Grieving for Burrito

Warning: There is nothing snarky or funny in the following post. In fact, it might make you cry. Sorry. I have to write it because…

Today is the one year anniversary of the day I had to kill my best friend.

You know how a person often turns to religion in their “time of need?” Many times, someone who has been “saved” will tell you of a hard time they were enduring, like  drug addiction or  divorce. On the other hand, the numerous atheists I’ve encountered, if they were formerly religious, have reported to me that their fall from grace mostly occurred cumulatively, over years, with exploration, research, and a barrage of knowledge.  I’ve heard this repeatedly: “I became an atheist when I read the bible.”

I had a luxury that many atheists didn't have.  I was raised by supportive parents who always encouraged me to ask questions and find my own way in life. I was never punished or edited when I told my family about my beliefs. Granted, I tried very hard to fit in with my religious friends when I was a teenager, and though I followed them to church camp and joined them in the youth choir and as an acolyte, and even bowed my head when we held hands around the dinner table, I never prayed. I never believed in it. Instead, I usually tried to spend that mental energy on problem solving and finding answers, rather than making silent pleas in the form of prayer.

So, it was last Memorial Day. I was newly single and living alone for the first time in my life. I had moved to the beach with my fat orange tabby, Burrito. Because one of the first experiences I had with him when he was young was to save his life and nurture him through a near-fatal illness, we shared a bond unlike anything I have ever experienced as an animal-lover. His life was marked by severe illness. He had two open-lung surgeries, and his lungs were badly damaged and scarred. To look at him, one would never know that he had to stay on antibiotics for months and that he had once almost died in my arms. He was huge, glossy, talkative, and he slept, under the covers, spooned up against me, every night. He was a source of strength to me after my sudden divorce. I was desperately afraid of losing him. His health was so fragile.

So it came. A holiday in a small town, everything was closed. No emergency veterinary services. Burrito spiked a high fever and became weak. Another bout of pneumonia, I thought. Great, it's a three day weekend! He won’t make it until Tuesday. I packed him in the car and drove over an hour to the emergency vet in the city. It was discovered that not only did he have pneumonia again, but his little body had started shutting down. He had an intestinal blockage as his small intestine had become kinked and folded over upon itself.

I don’t know if it was the right decision, but I opted for abdominal surgery. I didn't want his poor body opened up again, but I had to try. As you can guess, after the surgery, his little lungs had their last trauma, as he had been intubated and his airways subsequently swelled. He couldn’t breathe. I remember the vet saying, “Well, it is the weekend. We’ll check in on him, but we are closing now.” Can you imagine? Your friend is in respiratory failure, but his doctors turn out the lights, lock the doors, and leave your loved one in a cage, alone? I was not going to let my friend die in the dark, so I took him home to monitor him.

I fully expected him to die with me. I cried and held him. I stayed up all night and spoke to him, telling him it was okay to die and how much he meant to me. He was so afraid because he couldn’t even pull a breath at times, and he would run. From what, I don’t know. I tried to soothe him, I told him I loved my orange meow, but he fought all night, sometimes losing consciousness, then regaining it.

In the morning, I realized for the first time that sometimes fighting against death is cruel. He was afraid. He was in acute pain. And he was anoxic. No antibiotics or steroid shots had helped. It was time.

I found a vet who agreed to meet me at his clinic. I wished that the euthanasia could have been done in our own home because he was already so scared, but that was not to be. I remember driving and being unable to see because of my hot, blurry tears, all the while headed to his final minutes. I sang to him in the car with a wavering voice. 

The shot with pink liquid hovered over us. I wrapped him tightly in the same blanket that I brought him home in as a young kitten. I covered his head and told him I loved him, breathing hot breath and tears into his cheek, and then he was gone.  It was so quick. I stayed, wetting his fur with my tears and crying over him for an hour. I watched his pink ears and nose turn ivory white. I finally turned out the lights in the exam room, quietly shut the door, and tried to not think that they would be putting him in a freezer after I left.

The reason I share this story is not to make you cry, though I am crying now, but to tell you that I prayed during this time. I didn’t pray to a holy father or Jesus or anyone, but in my mind, over and over, I just chanted, “Please let him live. Please let him live. Please let him live.” I think that was a rudimentary form of prayer, but I’m not sure. In reality, I knew that what I was doing was irrational. I believe that my desperation led me to panicky superstition.  Perhaps if I said it enough, I’d get my wish! I even remember bargaining. I pleaded, “If he lives, I promise I’ll try harder in my life.” I can’t explain why I did it, other than that I was sleep deprived, grieving, scared, alone, and facing my first pet death. In those moments, I turned to chanting silent wishes to an invisible hope.

I still cry over my Burrito, and feel irrational guilt for putting him to sleep, as in, if only I had fought harder, tried one more thing, I could have saved him. He lived eight wonderful years longer than he logically should have after that initial illness in his kitten-hood. We fought so long together, until I realized that he was in real pain. I was in real pain. But I wish it could have been different and he could be lounging across my arms making it impossible to type this right now…just like he used to.

I don’t think I’ll ever again know another animal bond like we shared, but I am thankful for the eight years we had together. His life-long illness and difficult death taught me that I am stronger than I thought I was.

From now on, I will call Memorial Day, in my own secret way, "Burritorial Day." In addition to honoring the memory of those who fought and sacrificed for this country, I will also honor the fat orange tabby who gracefully and bravely fought chronic illness and remained by my side, kind, gentle, and loving through it all.

My boy.

Follow Me and Perish in Flames

At the request of someone who calls himself Sexy, I have added the Follow button to my side bar. Scroll down and find it on the right. Yep, there it is! Mmm hmm, you know you want to click it. I mean, who else gives you Jesus riding a unicorn?!

No one, that's who.

