecues).⁴  In the event that both cars become disabled, but both drivers are still alive, you will be provided with midieval weaponry, and the competition will continue.  Survivors (if any) will have 50 SDP removed from their license, and will be responsible for their own medical bills.

California drivers, not to mention the gene pool, will benefit from this law over time, as stupid drivers are gradually killed off.  The state of California will reap a huge profit by televising the Stupid Driver Rehabilitation events.  Cocky kids in expensive cars or trucks bought by mommy and daddy will either think twice before putting the pedal to the metal, or will deliberately rack up SDP to test their mettle with Rehabilitation--either way, the problem will be resolved.  The only real issue I can see is that such a program would inevitably create a breed of "super-drivers"--those reckless enough to accrue lots of Stupid Driver Points, but skilled enough to survive the Rehabilitation.  Most likely, though, these super-drivers would become celebrities in their own right (a la Kable), and would either settle down after raking in a few millions in endorsements and merchandise, or continue to participate in Rehabilitation until their luck ran out.

Either way, California's roads would be a lot safer.  And less crowded.

¹ A "California stop" is when someone does not come to a complete stop at either a stop sign or a red light.  In and of itself, it's not a big deal--the problem is that they tend to punch the gas pedal after slowing without looking to see what might be in their path.

² I'm not kidding.  I've seen this.  More than once.

³ On extremely rare occasions, good drivers will blare rap music as well.  I suspect this serves as a form of camouflage, which keeps good drivers safe in stereotypical Californian driver territory.

⁴ By law in California, you can't transport more than three propane tanks at one time in an ordinary car--something about it being a hazard if you crash.  I personally am of the opinion that if you crash with a bunch of propane in the trunk, you're in trouble whether it's one tank or six.  Also, for those who aren't nerds, 1d4 means that the number of tanks is determined by rolling a four-sided die.

Sentences about seasons

"There are many in this old world of ours who hold that things break about even for all of us.  I have observed for example that we all get the same amount of ice.  The rich get it in the summertime and the poor get it in the winter."  --Bat Masterson

SPRING

I hate spring.

I hate the unpredictable weather.  I hate the way it rains, then two days later hikes the temperature forty or fifty degrees and sweats your unsuspecting system.  I hate wearing shorts¹ and a tee-shirt and getting rained on.  Conversely, I hate bundling up and getting roasted.  I hate biking anywhere at night during the spring, because it's too hot to wear a coat or hoodie and too cold to go without one.

I hate pollen--wretched plant sex that wreaks havoc on my large and sensitive nostrils.  I hate sneezing half a dozen times, blowing my nose, and sneezing half a dozen more times, only to have to blow my nose again.  I hate the way I sneezed just now, just thinking about it.  I hate that dry, dusty feeling in my throat every time I mow the lawn, as the teasing April wind² sprinkles my mouth with particles of shorn grass and dirt--karma choking me with the corpses of my victims, like a Nazi coughing as he inhales the ashes of a crematory oven.

I hate the transitional nature of spring.  I hate knowing that in a few scant months, the sun will stop teasing and will begin brutalizing, doing its utmost to destroy me with temperatures far higher than my winter-born body can comfortably withstand.  I hate knowing that the months ahead will be soaked in sweat, with my afternoons spent huddled in my air-conditioned lair, and my evenings...

SUMMER

"Ah, summer, what power you have to make us suffer and like it."  --Russell Baker

As much as I hate summer, even I can't complain about summer evenings.  They are the saving graces of an otherwise intolerable season.  Evenings spent barbecuing, listening to music and watching the flames rise and fall as the sun sets in the background.  Evenings spent killing time in parks after dark, because my friends and I are bored and broke and have nothing better to do.  Evenings spent sitting on the back porch, drinking beer and maybe reading a good book, listening to the neighborhood kids scream with delight and the neighbors' dogs bark good-naturedly.  Evenings that remind me what it means to be alive, even as they gradually grow colder, until they give way to autumn.

