On Atheism Again: to Salman Rushdie

Oh great Rushdie, scribe of veracious tomes, burlesquer of hypcorisies and lies and downright stupidity; thank you for your sincere call to arms to the intellectual wankers of the world: Unite in glorious indignation; you have nothing to lose but your sham egos and fear of moms and dads. Religion is dead, god is a wanker; now wank away with glee and gobs of jism fill your brain pans.

I stand agog and pay homage to the power of the god of the dismebodied, disincarnate worldwide, universal, cosmic web of the public and leveling playground. I have watched too many reality shows, sit-coms, and public television to rebut any questions except through the irony that the age has bequeathed to me--a lonely integer in the faceless machine of progress, great empire of faith and freedom.

I do have one request, however. Join me in battle against the demon that threatens this mass illusion we call democracy. Bring to the battlefield your sword of righteous and pantheistic similitude. We will fight the Sith and conquer the world in the name of no-reality, no truth, but the personalized bardo that defines our ultimte oneness with the state of no-mind, no-evil, no reality but cheese wiz.

In the words of that poet of the demonic and degenerate doggerel:

To the dilemma shuddering between the no to life
and the yes to death, stiff cock and winking labia
promise salvation for the agendum of the race.

All hail mighty metaphysics--rock-hard phenomenal meat of life. At least I can sink my teeth into you, god of incarnate verities, similitudes, dogmas beyond question, doctrines of million-year hagiographies, non-transient vessels of meat and potatoes, cream corn, and rice bowl economics.

And science--yes, you have lit a fire in the hearth-stone of my heart. Your amulets to disperse the demons that plague my dreams, that darken my day's delight; let us seize the mystery, deflower her with the stiff rigor of our logical thrusts and leave her there wanting more, as we move on to yet another verdant oasis of superstition, another mystery of soon to-be-known whatsit-all-about gooey string theory. For this (as the great hierophant and hepatoscope, Wilson, has mantically scried) is our (I use this to symbolize and bring into the light of day, the true I, the true being of what those mystic rummagers around in the mythical soul call "consciousness') mission of life::DNA code book deiphered: plant the seed, save the breed.

And if you question my sincerity, master of the Dow, I remind you of those immportal words spoken by a clown whose name is written in the annals of the Dogs-Head Conclave:

The world, you see, is happier after the terror of the storm... you have noticed that truth comes into this world with two faces. One is sad with suffering, and the other laughs; but it is the same face, laughing or weeping. When people are already in despair, maybe the laughing is better for them; and when they feel too good and are too sure of being safe, maybe the weeping face is better.

All praise, divine Janus; all praise Silenus and you other double-tongued tricksters slavering after that proteus-bodied, over boiled, bland tuber and illusion called "person."