Happy birthday to me

December 28, 2007 at 6:41 pm (Day to Day)

My birthday began with a phone call at 8:00. I put my phone on vibrate last night in anticipation of the incoming phone calls and text messages. The circumstances were particularly auspicious: no work, no school, no service. This should have let me sleep until the butt crack of Noonish, ignoring the birthday wishes of my friends. Unfortunately, my phone makes sure to differentiate between silence and vibrate—very sneaky Nokia! I was in the middle of a dream that, I think, involved me in a James Bond tuxedo while the theme music from Smart Guy played innocuously in the background when VVVVVV VVVVVV VVVVVVV started going off a foot away from my head. Maybe my dream was of Toppers… I swung my arm over to my nightstand, smashing my alarm clock and causing the radio to play, hitting and bruising my wrist on the edge of the nightstand. I would have shook my hand in enmity to the gods of radios (Panasonic?) Whoever was calling was now the cause of a loss of sleep, a possible wrist fracture, and probably world hunger. I looked at the front of the phone and saw the feets of Carissa. I need to change that sometime. Carissa is still young and energetic, able to go to bed at 1:30 A.M. and wake up at 7:00. This is actually a legitimate description of the last half of her semester. I guess this gave her one hour of courtesy to let me sleep in. Always thinking with her heart, this one. I always overcompensate politeness whenever I answer the phone after being asleep. A few people have told me that I sound grumpy (even when I was fully awake) on the phone, and this made me self-conscious. Despite the sharp pain on the ball of my wrist and a radio full of static still going off, I answered with a very enthusiastic “Hey!” Carissa is a girl of straightforwardness and got to the point fast without a proper hello. She started shouting into the phone a Sesame Street happy birthday song. It made the pain in my wrist hurt a lot less, and even made me smile. We had a short conversation that I can hardly remember. Memory of a platypus. I do know that her family’s road trip of the Midwest has landed her in one of her favourite cities, Branson, Missouri. I use Facebook mobile, and instead of putting my phone on silence, I left it on vibrate only to be woken up thirty minutes later by another VVVVVVV VVVVVV VVVVVV text message Facebook. It was a generic happy birthday message. I have a hard time appreciating non-personal wall posts like that; it just screams, “Hey Rob, I know we haven’t spoken to each in three years and are only Facebook friends out of obligation, but happy birthday!” Not that I’m bitter, only practical.

This is the first year since beginning college that I don’t have anything really planned for my birthday. The past two years involved a posse going to eat at Charlston’s and seeing a movie. Last year was The Good Shepherd, and the previous was The Producers. I don’t really belong to a group that I feel close enough with to actually plan out something like that. The only two people I could think of had conflicts; Caleb is grounded from society, and D.J. has to work. My old poker posse might be playing some poker later tonight; if so, I am definitely in. I miss playing poker real bad. The game itself is fun, but the loose atmosphere and conversation is what I remember the most. This past spring semester involved a lot of poker and a lot of friendship. We would typically pop in a movie just for background noise and then play a few games. Maybe it wasn’t actually as fun as I remember, and my mind is playing tricks on me.

I am starting to see a pattern of discontent in my life. The beginning of the semester caused me to be extremely hopeful; I was in with a new group, had a crop of new classes, and had a lot of things to look forward to. That excitement for the new lasted a good two months. One sociologist—I unfortunately cannot remember the name or his theories—theorized very practically how people try to express their best and most desirable attributes when trying to get in good with a group. The group that comes to an agreement in whether or not let this person join the herd. It isn’t expressed so simply, but the outcome is about the same. My problem is that it was a little bit easy to impress the group, and now I could use some impressing because it’s just been getting pretty boring to me. Everybody has a formula it seems; there’s always some way of getting certain reactions out of people. Obviously I want to produce positive reactions that indicate that I am intelligent, funny, charming, entertaining, etc., but I know exactly what to say to any individual within the group to make them laugh. I know what to say to make me seem admirable (without lying). Most of the people are very expressive with their facial expressions, indicating whether or not I have failed. I don’t think like this, and I am pretty sure that I haven’t purposely used this to manipulate somebody. We are always on stage for some audience. “All the world’s a stage…” This is seen most prominently in teenagers but still exists in my age group. Once friendships are formed, it makes sense that you get to “know” somebody more. Intimacy, the sociological sense, is defined by the sharing of secrets, opinions, thoughts, and the like. Trust is also important. We have the friends that become a little bit predictable with their thoughts. I have always thought of  it as a good thing when you can take a good guess at what a close friend is thinking on a subject.

