Suffer The Children of Religion
Santa Claus. A jolly mythological fellow based on Nicholas of Myra (270- December 6, 346), considered a saint, and Bishop of Myra, a part of what is now Turkey. Known for his secret gift giving, the real Saint Nicholas was just that. Real. His acts of kindness became legend for future myth. Santa was a human creation, destined to become permanently woven into the fabric of what christians celebrate as christmas.
As an adult, I remember very little about the moment my father told me that Santa wasn’t real. I do remember that I wasn’t surprised by the confession. My father, like most parents, had tried to convince me of his existence, and yet, I was unimpressed. I know that a part of me wanted to believe that a fat, jolly, hairy, red suited man with flying reindeer would bring me presents for good behavior, but something just wasn’t right about the prospect. It seemed so ridiculous, so unconventional. My skepticism wasn’t embolden by the fact that I had caught my father eating Santa’s cookies and drinking his glass of milk one christmas eve. No. I figured dad was simply hungry. Anyway, what fed my doubt was simply the whole idea of free shit from a stranger. There HAD to be a catch. What made me even more skeptical was the fact that everyone, from teachers, parents, to policemen, insisted I never accept candy or gifts from a stranger. EVER! Yet, here’s a guy who’s sole purpose is to give me presents and I have never seen him in person! Never met him! Yeah, I sat in “his” lap at the store. Oddly, he smelled bad, his breath wafting of stale cigarettes and coffee in my direction as he gleefully asked me what I wanted stuffed under the dead pine tree in our living room. Doubt. Lots and lots of doubt. Healthy skepticism for a healthy mind.
I met a 6 year old kid the other day. I was sitting in a recliner waiting for my tattoo artist to begin the next artistic chapter in my personal dermal assault. I looked over my shoulder to see a small, blond haired boy. My tattoo artist introduced the boy as Carson, his girlfriend’s son. Carson smiled at me. I smiled back. He then proceeded to ask a lot of questions, in short order, about tattooing, my tattoos, and wanted to know what the big glob of goo was on the tattoo artists work table. I was astounded at the wonderfully healthy curiosity this child had. What a sharp and inquisitive mind. I couldn’t help but widen my smile. I introduced myself to Carson and told him the big glob of goo was snot from my nose. He grinned. I then told him that it was a giant booger. He laughed. “No it isn’t!” he exclaimed. I went on to explain that the goo was a special product/medicine used to help prevent infection. At this point Carson had stolen my heart. My wife and I have been married 26 years. We have no children. We really never wanted them. But, here, at this very moment, I found myself wondering if we had missed an opportunity. But, reality has a way of slapping me across the face in times like this. I came to, long enough to realize that this cute bundle of joy would one day be less than cute, possibly ruining any future my wife and I would have at a successful and stress-less retirement.
Anyway, Carson was full of questions. Not only about tattooing, but about the artwork that festooned the walls of the shop. His eyes were alive, dancing in the colors and designs that adorned the walls. I asked the boy if he could draw. He said “YES” with a big grin. Just then I had a thought. “Hey Carson! Would you like to design a tattoo for me?” I asked. Carson’s eyes lit up like the Las Vegas strip. “YEAH!” he said excitedly. I went on to tell him that if he could draw his design on a piece of paper, I’d have the artist permanently tattoo it on my arm. Poor Carson didn’t know what to do with himself at that moment. His eyes nearly rolled back into their sockets when he heard this. His excitement level almost prompted his beautiful actress mother to call for a quick dose of Thorazine and a straight-jacket for the kid. I asked my artist, Eric, for a sheet of paper. He dug one up and gave it, and a pencil, to little Carson. Before you know it, the kid was sitting at the drawing table, pencil in hand, and frozen. Frozen. His mind must have been going a mile every nano second as he thought about what he wanted to draw. Earlier, he had paid close attention to all the skulls that adorn my left arm, and he asked me if I wanted another skull. I told him that he could draw anything HE wanted, and I would be very happy with that. So, putting pencil to paper, Carson decided to draw a crude looking skull, with spiked hair (I’m bald by choice), big ears (mine aren’t big…really), and no lower jaw (I do have one). Then, in a moment of reflection, he also drew a 70′s style peace sign. “OK” he said, handing me the drawing. “Will I get to see them when they are done?” he asked. I told Carson that indeed he would. “But, I might not be here when you’re done” he replied. I assured him that even though he might not be around when the artist was finished, we would take a picture of the tattoo and he would see it later. With that, Carson’s smile grew impossibly larger. Then he asked a very intuitive question. “Do tattoos come off?” I explained to him that they were permanent, and that they would be a part of me until well after I was dead. A quizzical look appeared on his face. Carson then asked another question which leads me to the point of this story. “Will god take them off after you die?”
Carson is a wonderful child. His ability to question, seek, inquire… these are great strengths for all children. Unfortunately, these abilities are slowly, methodically, poisoned. And, as the years tick by, Carson will lose these abilities to the mythological, dogmatic, utterly useless dribble of religion. His intellect will be watered down, stunted, left to bake, wither and die in the heat of religious damnation of all who question and seek truth. The mere fact that Carson would ask such a question at the tender age of 6 underscores the vile nature and total lack of respect that religion has for the human mind. Reason and logic are the enemies of religion. The more someone questions, the harder religion pushes back, doing everything in its power to suppress the natural abilities of inquiry and skepticism. Children are prime targets for religion. Born atheist, devoid of myth and prejudice, the child is a blank slate for the grafitti of religious dogma and bigotry. The ultimate psychological abuse. Legal, reprehensible abuse. In the name of protecting children and a mythical god , the religious proclaim sovereignty, a professed moral high ground designed to thwart their individuality. Religion wants the young as soldiers in a crusade against sensibility and science. They want warriors to carry a message of hate and intolerance to a world that religion demands rule over. It doesn’t matter how young or innocent the child is. The child is the only way to propel sick and despicable religious agendas forward in the face of science, reason and logic.
It’s very sad that the children must suffer. And suffer they will. It’s a timeless endeavor. With each new generation, children are the fodder for dogma. Not surprising really. But, think about this. Whether a child molester or a preacher, the foundation of abuse is the same. They both have personal agendas, born of a sickness, a delusion, and wrapped in a rationalized excuse. These are the foundations for both abusers. Suffer the children of religion. Suffer the consequences of adults who could really give a rats ass for you. They both want your mind and body to do with as they please and for their own sick and twisted devices. Suffer the children of religion. You are merely pawns to be used in a war against the freedom of the mind. There is no god children. It is the creation of your fathers, mothers, grandfathers, and grandmothers. For generation upon generation has kidnapped you, raped you, and tossed you to the side in a unsavory game of world domination and oppression. And all in the name of a fiction, foisted upon you, and for your misery. Suffer the children of religion.