AUTUMN

"Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower."  --Albert Camus

Autumn...  a time of reflection.  A time of bittersweet beauty, as the flower of youth withers and the frost of ages comes creeping forth, like the shadows of the clouds that will soon engulf the land.  A time of melancholy, of Poe-tic pining.  A time that, like a marriage to a cancerous maiden, we must cherish while it lasts, for it will be gone too soon, into the cold and implacable maw of winter.

WINTER

"Life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass...  It's about learning to dance in the rain."  --Robin Woodgate

Winter--my favorite season.  The season in which I was born, in which I will always truly belong.  A season of death, of rain, and of darkness, but also of joy, and peace.  A season that, through its harshness, reminds us of our strength.  A season laden with holidays, including the highest holiday of all, at least for me--my own birthday.  A season that, alas, gives way all too soon to spring.

SPRING

Dammit.  I hate spring.

¹ I'm speaking metaphorically, of course--those who know me know I never wear shorts.

² Yes, I'm aware it's May as I write this.  Tell it to Mother Nature.

ESSAY: The Tenth Hour

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Unlike my previous posts, this is an essay written in the style of a narrative.  I worked one summer as an attendant at a gas station nine miles from where I lived, and every day I would commute on a bicycle.  It took me about an hour to get there, and after an eight hour shift, the ride home--the tenth hour of my day--was grueling.  I wrote this essay originally for a college English course, and while it was not received well by my professor or my peer reviewers (largely due to the second-person narration), some family members thought it was well-written enough that they asked me for permission to let friends read an old draft lying around my mom's house.  I decided I might as well post it here, with a few revisions, for friends and strangers alike to read.

THE TENTH HOUR

The ride home is a race.  Winning this race will earn you no trophy, no prize, nor any recognition.  There is no carrot dangling before you, only a stick above you.  Victory is not possible--to survive, to live to ride another day, is the only reward.  For in this race, you are the sole contestant, battling not other riders, but the perils of the road and the limits of your own endurance.  Can you make it home before your strength gives out?  You made this ride once already, and have toiled beneath the sun for eight hours since.  You are exhausted, half dehydrated, your clothes soaked with sweat--and you are still at the starting line.

As you sign your time card and step outside, walking your bicycle, the heat hits you all at once, the way hot air rushes to greet you when you open the door of an oven.  You do not recoil--you're used to the heat, and you're too damn tired anyway.  You mount your bike, adjust your backpack, and tuck the loops of shoelace into your boots, to prevent them from winding around the pedals while you ride.  A plastic soft drink cup full of ice water is in your right hand--if you drop it, as you have in races past, your chances of survival diminish.  Steeling yourself and checking for traffic, you begin pedaling.  The race has begun.

As you head down Laguna Boulevard, the Apple company's headquarters is to your left, an enormous compound of buildings taking up an entire block--a veritable nerd fortress.  There are several different driveways leading to the street from the various parking lots--some gated off, some open.  As always, there are at least half a dozen Apple employees loitering in the shade of trees planted by the sidewalk, some smoking and conversing, others reading or listening to music by themselves.  Though you can't see the devices their headphones are connected to, you amuse yourself with the notion that perhaps one of these solitary employees, fed up with Apple's less-than-perfect products, has eschewed the iPod in favor of Microsoft's Zune--a small way of sticking it to the man who founded his company on the principle of sticking it to the man.

Now you're at a crosswalk.  The light is red, but you don't even slow down--on main roads like Laguna, most of the minor roads that cross it have very little traffic, meaning that nine times out of ten you can simply keep pedaling, regardless of what color the light happens to be at the moment.  The light turns green as you reach the other side, leaving the Apple complex behind.  You take a long sip of water.  The cup was cold in your hand only five minutes ago, but already the ice has shrank by a third.

