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Oh -Insert god-head figure here- don't get me started on 'miracles.' If there's one thing I absolutely hate with the fury of ten billion suns the size of ten billion solar masses it's miracles.
My Born-Again, holier-than-thou Mor(m)on priest father just loves, loves, loves, loves the stupid things. Everything is a miracle with him. If it's not a miracle, it's the power of prayer. I may vomit in ungodly rage. It seriously makes me want to tear my hair out.
Some things, yeah, granted, there is some freaky stuff out there. I've seen people working on their eighth set of real teeth, but it ain't no miracle. It. just. happens.
My dad's latest 'Miracle, straight from THE LAWD YOUR GAWD, JAY-SUS"' is how a family started going to church again. That's it. Oh, wait, no, the husband stopped drinking. Yup. total miracle, guys. Get Maury Povitch on the phone, we're making the TV talk-show runs with this one!
We mustn't forget my dad's contribution, though. No, see, he prayed that they would go back to church and the husband to stop drinking.
You know, it just bugs me that people want to take credit for helping something they had no hand in. That, or simply removing the credit from the creditable person altogether.
"No, you silly Lush, you didn't stop drinking on your own. GOD made you stop drinking. AND I HELPED! With my magical powers of prayer! You get no credit for making a moral and ethical choice. You have NO CAPABILITY WHATSOEVER when it comes to doing something that is good for you. You need GOD."
I mean, seriously, would this fly in day to day life?
"Hey, you're welcome for dinner."
"You didn't cook. I did."
"Yeah, but I hoped really, really, really hard that you would, so, you know, you're welcome."
Would you hang out with that kind of person? I sure wouldn't. I had to go OUT OF MY WAY to avoid my father on Easter. Why? Miracles. He kept saying about just how much of a miracle it would be if we could all get together. 'We' being his ex-wife (My mother) my sister, his she-demon wife from the SEVENTH LEVEL OF HELL, and their three little demon spawn.
You know what kinda kills that miracle? Like, dead in the bleeding water? I live less than ten blocks from him. I had planned on going, before he pulled out the little 'miracle' speech. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad. He nearly had a heart attack the other week and I damn near destroyed the apartment in my apoplectic rage because his bone-head wife told him to drive himself to the hospital. Seriously, love the man, hate the attitude.
As you can tell, it's kind of a sore issue with me. It's basically a gaping double standard in the Mormon belief system, into which I was raised.
See, Mormon God gives you total and complete free will. You can do anything you like. Anything. Within the laws of physics, I suppose, but within that boundary, go freakin' nuts, right?
Well, if someone comes along and prays that you receive a miracle, guess what? No more free will. You will stop drinking, screwing hookers, doing speedballs in the bathroom of The Viper, and whatever else is sinfully wrong with you.
Of course, the miracles are all B.S. in a flaming sack, but you can't point that out. No, no, no. Prayer has about a .99 percent fail rate. Guess what that rate up there is. The will of God. The .01 percent left? Proof that God exists.
Head, meet wall. Wall, meet head.
...
Sorry, everything just tasted kinda purple there for a second. I may have had a rage-stroke.
Anyway, I'm going to stop ranting now, and go lay down so the room stops spinning.
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