My discontent right now comes from the fact that there really isn’t anybody in the current BSU herd that I want to share things with. Certain people get bits and pieces; Caleb and D.J. hearing my boozing stories from my boozing days, for example, Carissa and I debating the bible, and Jenna getting my overly-goofy side. I’m too ashamed to talk about my boozing days with Carissa or Jenna without them thinking I am a backslider of sorts, and discussing Christianity with D.J. and Caleb (funny that I use “and” instead of “or”) gets way too sticky and complicated at times. These are the easiest examples to come up with, but there is a lot more going through my head than Christianity and booze. I tried at the beginning of the semester to get closer with a few people but then withdrew after realizing I didn’t feel comfortable enough. A pessimists view of trust is “I have dirt on you, and your have dirt on me…” and I’m just having a hard time with that right now. What’s particularly interesting is that as withdrawn and unattached as I am, I have done a good job of seeming normal and sticking out as being unique but not too weird. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago that Carissa made the offhand comment, “I don’t really know all that much about you!” I have such a pattern of having these kinds of relationships and have a lot of “dirt” on other people. I talk about myself  very impersonally, causing people to know me without knowing me. This isn’t all that intentional and is just how things turn out with some of my less-intimate relationships. This tendency was only pointed out a little over a year ago while at UCM.

There are so many people I hope don’t find this blog. A sexologist once theorized that a lot of the excitement from teenage masturbation comes from the potential of getting caught. This is world-wide web so there is always that possibility. Yes, I’m comparing blogging to masturbation. I won’t always be complaining about the same things; I will eventually do something about my friendship situation.

McCann and I had a conversation a few months ago in which he said that he gets more optimistic, or at least less cynical, as he gets older. This blew my mind.


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T’was the night befoe Christmas

December 25, 2007 at 1:18 am (Day to Day)

Christmas Eve services are absolutely terrible. I have never been to one that I remembered a week later. I really like David, but tonight could have been labeled “cliché Christmas Eve service” that would follow the same formula many other churches follow. Did anybody NOT sing Christmas songs tonight? Did anybody NOT have communion or read from the first few chapters of Matthew or Luke? If I only went to church on a Christmas Eve, I wouldn’t want to come back for another year, either. The body of Christ was stale tonight. It occurred to me during verse two of What Child is This exactly how convenient Butterfly Effect blackouts would be for a situation like this.

“Bladabladabladabla, remember the reason for the season. Bladabladabladabla about 2000 years ago something about a manger. Bladabladabladabla cannabis smoking hippies from the Persia smoking a pipe from Toppers. Bladabladabladabla. ”

Loves usurped Wal-Mart for the night. D.J. and I were hungry for some real food and knew Loves had a faux Subway. The Loves on Mississippi wasn’t making the sandwiches so we drove to the ghetto to quench our sandwich jonesen. I was still wearing my suit and half-expected to get mugged by a Christmas elf that was down on his luck since Santa laid him off after catching him drinking on the job. We saw the Indian version of Jay and Silent Bob standing against the outside wall. We got on our sandwich and then watched I Love the 90’s for a few hours.

I actually had material planned to write about, but then it got late.

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Jack Frost can suck on an ice sickle

December 22, 2007 at 5:50 pm (Day to Day)

I’m sitting at the Perfect Blend right now watching the snow flakes almost touch the ground and then decide otherwise, floating back up with some aid from the wind. There have been a lot of snowflakes throughout history; surely have been two to have been exactly the same. Besides, how can anybody actually know that no two snowflakes are the same? Touching snow flakes usually ends with a watery palm.