To your left now is a barren tract of land.  You have observed heavy earth-moving machines, and surmised that the land is being developed, but if so, it will be a long time before any buildings appear, from the looks of things.  You cross another street, again paying no heed to the light, and take another long sip of water.  Now there are more buildings to your left--a church, a shop, and other generic buildings that are forgotten the instant you pass them.  Another sip of water, and before you know it, you have reached the first overpass.  This is the single most physically strenuous part of your journey.

As with most overpasses, some nitwit in charge of such decisions thought it would be an excellent idea to put a cross street in the middle of the hill.  If traffic is with you, this does not matter, but if the light is against you, you must stop.  Unlike the seldom-used side streets, the cross street here carries plenty of traffic.  Today, as most days, the light is against you.  You curse and stop, gripping the front brake with your left hand and staring into traffic with eyes weary from the sun.  Across the street from you is an electronic billboard proclaiming the time and temperature, no doubt to mock you--5:10PM and 106 degrees.  Briefly, you wonder what the weather's like in Antarctica this time of year and begin a monologue of profanity against the nitwit who approved the cross street, more out of weary boredom than malice.  You stop mid-curse as you notice a sign-waver standing to your left: a black kid with a content expression, waving his sign in time to whatever music his headphones are injecting into his skull.  You wonder idly whether he has an iPod or a Zune as the light finally turns green, and you begin to pedal.

The slope of this overpass is steep and long.  Even when the light is in your favor and you hit the overpass at a full-speed charge, momentum will only get you a third of the way up the hill before gravity slows you to a bitter crawl.  Today, having been forced to stop prematurely, you must fight for every yard.  Sometimes standing up and pedaling helps, but it's fiendishly difficult to do so with a flimsy drink cup in one hand, so you resort to the pedal-and-push method: you pedal with your left foot until the pedal is close to the ground, then push against the ground with your left foot as you pedal with your right.  You repeat this, yard by bitter yard, up the overpass, your breathing harsh, but as deep as you can manage through the burning in your chest.  Experience has taught you that shallow breaths simply won't give you enough power to climb this hill.

As you finally near the top, you gaze to your left, careful not to let your steering follow your line of sight down the hill to a fatal end.  The view is not magnificent, but it's certainly better than the concrete in front of you, and pretty enough to merit a look.  Far left, back the way you came, you see white flat roof after white flat roof, in a sea of orderly rows--the roofs of units in a distant storage center.  Next, there is a body of water--large and artificial and inviting.  Your right brain briefly imagines jumping in to cool down, but your left brain reminds you that such a shock to your system could be fatal, so you move on.  A little further on, there is a railroad track, possibly abandoned--it looks run down, and you have never seen or even heard a train here.  Beyond the track is a stone wall, covered with graffiti, and a residential area.  Now you are atop the overpass, long since winded and rolling along now at a crawl.  You clumsily wipe the sweat pouring down your face with an already sodden shirt sleeve and admire the view as you catch your breath.  As you reach the other side, you stop and look down at the next cross street--a busy one--and the light governing it.  Red.  Good--it'll change by the time you reach it.  You take a deep breath, steeling yourself for what is essentially a suicide dive, and start pedaling again, hard.

You are going downhill now, and you pick up speed quickly.  You look to your left as long as you dare, at those nice houses down there, again careful not to let your steering follow your sight line.  The first two houses have huge backyards, wild and overgrown for the most part.  The first one has an old, rusted out car in the backyard, and you imagine how neat it would be to live there as a kid, to take your best friend out there and sit in the car during the cool summer twilight, pretending to drive, telling each other stories and jokes and secrets the way kids do.  The second backyard is more neatly kept, and has a large, paved concrete basketball court, hoops and all.  Though it's difficult to tell from this height, it appears to be full size, and yet it takes up only a third of the yard.  Must be nice, you think, and return your gaze to what's in front of you, because now you have picked up a lot of speed.  You are plummeting downhill towards that red light, your wheels moving too fast now for pedaling to be much use.  You are riding on the sidewalk, because bike lanes are prone to being littered with rocks and odd road debris, and to hit a bump would likely be fatal at this speed.

