Offended by the Offended by the Offended

Christmas is over! Maybe we can have some peace around here!

Since I have another early deadline and no idea what new wars might break out, let’s gossip about Christians!

We just spent an entire holiday season listening to various Christians gossip about non-Christians. “Non-Christians are offended by Christmas trees, you know.” “Really? I heard they melt at the sight of Nativity scenes.” “I’m not surprised. And the way they hate it when you say Merry Christmas to them, my word, what thin skins they have! I think they’re all hemophiliacs.”

I don’t want to ever hear one more single person tell me what offends other people. No third party declarations of offense. Also, they prefer to be called the “Christianity-Free.”

Here’s news you won’t get on FOX: it’s possible to object to Christian images in public places paid for by public funds without being in the slightest bit offended by the images themselves. Of course, reducing all such objections to imaginary offenses taken is very convenient. You can tell people they just have a Weak Constitution. “Have a hanky and go cry in the corner until Christmas is over.”

Actually, because I have some small say about what gets printed in Real Change, religious wars don’t end with Epiphany for me. Submissions come in all year round that speak glowingly of some religious figure or another.

Who am I kidding? They all speak glowingly of Jesus. Apparently, nobody that cares deeply about Ahura Mazda thinks of Real Change when they are looking for an outlet to express their feelings. But Jesus moves people to want to publish here.

Since I have only one vote in about six I make it a policy not to tell folks how I’ll vote, because it could be misleading. So if you ask, “Does Real Change publish fiction?” I’ll say, “What do you think we are, the New York Times?” and laugh insanely.

Otherwise, imagine how it would be. I’d say to someone, "No, Mr. Manson, we're not about to publish your 'If I Had It To Do All Over, Here's How I Would Slaughter Them This Time' in thirteen weekly installments." As sure as I'm sure we won't, that's just how surely the editorial committee will vote 5 to 1 in favor of slaughter. Or supposing I said, "Yes, Ma'am, we would be thrilled to print your detailed explicit graphic memoirs as a life-long callgirl specializing in rare requests," I can just bet the committee will vote 5 to 1 against good fun. I'm not naming names, but some people on the editorial committee are not me. Not in any way me.

All of that said, I’ve decided to break my long silence on this one subject in order to fill up the rest of my space today. Now, remember, I just have one vote in six, and my opinions are NOT the official opinions of Real Change or any other decent organization.

First, the rumors are not true. I do not hate Jesus. Not only that, but I have been known to vote “yes” on submissions that mention Jesus and say good things about Jesus. I am not bothered by any utterance of the names “Jesus,” “Christ,” or those of His Relatives or Associates.

I am in fact very much interested in your touching story about how you and your pet goldfish Simon and your shared love for Jesus Christ saved you both from the well during the flood. Or how thanks to Jesus your fifteen years of homelessness have been joyous throughout, or that you don’t even consider yourself homeless because, with Jesus in your heart, wherever you are is Heaven, and Heaven is nothing if not home. It really really interests me to read things like that.

I do however insist that any submission that gets my vote say something other than, “I’m a Christian; you be one too.”

Take a look at my picture on this page. Does that look like a cheerleader outfit I’m wearing?

Necessity Is A Mother

Recently I was in a van with a bunch of folks from my building, coming back from the food bank, when a man with a shopping cart pushed it off the curb across an intersection right in front of us, while we had the green light. I reacted first and said, “Smart!” Then the others all said, “Stupid!” That got me thinking. Why am I so unrelentingly ironic?

I’ve also thought about how a lot of people say things to me like, “Dr. Wes, you must be the smartest person who ever lived. Where do you get your amazing understanding and knowledge of everything, especially things you’ve never experienced, like racecar driving, or stellar nuclear fusion, or significant work, or humility?”

The answer, of course, is that I utilize my enormous gift of imagination (making stuff up in my head), combined with my equally enormous gift of association (making the made-up stuff line up with other stuff that’s not so made up).

Let me illustrate. I have never actually tied one end of a long elastic cord to the railing of a bridge and the other end to my ankles and then took a flying leap off the bridge into an enormous gorge over jagged rocks. So how could I ever speak knowledgeably about bungee jumping? It’s easy! I just imagine stepping in front of a #1 bus on its way past Yesler and imagine showing the driver my middle finger. When the driver slams on his brakes and stops the bus an inch from my nose, in my imagination, I’ve understood the essence of bungee jumping. And aren’t the essences of things all we ever need of them?

But being so gifted intellectually isn’t all sweetness and sunshine, or pizza and cheese, or pajamas and coeds. There’s hardship too. I have long been a target of bigotry, having to endure the taunts and slurs of brainists. Growing up, I was called vicious names like Egghead, Einstein, Brainiac, College Material, Smarty Pants, Smart, and Poindexter.

The turning point came in the 8th grade when my math teacher called in our homework and I had forgotten to do mine. Supposedly his difficult homework should have taken me an hour to do, but I said, “No problem,” and took some paper and did the assignment in front of him, in a minute. The teacher said I was “weird.” At first I took that to be a compliment. But then I realized he didn’t mean, “You’re refreshingly different” or “You’re oddly delightful,” but rather something dark and mean, like, “You’re never going to own a house on Mercer Island,” or “You’re never going to be a member in good standing of a major fraternal organization such as the Elks or the Rotary Club,” or “You’re never going to sleep with a cheerleader.”

At that, something snapped inside, and, all at once, I became mean-spirited. I began to plot revenge on all the brainists. I used my enormous intellect and inhuman imagination for evil rather than good, as I dreamed up one hideous punishment after another for my many tormentors.

Sadly, most of the punishments I dreamed up were out of my price range. Being 13, I had no credit, and as my parents were cheap bastards my allowance barely paid for my school lunches. So I was unable to realize my plans involving the fighter jet, the remote-controlled giant robot with the heat-ray eyes, and the genetically engineered jock-eating gerbil.

I could complain about that from here to the end of the column, but the truth is that “Necessity is a Mother” and never having a mass-murdering genetically engineered gerbil made me what I am today, and that’s something I’m thankful for.

Because there wouldn’t be any Adventures in Irony if I hadn’t been forced to learn more constructive ways to cope with frustration than bombing and strafing all of my enemies.

If only all of us could be as fortunate as I’ve been.