So it seems like B. Hussein Osama Obama has finally resigned from his cracknuts church. I didn’t even know you could resign from a church, but besides that, didn’t he say he couldn’t disown Wright or his church anymore than he could his own family? I guess I must have missed the last part, “…unless it interferes with my political ambitions.”

I don’t know what’s worse, him basically conceding the fact that he joined a church for political reasons (and then left it for political reasons), or him appearing genuinely surprised and shocked (SHOCKED!) to hear of the racist, anti-American venom that continues to be spewed from the pulpit on a regular basis. Really, 20 years and he has no idea? It only took Oprah Winfrey 2 years before realizing how batsh&% insane Rev. Wright could get, so what’s Barry’s excuse?

This all seems wrong though. Wasn’t Obama supposed to be the Chocolate Messiah come down from heaven to save us whiteys from ourselves, all in a spirit of true Hope and Change™? Yes we can!! And that upon the rock of Daily Kos weenies he would build his church, and the gates of hell would not prevail against it? Yes we can!!

And yet the man who portrays himself as the very symbol of racial unity and snuggleness throws his entire church under the bus, not because he disagrees with them so much, but mainly because he just doesn’t want to see those poor wonderful folks suffer the national scrutiny that comes from running in a Presidential election. (Read: I don’t want Whitey America to find out just how buggernuts bonkos insane my church of 20+ years can really get.)

Good Lord, what a dillweed.

Is there even anything about Trinity United Church of Christ that would be remotely Christian to begin with? A church that would seem to support separatism, promote the agenda of a single race while villifying another, honor anti-semitic scumbags like Louie Farrakhan, support abortion on demand, and hold fast to Marxist principles, all while abandoning the more orthodox teachings of the Bible?

If this is a true Christian church, then the Easter Bunny is my Daddy.

Despite the Obamessiah’s attempts to distance himself from this crowd, it actually does a lot to explain his dangerous political ideology, and especially why it was only recently that his wife could finally say she was proud of her country. Oy.

God forbid this guy should win, or Jimmy Carter will end up getting his second term after all.

This should be a joyous day to be sure. It reminds us of Christ’s accomplished work on the cross, His resurrection, and the promise that sin now no longer has any dominion over us. We can now be saved by grace, not by works.

So millions today will go to church, say their prayers, and take communion while their pastors piously reflect on the true meanings of Easter. And for millions, it will mean nothing more to them than just a boring tradition that they follow every year, a reason to get out of the house. They will spend time with families they can’t stand, fire up the TV so they can watch the ballgame, then drink themselves into a near drunken coma while they feast on roasted lamb. The kids will scream and run completely amuk after they have sampled the sugar-ridden baskets of chocolates and jelly beans, or wail at the top of the lungs because they couldn’t find the easter eggs while parents try vainly to console them by feeding them even more sugar.

And then people wonder why I hate the holidays.

Honestly, it’s times like this when I think I’ve been wired so differently that I’m the only one who seems unable to abide by the hypocrisy that especially seems to come out during this time of year. If you can’t stand your family, why spend time with them? If you don’t want to go to church, why go? Why put on a show of piety when your heart is clearly elsewhere? It’s better to be true to yourself than to fake your way around. And yet so many “dissemble themselves in their hearts” on these occasions, mostly because I suspect they fear alienation. They dread the thought of being more principled and true to themselves because it might mean that they’d be shunned by others and would have to walk…. alone. For so many, this is a terrifying thought they simply cannot bear. In short, they are cowards.

One of the reasons I avoid church is not only because the local ones have all sold themselves out to apostasy, but also because I cannot be with a company of people who see Christ as nothing more than someone they half heartedly have to nod their heads to once a week, while the pastors give spiritually dead and recycled sermons in somber voices. Only by blasting the contemporary Christian music to unsafe decibel levels can the church leadership assure themselves that the congregation won’t fall asleep as a result of the same, tired old phony shows of piety they present to the masses every week.

And yet I’m sharply criticized and denounced for not wanting to be a part of this. As I ponder why the hatred sent my way is so strangely venomous and disturbing, I wonder if it’s because they’re jealous. Jealous that I am not a slave to a ritual of traditions that I can’t stand. Jealous that I don’t have to spend time with family members who drive me nuts. Jealous that I could go anywhere I pleased while not feeling the least bit guilty, simply because I don’t have any obligations to fulfill. It would come as some solace to them I suppose to denounce me as a heretic and declare me well on the path to hell because I refused to join them in their misery. Alas, woe is me, for I have deprived myself of the company of these gentle, loving souls.

There is a better way, though. I would gladly seek out the company of those true to themselves, and who truly love the Lord, whether they attend church or not. They’re not perfect. They have doubts and bouts of despair. They get angry at God and question why things happened the way they did, and they don’t criticize others who feel the same way. They shun hypocrisy, choosing instead to seek something real, even if it may not be perfect. They are a remnant, scattered abroad, and it is always a sheer joy when I am able to find and meet one who is a part of that remnant. God is near in their hearts and always on their minds, instead of being utterly forgettable six days out of the week. These are they who understand the true meaning of this holiday.