You are getting awfully close to that red light.  Change, dammit! you think, getting a bit nervous.  The light does change--to let left-turn traffic through.  Alarmed, you size up the situation in less than a second.  You're moving too fast to stop.  Swerving left isn't an option; the turn is simply too sharp, and blind to boot--you'll likely as not smash into a waiting car.  As always, the left-turn traffic is sluggish, slow to react to the light change.  Kamikaze it is, you think, squaring your shoulders, lowering your head, and pedaling frantically.  You zoom out into the street and make it safely to the other side, just before the left-turn traffic roars into the point in space you occupied a mere second ago.  Heart racing, you pedal the short distance to Franklin Road, cross, and turn left, gasping thanks to whatever odd chance decided to let you live today.

Now you are on Franklin, the second leg of your journey.  Though it is only half the length of the third and final leg of the race, it feels like the longest.  The scenery is monotonous--trees, sidewalks, grass, houses, all repeating in random sequences as you pass over a dozen small side streets, several of which have Laguna in their names, to trick the unwary into thinking they have found the Laguna Boulevard.  The trick to this stretch is to just keep pedaling, sipping water now and then.  The ice in your cup has nearly disappeared, and the heat is taking its toll on you.  You wipe sweat from your face occasionally, and think your own thoughts, keeping your eyes peeled for debris in the bike lane (this side of Franklin is bad about that sort of thing) and for traffic from the side streets--few are busy, but drivers in the area are reckless.  Like the Laguna leg, the distance is just a little over two miles, but the repetitive terrain makes it feel much longer.

By the time you turn onto Cosumnes to begin the third leg of the race, your water cup is nearly empty, the ice long since melted.  This part of the road is quite nice, now that they have finished the construction on it.  Perhaps half a mile down, the road seems to ripple.  Your right brain whispers fearfully that the heat is causing a mirage, but your left brain reminds you that the ripple is just the result of a slight rise in the ground that the construction workers apparently couldn't be bothered to level.  No doubt they worked for the nitwit who approved cross roads in the middle of overpasses.  You ignore the ripple and keep pedaling, amused to notice that you are now so tired that you actually feel the negligible amount of extra effort required by the rise.  No matter.  The traffic light ahead is green, and will remain so for quite a while.  You cross easily, and begin the second deadliest stretch of your journey.

Cosumnes River College is directly to your right.  It is a beautiful campus, but you can't afford to sightsee--you're too busy wondering if you're going to die today.  The traffic is approaching from behind, and cars rush by a mere foot to your left.  To your right are large decorative rocks and a forbidding iron fence--if you swerve right to avoid errant traffic, you will be severely injured.  There is no choice but to pedal fast and hope for the best.

A few harrowing minutes later, you arrive alive at the traffic light on the other side of the campus.  True to form, the light is red.  You drink the last sip of water, grimace as it raises your body temperature another degree, and take advantage of the stop to put the cup in your backpack, flexing your stiff right hand, which has been molded into the shape of the cup for the last half hour.  Your muscles feel weak, but you ignore it and cross the street as the light turns.  You reach a small island, which splits off two lanes from the cross street and is, in your opinion, a criminally stupid and deadly way to route traffic.  The nitwit strikes again, you think.  You eyeball the cars and trucks full of college students racing home, daring them to hit you, and cross, taking advantage of the main street traffic that forces them to pause for a few moments.  There is a separate crossing signal on the island that would be marginally safer, but you cannot afford the time to use it.  This is a race between your own endurance and the unforgiving sun, which drains the life from you each minute you spend beneath it.  Your water is gone, you still have three miles to go, and you are starting to feel sick and lightheaded from ten hours of merciless heat.  Every second in the sun is a second closer to heat stroke and, in this murderous traffic, death.

