I’d like to start with a risky disclosure. [deep breath] Okay! Here goes! Hang on tight, this is going to be one hell of a ride.
In real life I’m not that entertaining.
I know, right?!
I have an analytical personality, specifically “INTJ” aka The Architect which includes, among other things, this telling description: “One Reflects More When Traveling Alone.”
As an analytical type, I’ve often gotten into trouble in social situations after being asked a question, especially when I’m not prepared. A question stimulates my brain into “pondering mode” and my face goes blank in the same way as a computer that has been tricked by Captain Kirk.
To the person asking the question, I’m told, this comes across as rude. (Whatever the hell that means.)
(128 words in and the H-bomb has already been dropped three times in a post containing the word “God” in the subject line. Is this guy good or what? -Ed.)
As an atheist I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about God. Usually S/He comes up only when I need someone to blame.
“Did you see that lady wait on the sidewalk and jump in front of my car at the last minute? Well played, God. Well played!” This is usually followed by an imaginary friend fist bump.
My personal theory, of course, is that God brings life forms into existence for the sole purpose of fucking up my shit. If there’s one thing that God is good at it’s long-term planning. 55 years ago a child was born. That person lived a life and grew old to be in this exact time and place. It was their destiny to launch themselves in front of my car.
I strongly suspect God sees it as some sort of game. Maybe solitaire even though I’m more suited to the role of pawn.
Conversely, when things seem to be going okay, my atheism is strong and secure. There’s no magical sky being that determines my fate, dammit.
The other night, though, something odd and extremely rare happened. God got blamed for something good. What?!
We went to an Italian restaurant. (It was Fino in Portland’s Kenton neighborhood in case you care.) We had just been seated when the waitress came right at us with a question out of the friggin’ blue.
“Can I get you started with something to drink?”
Holy crap! I wasn’t prepared for that. My analytical brain kicked into overdrive and somehow I was able, against all odds, to summon the power of will to mutter, “Zinfandel.”
After the waitress was gone I realized what I had done. “No,” I moaned. “She’s going to bring me that red Zinfandel, isn’t she? You know, the real stuff.”
My wife nodded. For some strange reason she was smiling. As an amateur sommelier, she gets a lot of enjoyment from criticizing my bourgeois wine selections.
What can I say? I like an inexpensive glass of wine. I like it to be fruity. I like it to be the opposite of dry. I like it to be pink. I like it to have 10% ABV. As a man with a birth defect (no discernible palate) that’s what works for me. And my wine of choice is called White Zinfandel. (Don’t ask me why.)
Many is the time I’ve lapped at the shores of Corbett Canyon and tried in vain to hear my echo. “White Zinfandel!!!”
Because of my screwup, though, that was decidedly not what was heading my way. Instead, I was no doubt about to be served the bastard cousin of White Zinfandel: Off-White Zinfandel. Often referred to as a red wine. Ugh. And, get this: It’s not even served chilled!
Morosely, I put the incident out of my mind and set about the task of deciding what to eat. A glass was brought, I mindlessly quaffed, and we placed our order.
Some time later, perhaps 20 minutes or so, a light bulb appeared over my head.
“Wait a minute!”, I said. “What in the Sam Hill is going on here? This wine tastes good.”
Upon further investigation I realized I had been drinking White Zinfandel the whole time. “God bless us,” I said, raising my glass. “God bless us every one!”
Every once in a while things can actually work out. But you didn’t hear that from me.
(Did you happen to notice that you asked for “Zin” and the waitress brought you White Zin? Even she knew you are a pussy. –Mrs. Abyss.)
May your religion of sin lead the way to white zin, and if you can’t tell, you’re dead and in hell. — a very special toast written for a very special wine enthusiast