I went to Carissa’s house yesterday afternoon before work to hang out with a fairly large group of people. Anything involving her family is always going to be fairly large, simply because she is apart of a litter of seven kids. In addition to her family, Ada was there. A few other people I’ve only met once or twice showed up as well. We played Mad Gab for about half an hour. Event though Carissa completely owns at that game—she probably just has every single card memorized, having played it so much—we still lost by two points. I still don’t understand how some of the phrases were what they were. A card could say something similar to, “Eat wasp hun” and the actual phrase would be, “ We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.” Afterwards we watched a comedian by the name of Tim Hawkins. He was surprisingly funny AND clean. He liked to parody songs on his guitar and still looks like he might be thinking the nineties are going to make a comeback. Still, pretty funny stuff. I didn’t get to stay but for about twenty minutes of it before I had to go to work. Mo money, mo problems.

Caleb is going through rough times right now. I knew he was having a bad semester, dropping to just six hours and getting the business from his parents and grandparents about it. Taking anti-depressants was a nice attempt by his doctor to put a band-aid on the problem. One of his classes didn’t drop, and he did horrible as it was, leaving him with a GPA not very representative of his intelligence. His dad, who is the kind of practical guy that gets a diet coke with his super-sized Big Mac, is refusing to pay for next semester’s tuition. Instead of taking advantage of ECU’s “pay whenever” policy, Caleb is deciding to take the semester off in order to work three jobs. He would rather pay for his tuition ahead of actually enrolling. That’s not necessarily bad, I suppose, but Caleb has a history of making very emotionally-snap decisions. Sixty-seventy hours of work a week may sound good in theory but having done it myself for two weeks straight this summer, it is very draining, turning your mind into a zombie. If he does go through with it and succeed, he’ll probably come out far more mature than going into it. I feel really bad for him right now, with a few different sociological theories (none mine) swirling through my mind on his behavior. Sociology usually doesn’t produce very comforting theories. On top of being financially cut off, his grandparents are also kicking him out. He moved in with them because his parents lived in Ardmore. After moving to Ada, Caleb decided to stay with his grandparents. His reason was for convenience. That’s suspect.

I’m still having doubts about graduate school. I want to go, there are no doubts there, but exactly which field is giving me fits. Sociology is such a depressing field. There’s a reason that roughly 90% of all sociology professors are non-theistic. Sociology is nothing but woe, the “social conscious” of society that is quick to point out injustices and put the good into the closet. Some of the articles in my gender and society class were a little bit old, some dating back into the 80’s. When discussing the articles in class, it’s so apparent that there has been a lot of positive progress. Stuff like that makes me hopeful, but sociologists tend focus on the next problem. I’m just a bit worried that pursuing sociology will cause me to become even more cynical than I already am. A lot of the people in my church are supportive of me. I am very conspicuous at church, the kind of lower-class, black, gay, woman found in Greenwich, Connecticut. I’m suffering from class consciousness, but I’m probably the only one which makes me feel better. My granddad is also supportive of me since he taught at Wisconsin-Madison for a few years. He wasn’t actually a fan during his tenure, but he respects the university for being among the best in liberal arts. Madison is a latte town, no doubt about it. The other option is seminary. I really suck at loving God sometimes and the bible speaks very bitterly against ministers who shouldn’t be. There’s also the option of attending just to learn church history and systematic theology and still end up teaching. It’s teaching, just not sociology.

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Christmas cheer

December 20, 2007 at 3:28 pm (Day to Day)

My company’s Christmas party went off last night. Saying company makes me feel like a have a little bit more status in the world in which my friends have titles such as PCLC directors and assistant librarian. Both titles are only fancy synonyms for professional facebookers. I could use the title baker, I suppose, but that would only be a euphemism for doughnut jockey. We were given the opportunity to bring friends along, and I could think of no greater connoisseur of free-food mooching than the esteemed Monsieur D.J. de Mendiant.

I was originally told that the party was at Bob’s B-B-Q and when the location was changed to Front Row Joe’s (the big boss) Oak’s edition house, I must not have listened. I blame it on the bad information given to me by my intelligence officers. The Wednesday advent service let out at about six fifty, and the party got underway at seven. I swung by the BSU to get D.J. and headed to Bob’s. We were greeted by a pretty barren building of Ada’s finest. The staff gave a hurricanical hoorah at our arrival. After calling Joe to ascertain where the actual party was taking place we left to the disappointment of the staff. We made our way through the Oak’s. We were riding in D.J.’s, truck with racing stripes. These are to make his truck go faster of course, but I’m sure the cheapest car in that neighborhood costs twice as much as his truck, making all the residents believe we were gangster, causing them to fear for their lives and more importantly, their 70” flat screen televisions and Mercedes. I was now driving through the world of David Brook’s Bobos in Paradise. This was definitely more on the side of the bourgeoisie, which permeated like a mist of money green through the ostentatious and even gaudy Christmas décor and expensive cars. The bohemian influences were there as well, though much more subtle. It probably hard to express a lifestyle that is supposed to be anti-wealth and anti-establishment through money. We pulled up to Joe and his family’s house, greeted by a two story inflatable Frosty the Snowman and Santa Clause. Larger than life isn’t appropriate; large than at least five lives seems more suitable. We parked right behind my coworker’s truck and made it inside to find the festivities already in motion.