The ground begins to slope uphill again as you climb up the second overpass on your journey--the one that turns Cosumnes into Calvine.  This overpass, while almost as steep as its cousin on Laguna, is not nearly as long, and it is much easier to gain the top.  Without pausing to rest, you cross the off-ramp, smiling as you begin to rocket downhill.  The light is with you this time, negating most of the danger from the less busy cross street midway down.  You coast comfortably downhill until you reach another island, where you stop and press the button.  There's no real need to push it--you know this corner well enough to simply follow the traffic lights--but you might as well, since the light is red and you're going to be here for a minute anyway.  The light soon turns green, and you proceed down Calvine.

Now you are on the home stretch--two and a half miles of easy terrain, well-paved and with few cross streets.  You pass a McDonald's, a Starbucks, a field, a school.  You cross a street without bothering to wait for green, and now you're passing a Bodhi temple and a Kohl's.  Turn right onto Elk Grove Florin, right again into the residential neighborhood, and three half-delerious minutes later you're home, drenched in sweat, half dead from heat, dehydration and exhaustion, but wearing a faint smile.  Once again, you have ran the race, and survived.

As you sit at home that night, the day's trip seems small, unimportant.  That grueling nine miles beneath the sun, so vivid and daunting at the time, merits no more than a brief thought now that you are sitting comfortably in your air-conditioned home, freshly showered, dressed in clean clothes, and drinking a bottle of cold water.  Like many things in life, something that seemed huge and impossible at the time is rendered small and unimportant by time and perspective.  Calm and content, you go to bed.  You are tired, and you have another long day ahead of you.  Tomorrow, you will race again.

Satanism for Dummies, and other oxymorons

"If there are no stupid questions, then what kind of questions do stupid people ask?  Do they get smart just in time to ask questions?"  --Scott Adams

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is going to be my last post dealing with religion for a while.  The only reason I'm posting this is because I've attempted to write this three times, and now that I've finally finished the damned thing in a manner I can accept as satisfactory, it would be pretty stupid not to post it.  But I definitely want to take the blog in a direction that doesn't deal with Satanism or religion every other post.

I have no problem with Christians.  Honestly, I don't.  They are, by and large, nice enough people who shower daily, pay their taxes, and happen to believe in a deity I have seen no convincing evidence of.  They are generally polite, law-abiding, and lacking in guile.

I do have a problem with stupid people.  Stupid people cause all sorts of trouble, for themselves and for everyone else.  They litter, they induce headaches in their intellectual superiors, and they reproduce far too frequently for my liking.  They also talk on their cell phones while driving.

Unfortunately, a fair number of these stupid people happen to be Christian.  Whether that's because Christians make up a large portion of the population...

...or because they tend to believe in a religious notion of creationism despite contradictory scientific evidence...

...I really couldn't say.

Funny (and decidedly biased) pictures aside, though, I do have one major bone to pick with some Christians who are curious about Satanism.  I have a number of Christian friends and family members, and I love them to death, even if some of them secretly wonder whether or not I recite prayers backwards, slaughter cats and beavers, and howl at the moon.  (Come to think of it, my non-Christian friends probably wonder that, too.)  I understand that they are curious about my beliefs, or lack thereof, and some of them are more than a little alarmed at my religious affiliation thanks to the lies their pastors feed them.  That's fine--I have no problem clearing up misconceptions.  But I am tired of attempting to have an intelligent religious discussion* with people who approach me from a position of willful ignorance--AKA, stupidity.

My chief complaint is that more than one inquisitor has voiced a refusal to read The Satanic Bible, which outlines the philosophy of Satanism quite succinctly.  If you don't want to read it, that's fine--but don't pester me with questions if you're unwilling to do your homework.  I don't mind clearing up misconceptions, and I certainly don't mind answering any clarifying questions a reader of The Satanic Bible may have about what he or she has read, but don't ask me questions if you don't truly want to learn.

