Your Destiny is Mundane and Boring Part 2

July 12, 2006

We continue our discussion on predestination as we get fresh saucers of Jameson’s placed in front of us.

“And what about people’s quirky personal problems?” I say. “What’s the point in making people fated to be furries, or to be obessessive Compulsive, or to be into bondage?”

“Or like who would make someone destined to be a chronic masturbator whose moment of infamy would come in front of three hundred people at a town hall debate?”

“Hey, I still think that aside from the constant whacking off in public, Spank Rosenberg would have made a fine councilman-at-large,” I say. “But what about people who get murdered? What kind of God gives a soul to someone destined to end up in Jeffrey Dahmer’s freezer?”

“Or what about being fated to die in a freak accident?” says Bernie. “Like when that gargoyle fell off that church and killed a bridal party.”

“What about shit like Tourette’s Syndrome or skitzophrenia?” I say.

“Yeah, and shit like Inflammatory Bowel Disease or progeria?” says Bernie. “What the point of those?”

“Comic relief?” I say, guessing.

“So God is a shitty sitcom writer?” Bernie says.

“No, God’s more like the writers for pro wrestling,” I say. “They book some important events, like wars and stuff, but most of the time it’s really just a lot of shit that doesn’t make any sense and they hope you forget about the lack of continuity.”

“So instead of asking ‘Why God Why’ we should be yelling ‘Who Booked This Crap?!” says Bernie.

“Well, it’s better than the alternative to that,” I say. “That everything is not scripted and we make everything up as we go along… and it’s not very good.”

“So either our lives have been poorly scripted by God and Vince McMahon, or life is just one big awful-ass improv show?” Bernie says.

“If life truly is a stage, then yes,” I say. “I’m going to go with the bad improv show. Because it’s a ridiculous notion that a deity can create the universe but script its day-to-day functions so poorly.”

Bernie shivers. “Oh man, there ain’t many things in this world worse than a bad improv show. Except maybe multiple sclerosis, or ethnic cleansing.”

“And yet we have those things, thanks to bad improv,” I say.

“You know, I think we’ve just disproven predestination by merely taking it to its logical ends,” says Bernie. “And that life is really just a really long and horrible Second City performance.”

“And we didn’t even have to leave the bar,” I say, filling up my saucer with more whiskey.

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