The food at least consisted of Bob’s. For some reason, Joe thought it was a good idea to have La Fiesta Mexican and BBQ mixed. Joe and his wife greeted me with hospitality, showing us where the food, the deserts, and the wine/beer was. D.J. and I began our  fierce cadging of the BBQ. All of my coworkers made it, and we sat around chatting it up for a little bit. Only Chester—the dirty old man with the heart of gold and emotional sensitivity of Robert Frost—brought who I thought was his ex-girlfriend. She’s menopausal and I even watched her autobiography not too long ago, American Psycho.  Chester probably weighs about 140lbs. and was absolutely beat purple by this woman. He’s playing the role of the emotionally co-dependant young woman who believes she can change her alcoholic/abusive partner. It’s good to see things working out for them. Joe’s wife, Tammy, had us write down an unknown fact about us on a piece of paper and drop it into a cup for a quick guessing game. It wasn’t as funny as it could be, but it was a fun game. I told the story of  how I burned my house when I was a young lad of three years old. Curiosity killed the cat (literally) as well as causing many thousands of dollars worth of damage. Joe’s was easy to pick out because nobody else would tell a story  that involved a monkey costume and a penis. Tammy’s was also easy—she slept with her boss. Joe once managed a movie theatre in California and actually met Tammy while she was working for him in college. The rest were harder to figure out, ranging from former taxi cab drivers to transgender (as a joke…I assume). Afterwards we played a dice game that netted  us inexpensive gifts Tammy bought and wrapped. She stockpiled the presents on a table and passed two sets of two dice around a circle. A seven or eleven meant a present. After the presents were all distributed, there was a three minute round of thievery. D.J. ended up with zero presents after this round, with me being the culprit. There weren’t any notable presents besides the aforementioned menopausal husband beater getting a douche and a tampon. The douche would have been wonderful had she used it on her mouth.

D.J. and I went up stairs to play with Joe’s eleven year old son and impressive him with our expert skills on guitar hero. It didn’t take long for the party to die down a bit. D.J. and I left but not empty-handed. Joe handed me a goodie bag o’Christmas cheer. Wow, for being such business-minded grinch at times, Joe went all out. Inside of my well-decorated bag laid Christmas joy in the form of a sweat shirt with The Donut Shop stitched into the breast, a bottle of 2005 Beringer Merlot, a $25 gift card to Sushi Nikos in OKC, a $10 gift card to Starbucks, a can of caramel popcorn, and a $50 bill. I had told Joe that the below-freezing weather made it hard to run. I prefer to run in shorts, and can even when it’s cold, but the wind made it impossible. Running in the sweat pants I had didn’t make it too much better; the wind and cold eventually made their way to my legs. I wanted a pair of Under Armour leggings but didn’t want to spend the $50. That explained the $50 bill. I haven’t had booze since September for a number of reasons, and I am not sure what will be the fate of my vintage wine. I might honestly just re-gift it. Due to a much meager present budget, I got Joe a copy of Requiem for a Dream. He still hasn’t gotten it. I told him about the movie a few weeks ago, and he expressed an interest in watching it.

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Crack Pot

December 20, 2007 at 2:22 am (Day to Day)

I tend to find myself in some pretty awkward situations. Usually these awkward situations can be less than awkward or even “normal” but for whatever reason I turn the mundane into the profane and the profane into crack pipes.