Now that my rant is concluded, I will get to the informative part of this post.  Satanism is not a religion for dummies--in fact, Stupidity is our cardinal sin--but I will give a bare-bones outline of the Satanic Bible, in the hopes of answering some of the more common questions.  (This also will allow me to refer people with questions to this post, which will hopefully save me some time and repetition.)  Readers are asked to keep in mind that other people may have slightly different interpretations of certain points--however, the rules and restrictions are not open to interpretation.

THE SKELETON OF THE SATANIC BIBLE

The Nine Satanic Statements, which can be viewed here.

(FIRE) -- The Book of Satan -- The Infernal Diatribe

The Book of Satan is a brief diatribe, formatted in a style reminiscent of the Holy Bible, and told from the point of view of a literal Satan.  Satanism does NOT believe in a literal entity known as Satan--this section of The Satanic Bible is metaphorical.  It blasts the tenets of Christianity as outdated drivel formulated to enslave mankind, and cautions against blindly accepting dogma as truth.

(AIR) -- The Book of Lucifer -- The Enlightenment

The Book of Lucifer is the heart of The Satanic Bible.  It is a series of essays outlining the philosophy of Satanism.  I will not summarize every essay or attempt to explain every facet of our religion here--Anton LaVey did a superb job of that forty years ago.  I will merely list a few salient points that will answer some of the more common questions I have been asked.  The names of the essays will be cited for reference.

• Satanists do not pray, to the Devil or to anyone else.  (Wanted!: God--Dead or Alive)
• If we commit a wrong (something we truly regret), we do not ask for forgiveness, save perhaps from those we've wronged.  Instead, we take care to learn from our error, so as not to repeat it.  (Wanted!: God--Dead or Alive)
• The spiritual is a myth.  Gods are inventions of human minds.  (The God You Save May be Yourself)
• Man needs dogma and ritual.  Religions typically fill this need through rituals and dogma concerning external deities.  The Satanist feels that, since all deities are creations of man anyway, if we are going to ritualize, we ought to do so in the name of a god we have created in our own image and in accordance with our own emotional needs.  (The God You Save May be Yourself)
• Satanism does not call itself Humanism or Atheism because, unlike Humanism or Atheism, Satanism has dogma, which serves the emotional needs of Satanists.  (Some Evidence of a New Satanic Age)
• Satanists do not sell their souls or call upon demons.  (Hell, the Devil, and How to Sell Your Soul)
• Satanists do not attempt to love everybody.  Nor do they deny that they are capable of feeling hatred.  (Love and Hate)
• Rape, pedophilia, and bestiality are all strictly forbidden.  No exceptions--no loopholes.  (Satanic Sex)
• If it occurs between two (or more) consenting adults, who are willing to accept any consequences, then sexual activity is the business of no one save those involved.  (Satanic Sex)
• Satanists indulge themselves in their desires, but do not allow those desires to rule them--nor do they indulge at the expense of their own well-being.  (Indulgence...  NOT Compulsion)
• Satanists do not sacrifice humans or animals.  (On the Choice of a Human Sacrifice)
• Satanists are not allowed to harm animals^ or children.  (On the Choice of a Human Sacrifice)
• When a Satanist throws a curse, he or she symbolically destroys the victim, but does not physically harm anyone.  (On the Choice of a Human Sacrifice)
• Satanists do not believe in an afterlife or in reincarnation.  (Life After Death Through Fulfillment of the Ego)
• Satanism frowns upon suicide, except in cases of extreme suffering due to a terminal illness with no hope of recovery.  (Life After Death Through Fulfillment of the Ego)
• The spring equinox (Walpurgisnacht) and the fall equinox (Halloween) are considered Satanic holidays, though celebration is not required.  The highest holiday is the date of one's own birth.  (Religious Holidays)
• Not every Satanic ceremony is a Black Mass--in fact, Black Masses are the rare exception rather than the rule, and do not conform to the notions of human sacrifice and sexual debauchery perpetuated by Christian hysterics of old.  (The Black Mass)

Please note that these are merely a handful of points and not a definitive summary of Satanism.  If you really want to know, read the fucking book!

