MAJOR CRIME: DOOMSDAY CULTS
There is nothing I enjoy more than a Doomsday prediction that doesn’t come true. There were dozens of them around the turn of the millenium, and not a single one came to pass. I love the confused looks on the faces of the believers when they realize the power hungry scrotum they have been hailing as the new messiah turns out to be just another manipulative loon with delusions of grandeur. All these so called prophets want is to feel important and to get a little nookie. Oh, and all your money.
Think for a moment about how lost and desperate the people who follow these clowns must be. It must be awful to feel that way, but DAMN . . . it’s going to take more than some charismatic guy named Ed with a big long beard and a two-headed goat to convince me the end of the world is approaching. In fact, as soon as he asks for money, he’s tossed on the refuse heap of pseudo-philosophical scam artists. I’m not going to ride that holy comet into the afterlife, dude.
Granted, some of the cult leaders truly seem to believe the sewage they spew forth, and we all know that a powerful speaker with the appearance of confidence can sway the sheep into divine rapture. Just ask anyone who lived in Germany in the 30′s and 40′s. Hell, just look at the results of the 2004 election in the U.S. Gullible people are always willing to follow the Man with the Plan, so that they don’t have to actually do any work themselves.
But doesn’t there come a point when even the most gullible person has to say, “Hold on a sec. You want me to what?” Remember that group that was going to hitch a ride with the aliens following the comet in the late 90′s? A wild-eyed, bald nut job told them all to wear black, buy Converse sneakers, castrate themselves (for the males, of course) and then commit suicide. And they did it! Okay, maybe I could go along with the black clothes and sneakers, but when he started talking about castration, I think that would have snapped me out of the voodoo trance.
“Castrate myself with an X-acto knife, eh? You know, I forgot to buy a quart of milk last time I was at the store. Why don’t I just run off and take care of that right now?”
Sometimes when the prophet’s end-of-the-world predictions don’t come true, his followers freak out. That pleases me. Finally! Finally, they figure out they’ve been bullshitted and decide to toss him down a well or run him over with one of his own Rolls Royces.
“Gee, Master, the world didn’t end.”
“Yes, I must have read the signs incorrectly.”
“Well, I wish you had figured that out before you told me to castrate myself, ’cause now it’s your ass. Sorry.”
Occasionally, the prediction doesn’t come true, but the followers still believe in their beloved leader. I understand the idea of forgiveness, but gimme a break. If I’ve already sold all my possessions, divorced my wife and shaved my head only to discover Nostradamus was a fake, someone’s getting fucked up. And I’m taking a Rolls and a mattress full of hundred dollar bills, too.
I guess I just don’t understand the need to have someone else tell me how the Universe works. I realize that I’m never going to know, and that no one else knows either, and I’m okay with that. Sure, it’s fun to wonder and speculate, and a large part of me really hopes that we continue on after we die, but I’m not about to screw up my life here and now on the promises of some self-appointed guru of all things metaphysical. So go ahead and worry about Ragnarok or Armageddon or the Second Coming if you must. Just go about your business without trying to “save” me, I’ll be fine. I’ve got plenty of peach ice cream to eat while you’re whipping yourselves into a frenzy.