Books have been this year’s hot item for most of my friends this year. For the first time I actually have a set reading list for the break. Reading lists aren’t something I look forward to because it turns one of my favourite hobbies into an obligation that looms overhead like a hot summer sun. It feels just as heavy and discouraging, too. For this reason I didn’t use books as a default present for my friends. A few did receive some very well thought out books that were picked on the merit of a story behind me making the purchase—either a conversation we had or a situation that made me put the person and book together. A lot of my friends don’t read, however, and I didn’t want to push my interests on somebody else by beating them over the head with a one-two punch of Hemmingway and Kafka. That would be enough to turn me off of literature. My chum Caleb was a special gift because I knew what I was going to get him in early November. He was talking about his craving for a pipe to complete his attire o’pretentiousness. He’ll be writing in Starbucks and saying “indubitably” in no time! After riding around town with D.J. and having no luck with finding a good pipe, I browsed over an ad in The Journal for Topper’s Tobacco, which advertised pipes. Since pipes were what I was after, I drove out there to finish my quest. Not long after walking into the establishment, which had very anti-establishment posters on the wall, it took me no longer than the time it takes a Spears to get pregnant to realize that the advertisement in the paper was a little bit misleading. It had a very 1960’s bohemian feel to it, and I half expected to hear Helter Skelter playing overhead and seeing a copy of Walden sitting on the counter, opened to the latter half of the book just to prove to all those who walked in that it was indeed being read. This wasn’t quite the case, but it made me actually feel like this could have been the Starbucks of the hippie apex. After looking confused for about the length of time is takes a high school girl to get an abortion, the help asked me what I needed. I told her that I was looking to buy a pipe as a Christmas gift for a friend. She smiled and told me to go through the shaded curtain towards the back of the store. I gave a quick nod and headed in that direction, with a very experienced walking right behind me with the confidence of somebody who knew exactly what she wanted.

I noticed a you-must-be-18 sign and thought nothing of it since it was tobacco we were talking about. It’s the kind of sign that’s expected. What wasn’t expected was what was waiting to jump out and yell “surprise” as soon as I walked through the curtain. “Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain” is a warning I would have taken seriously. The first item that was risen to attention was a giant dildo. And no longer than it takes for a Rob to feel uncomfortable, I started feeling uncomfortable as several different kinds of dildos, blow-up dolls, dirty magazines/pictures, and other different knickknacks welcomed me and my conscious as though to say “sinner”. Fleeing from evil came to my mind, but I decided against it and made my to the back counter to be greeted by a very cheery woman whose life force is probably drawn by the awkwardness of those similar to me. I walked up to her undaunted by my circumstances and asked her about my holy grail, a pipe. She took me to the counter filled with glass pipes. I gave an incredulous look at the lot followed by a sigh. I was not having breakfast at Tiffany’s—unless Tiffany was a cheap prostitute (likely the case). I had no desire to be subtle at this point. I told her that I needed a tobacco pipe. She looked insulted as she replied, “what do you mean?” as if avoiding being the object of a sting operation. “I mean, a wooden pipe.” “Oh you mean an old school pipe?” I was a little bit frustrated at this point. My poise was shaken. I looked at the ground and with slight apprehension looked her in the eyes and finally said, “I mean NOT A CRACK PIPE!” She told me that I had to go next door to Murphy’s Cigars. I left the room with all the nudie pictures and dildos waving goodbye to me. Heaven forbid that a store called Toppers Tobacco that advertises pipes actually have an “old school wooden” pipe. I only wondered what the woman who came in immediately after me was shopping for. She probably wanted a tobacco pipe as well…

I went to Murphy’s and was helped by a very nice lady who gave me good direction on pipes, tobacco, and accessories to get started. I thanked her and went on my way.  It was a funny story at least.

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Oh how I missed thee, my mistress

December 16, 2007 at 11:55 pm (Day to Day)

This is my first sentence to be typed on my new laptop. It will be the first of many; in fact, with this sentence (as semi-coloned as it is, and now parenthesized) my idea-and-philosophically-laden sentences have now doubled. I am very thankful to my parents for caving in and buying me this laptop. When my dad told me it was too expensive, and it was outside of their range of affordability, there was no resentment. I understand that despite the fact that laptops have gone down in price significantly compared to the former glory days of $2000 machines o’ 128 megs of RAM, it is still an expensive purchase. A computer with 128 megs of RAM can probably be purchased in the toddler aisle at Wal-Mart for $19.95 and recommended for ages second-trimester and up. My two and a half year old niece got a laptop that requires more dexterity than I have and more animal noises than I can tolerate. Still, a laptop is a luxury, not a necessity. But so is bathing…and breathing. Breathing is just a luxury if you want to live. Come to think of it, living is a commodity and a luxury as well—a luxury for death. Death is a luxury to be with God or in hell. I really miss blogging!