(EARTH) -- The Book of Belial -- The Mastery of the Earth

The book of Belial is a series of essays outlining the principles of Satanic magic.  I will not go into them here--partly because any attempts on my part to summarize would be disasters, and partly because those with the ability to actually apply these principles will find it worthwhile to spend the money to buy and read The Satanic Bible.  I will remind the reader that, while we do call upon Satan and the various Gods of Hell during Greater Magical ritual, we do not actually believe that these things exist.  The purpose of Greater Magic is to purge harmful emotions (anger, unrequited lust, self-pity)--disbelief in the literal existence of Satan, Hell, and the supernatural are temporarily set aside during the ritual.

(WATER) -- The Book of Leviathan -- The Raging Sea

The Book of Leviathan consists primarily of incantations to be recited during Greater Magical ritual.

The Satanic Bible concludes with the words "YANKEE ROSE".

Nobody except Anton LaVey knows why, or if they do, they're not talking.

Further reading:

• The Satanic Bible.  Actually, this is primary reading, but I figured I'd take the opportunity to mention it again.
• The official Church of Satan web site: www.churchofsatan.com
• The Devil's Notebook and Satan Speaks!, which are both collections of essays by Anton LaVey.
• The Satanic Scriptures, by Peter H. Gilmore, the current High Priest of the Church of Satan.

EPILOGUE

Now that I have finally succeeded in writing this, months after I originally tried, I say it's high time that Satanism disappears for awhile as a topic of this blog.  Satan this, Christians that, according to Anton LaVey, Greater Magical ritualization, Holy Bible...  BAH!  Enough already!  Tomorrow I will be posting a revised version of an essay I wrote for English class that has nothing to do with any religion.  It was not well-received by my classmates or my professor, but family members seem to think it's pretty good, so I'll post it and let you decide for yourself.  Topic-wise, it's a gripping epic about something mundane and trivial--writing at its best.

HAIL CHEEZ-ITS!!!

* I know, I know...  "intelligent religious discussion" is an oxymoron.

^ A Satanist is allowed to kill an animal in self-defense or for food.  Torturing and mutilating animals (or children) is not allowed.

Malice and mallards

"I have a most peaceable disposition. My desires are for a modest hut, a thatched roof, a good bed, good food, very fresh milk and butter, flowers in front of my window and a few pretty trees by my door. And should the good Lord wish to make me really happy, he will allow me the pleasure of seeing about six or seven of my enemies hanged upon those trees."  --Heinrich Heine

One thing I find pleasure in is being challenged to a battle of wits by someone of obviously inferior intelligence.  I liken them to someone challenging Zorro to a duel while brandishing a pair of safety scissors.  Those who are fortunate (?) enough to know me personally know that while I am a skilled writer, I am a terrible speaker.  My speech is broken and punctuated by frequent pauses, "um"s, "like"s, and curses.  But even my clumsy tongue is more than enough to dispatch many of the imbeciles around me, thanks to a sharp mind gleefully telling it which barbs to hurl at my unsuspecting antagonists.

I am the sort of fellow who can deliver an insult in such a way that the recipient has no choice but to laugh, even as he feels the sting of a remark that hit home.  I can deliver the sleeper--the insult that they have to puzzle over, giving me time to walk away--and smile as I hear the indignant "Hey!" behind me when they figure it out.  And like any member of my generation, I can deliver the standard barrage of curse words and creative comparisons between an opponent's phallus and various small objects, but I prefer not to.  Fighting fire with fire quickly grows tiresome.  This blog is about a favored tactic when engaged in hostile dialogues with idiots.

DISCLAIMER: Do not attempt the following unless you are quick-witted and adept at thinking on your feet.  Shooting your mouth off to people bigger, stronger, or faster than you, or in a position of power over you, is not advised.  The author is not responsible for any consequences (embarrassment, injuries, etc.) that may arise from the use or misuse of the contents of this post.