A recent posting by the Ignoble Experiment got me thinking about a Disney favorite of mine, Beauty and the Beast. Back in the days when Disney was still making animated films that were actually good, they churned out this beauty (no pun intended), a story that centered around redemption and true love. I was too young to fully appreciate the movie when it first came out, but in subsequent years, I began to see myself in the Beast. The years had made me bitter and angry, harboring a quiet rage against a world that I felt did me serious wrong, just like the Beast. Some of it I brought on myself though, I admit, just as the Beast was in no small part responsible for his own misery. And yet part of that rage had to have no doubt been fueled by the despair that he would never be freed from his curse, as each petal that dropped from the flower brought him ever closer to his doom. It took the love of a caring, gentle soul to bring him back, a woman who taught him how to love again, despite his imperfections and grotesque appearance.

A gentle, caring girl, willing to get past looks and appearances so she can see the wounded man behind the beastly image? Yep, quite obviously a fairy tale. If you think this does indeed happen in the real world, then you my friend live in a fairy tale of your own.

This is one of my pet peeves about women too. They complain about guys being shallow and dating on looks alone, and then claim the higher ground by insisting that they NEVER do that. Nope, it’s a guy’s inner qualities that attracts them. It’s the damnedest, most hypocritical crap I’ve ever heard come out of their filthy, lying mouths.

Honestly, the mass of women today have proven themselves to be the shallowest, calculating, back stabbing, most judgmental heartless gobs of human flesh to have ever graced this planet. They will pass eternal judgment on you based on nothing more than the color shoes you’re wearing. They stare right through you as if you were nothing but a ghostly apparition they can barely see, refuse to say thank you when you hold the door for them, and only feign interest in you when they want something. God may have created Adam, but it was Satan who created Eve.

This mass of self interested, self indulgent whores of Babylon have made finding that gem of a woman who really is a cut above the rest virtually impossible. There’s little doubt even if I could find one, she would be taken aback at my beastly rage. Would she be able to get past that? Past the imperfections, the open wounds that cause me such most perpetual pain and grief? Will she be the Belle to my Beast?

Who am I kidding, she obviously doesn’t exist. And unlike the Beast, who found redemption and a happy ending, I can feel the last petal beginning to slip through my fingers, as a lifetime of unredeemable rage awaits me. Alas, in real life, there will be no Belle to save me.

Last weekend my town had a Columbus Day festival, which culminated in a fireworks celebration Sunday night. I happened to get a good view of the fireworks from my apartment, so I watched for a few minutes… by myself of course. I could hear the faint sound of the cheers of delight in the distance by the spectators. I could have gone to the festival myself, but I’ve been in this town for a long time, and in that time I’ve made very few friends, while the rest were people I’d just as soon not see again if I could help it. I suspected some of those people were at the festival too. Ironically enough, the very first time they started the Columbus festival, I was a freshman in high school and played in the marching band for the Columbus Day parade. My love for the town’s fair (and for the town itself) has since waned over the years.

As I watched the fireworks, all I could think about was that I was watching it alone. I was a single rocket, firing off into a lonely sky. And yet, I used to love fireworks, especially as an adolescent. Today, it brings me nothing but pain. The pain of knowing I have spent so many years going to festivals, watching fireworks, hitting the movie theaters, visiting parks and beaches, and yet, doing it all alone, unable to share those experiences with that special someone.

So I couldn’t enjoy it anymore. Instead of taking in the dazzling display, my mind wandered to all those people at the festival, many of who no doubt were holding hands and playing suck face while the rockets soared. I burned with envy and hatred as hot as the fireworks that were currently going off, which soon gave way to a deep despair. There may have been a time when I enjoyed being single, but I realized that time has now come and gone, and now all I’m left with is a sense of melancholy that precludes me from being able to enjoy any of life’s recreations. In short, I’ve stopped living. I can’t go out and enjoy life anymore, because I know I have to do it alone. I’m tired of having to say “table for one” every time I have dinner somewhere, or take in a movie and be unable to discuss it afterwards. I was tired of going on vacation and doing romantic things such as taking a steamboat cruise, or walking down the beach, and yet having to do it all without “her.”

In years past, the despair I would feel at being alone was usually buffered with a sense of hope that soon, someday soon, my suffering would at long last come to an end, and I would finally meet the woman of my dreams. But as one year gave way to another, my hope began to wither and die. It’s no wonder I exhibit so little effort to take care of myself. The loss of hope has given me a loss of will to carry on. It’s like a slow way to commit suicide. I won’t do it outright, so by letting my health deteriorate, this is a round about way for me to accomplish the same goal. The world succeeded in crushing my spirit, and it seems I’ll never be able to recover from the devastation.

All that is left is to hope for either a miracle, or a death that will come sooner, rather than later.