My dad was not very furtive in his gift-hiding. In his defense, he saw that I was snooping on the internet for laptops. Next to their bed laid a carrying case that could easily be used as a laptop case (and which currently does). He asked me if I had any use for it, with me replying, “if I had a laptop…” He smiled and told me that I would. He even asked me if I wanted to go ahead and open it. This was in the first week of December, on the negative twenty-third day of Christmas. It was good that he told me, else I might have two laptops at the moment. My mind says that two laptops are better than one; his mind says, “…”. His mind is right. He brought out the printer than came with the laptop and told me that there wasn’t enough room for it, my laptop, and Patrick Dempsey’s hair in my mom’s closet. I didn’t ask questions, especially about the mediocre actor with the piece of hair that gets him any decent role. Pop culture references are cheap and unoriginal. Inconspicuousness was obviously something my dad had high concerns about. He gave me my printer and asked me to put it in my closet for safe keeping from bad acting and large hair. It was at that point that I had a small morsel of an idea of what my Christmas gift might be. He went through the motions of having my mom wrap my laptop and even offered to wrap my printer. This was after I gave it a full top-to-bottom analysis. I politely refused his offer with incredulity. Now it’s negative ten days before Christmas, and I’m already on it. My parents thought it was a good time to open what presents there are since my Eric, my sister’s fiancé, is in town. This was exactly one day after I made fun of Carissa for not doing the traditional Christmas-present ravaging on the tradition Christmas-ravaging day of Christmas (Christmas Eve is acceptable as well if you fear Santa Clause and Christmas cheer) Since my sister and I are both procrastinators when it comes to buying and wrapping presents, only about one-tenth of all Inman-family presents were opened.

I was thinking in great detail exactly what would be the first thing I write about on this laptop. The first two paragraphs were not planned, but due to my crazy and oh-so-endearing impulsiveness, they could not be denied their unplanned birth. I’ll use contraceptive next time or go to Planned Parenthood. For the world of writing, Comp. I is where literary abortions are performed. A Chuck Palahniuk novel will also satiate the pro-choice-for-literary-abortion camp. My first diatribe was going to be about a short exchange I had with a friend not too long ago. The only preface to the conversation worth mentioning was that he used to go to a different church than he does now. I asked him about the church, the denomination and beliefs and whatnot. His was very dodgy and tried to circumvent the meaning of my question by ambiguously replying, “it’s just a small bible-based church.” The conversation ended there with this question in my mind: does anybody claim to go to a non-bible-based church? The conversation could have passed a little differently if he didn’t go to only one of the myriad of bible-based, albeit somehow clashing and varied, churches:

Rob: So tell me about your church. I mean, what are some of the beliefs it holds.
Friend: Well, for starters, we worship the devil and have a picture of her in our sanctuary. Yeah, we think calling the devil a man is a little bit insensitive and too fifteenth century for our taste. We used to use the gender-neutral pronouns but we are even too progressive for that. Let me show you a picture of her.


Rob: I’m actually thinking about voting for her…
Friend: Yeah, me too. Many of her campaign promises offer the hope of a soft socialism. There’s nothing more that we Satan-worshipping, peace-loving hippies love more than to destroy freedom and democracy. That brings glory to Satan.
Rob: Yeah, I know what you mean. I kind of want to stone you right now just so I don’t have to smell the stink of Moscow, Russia on you. Can you tell me a little bit about your views on baptism? For example, my church baptizes infants. What about yours?
Friend: We sacrifice them and drink their blood in order to absorb their youth.
Rob: What kind of music?
Friend: Three chords and two syllables. It’s actually organized like that only so we can mock God.
Rob: I used to attend a church like that myself, except that we called it worship.

Parody aside, it just caught my attention that two people who can disagree on the very definition of orthodoxy can both get away with saying they go to bible-based churches. I get what he’s saying, however. It’s like a conservative and a liberal both saying they want what is best for our country, and that’s why they’re voting for Generic Candidate 34.

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