My favorite insult is one I call the "WTF Bomb".  It is the statement that is so utterly devoid of context, so strange and vaguely depraved, that the argument stops dead in its tracks as the opponent blinks and gapes, trying to comprehend the bizarre, barbed apparition that just struck him from left field.  A well-timed WTF Bomb is sufficient to kill the argument, and while the masses may not consider that a "win", I disagree.  If someone is annoying me by insulting me, and I reply with something that shuts them up, I have accomplished my goal.

The best WTF Bombs are spontaneously generated in the heat of battle--or, more accurately, in the tepid tedium of a contest between wily and witless--and are carefully formulated to be as cryptic and irrelevant as possible.  I have used them a number of times.  The reader is advised that the examples I present here are not battle-tested specimens, and are presented here merely as demonstrations:

• "Gargle squirrels!"
• "Why do you insist on masturbating with mallards?"
• "...and I saw the lizard leap out of his pocket as his hamburger exploded."*

People find the WTF Bomb confusing for two reasons.  First, they have little or nothing to do with the argument, thus forcing them to expend precious brainpower trying to figure out how squirrels follow whatever unimaginative expletive they just threw at you.  Second, they have to tax their overheating brain further to try to figure out if what you've said is even an insult--and if so, how it is insulting.  The average person, after several seconds of confusion, will generally get frustrated and ask a question beginning with the words "What the fuck" (hence the name).  The proper response is to say "You figure it out" and walk away, leaving the simpleton staring after you with an expression of confusion etched on his face for the next ten minutes.  Problem solved.

The WTF Bomb is most useful against half-wits, but even those blessed with quick minds will usually be caught off guard, and will be a trifle slow to parry--the first time.  They will quickly catch on, however, and will use the illogical nature of the WTF Bomb against you, so repeating this tactic is unwise--use it as a brief reprieve to clear the air and launch a different line of attack.  Better yet, don't use it at all--the WTF Bomb is not meant for use in an intelligent argument.

Some people are stupid, but are endowed with more wile than the average fool.  Such people are dangerous to employ the WTF Bomb against, because they will suspect that it is a red herring, and will relentlessly press you for an explanation of your statement if you let them.  Do not concede that there is no explanation--concede that fact, and you concede the argument.  Instead, take a "house of cards" approach.  Quickly follow the WTF Bomb with more nonsense statements that are seemingly related, giving your opponent the impression that there is a logic that he isn't quite grasping--then, when the "house of cards" collapses (IE, the holes in your logic become too large to continue bullshitting), act as though you laid out the point perfectly clearly and he simply failed to grasp it.  By this point, he should shake his head and walk away.  If not, lob another WTF Bomb, and another, until he gets the point that arguing with you will be fruitless.

It is at this point that I remind the reader that the intent of the WTF Bomb is not to "win" face-offs according to conventional standards.  If you wish to exchange insults with imbeciles, this post will not help you in the slightest.  As you should have discerned by now, the WTF Bomb is a tool to end pointless arguments.  You can, of course, simply walk away, and leave the fool crowing that he has bested you, but I much prefer leaving those who insult me stewing in their own confusion, with the vague impression that they have been had.

For those who are interested in exchanging insults, I recommend the following:

• The article "Kiss My Satanic Ass!  A Guide to the Science of Insulting", by Blackjack.  This article can be found in issue #16 of The Black Flame.
• "Wicked Words: A Treasury of Curses, Insults, Put-Downs, and Other Formerly Unprintable Terms from Anglo-Saxon Times to the Present", by Hugh Rawson.

For those interested in mallards, I recommend this fellow.

HAIL GUARD DUCK!!!

* This gem appeared in the comic strip Beetle Bailey, drawn by Mort, Greg & Brian Walker.  It was such a beautiful example of a preventative WTF Bomb that I had to update this post to include it.  The comic strip appeared in the Sacramento Bee on Monday, May 10, 2010.