It's Official

Just in case I really do have people who are coming back to this blog repeatedly, and it is not a psychotic delusion on my part, even though the blog is only about a month old...(I know, right? Doubtful, but the stats don't lie)...

Please now update yo selves. My site is officially http://www.blondenonbeliever.com

May the power of Christ compel you. I hope you know that visiting this site even once damns you to hell. And I love you for it!

Peace, heathens.

My laughter. Oh, it feels so good. 

Even the Videogames Know I'm an Atheist!

Have you discovered how much of your precious time you can waste with online flash videogames? I tend to gravitate to games with either horror themes, like Exmortis, or problem-solving adventures, like Escape the Room. I was overjoyed to discover the point-and-click game, Vorago. It combined these two genres in a bloody test of wits. I remember that the opening scene mentioned that the game was based on the end of the world and Revelations. I didn't heed that warning. I mean, how many good horror movies, games, and novels have just that exact premise?

A sign of the End Times, for sure.

After several addictive hours of shooting flying demons and navigating my way through creepy scenes, I won the game! I had never seen more blood, violence, death, and destruction, what a great romp! It was kind of anticlimactic as it ended with the main character shooting himself in the head, but you know, it was fun and gory and challenging! 

Ah, what a great sense of satisfaction. And, what, oh here is a final message, it must be about to congratulate me for winning or invite me to play the sequel. But what is this?

"The book of Revelations reveals the coming age of the reality-changing end-times prophecies...there is no triumphant end to this story. 

Until HE returns."

“Behold, I am coming soon. Blessed is he who keeps the words of the prophesy in his book." 

Revelations 22:9

OH NO!!! I feel so cheap! I just spent four hours of my life playing a videogame Bible tract!!! Oh, that ruins everything! 

I felt so taken advantage of that I considered writing a belligerent letter to the maker of the game, Godlimations. I even wrote part of it, then realized that the email would only propagate the "Angry Atheist" stereotype.

Mmm. Now I have a taste for baby. 

So I deleted it. 

Apparently, someone realized that the flash online gaming industry was just another wonderful way to deliver doomsday judgment on us all. It was just so...sneaky. Under the guise of enough gore to attract a multitude of teenage boys (and me) was just another churchy message that we are all hopeless and alone, and that without Jesus, the world will be overrun by ghastly hoards of flying, blood-thirsty mutant insects and leathery-winged, red-eyed shrieking demons. 

I feel so used. I need to go shower.

If you want to play Vorago, here is a link. At least you know what to expect.

Stephen Colbert's Liturgical Dance

A friend shared this video with me a few months ago. If you know me, then you've probably been forced to sit through it several times and have begun to roll your eyes because I laugh like a dumb-ass every single time it plays.

I've seen this already, please don't play-okay, here we go. 

But!

For those of you who haven't seen it, I am morally inclined to share the joy! This was taken from the last few seconds of an episode of the television series, "Strangers with Candy." Stephen Colbert was one of the three writers for that show back in the day, and he also played Jerri's teacher, Mr. Noblet. I once read that Mr. Colbert is a practicing Catholic, and performs this dance for the Sunday school classes he teaches. Is this true? Yahweh, or No Way? Yahweh!!!

Also, a little extra meaningless trivia for you, I once saw Mr. Colbert in Piggly Wiggly. He was complaining because the steaks were too expensive.

Celebrate! The King of Glory, by Stephen Colbert.
 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oASYa-Wkroc

New URL

So I am in the dreaded Blogger transition phase between the free Blogspot address, http://blondenonbeliever.blogspot.com and the new URL. I am awaiting my new site functionality for...wait for it...

http://www.blondenonbeliever.com

(Please make a note of it.)

Sex and Sin

It makes me sad when something that is as natural as breathing is labeled as evil. Yes, I'm speaking of sex.

Don't do it!!!

You may have seen the results of a large survey, the first of its kind, spearheaded by God Virus author (love that book!) Darrel Ray and Amanda Brown, Sex and Secularism: What Happens when you Leave Religion. It surveyed 14,500 nontheists who had either fallen from grace and left their faith, or who had always been godless heathens. I participated, by the way! As you can expect, sex was rated as more satisfying, frequent, and exciting, especially when compared to after the guilty chains (and whips?) of religion were cast off. Nontheists also had less shame about masturbation, and a higher frequency of performing other sexual practices, like oral sex. They concluded, among other things:

1. Sex improves dramatically after leaving religion.
2. Sexual guilt has little staying power after leaving religion.
3. Those raised most religious show no difference from those raised least religious in their sexual behavior.
4. Those raised most religious experience far more guilt but have just as much sex.
5. Religious parents are far worse at educating their children on matters of sex.
6. Religious guilt differs in measurable amounts according to denomination.

I am not promoting risky sex or promiscuous behavior that puts your health in danger. Let's get that off the table. But sex is the glue that holds relationships together. Sex is natural, fun, and great exercise. What is it that religion has up its butt that it has to take it and turn it into a sin? Listen to these poor people struggling with a healthy, biological urge and trying to do anything and everything to cope with sexual thoughts. These were taken from a Christian Singles Forum. One sad sack had asked what he should do about his sexual desires and temptation to sin.

The Lord revealed to me through experience that struggles can be the flesh's craving, but it can also be a spiritual attack. I have been set free by His grace, and I have had no intense spiritual attacks since trashing certain secular music with sexual themes (something that gave the enemy an 'open door' into my life). Also I have given up going to certain websites, which I believe affected me a great deal. I have found it especially helpful to catch the thoughts early---canceling out every thought right away and not letting it fester. 
Also the enemy hates praise---as soon as the wrong desire crops up, give the Lord shouts and songs of praise!

hope this helps..
in Christ,
Joe

Many years ago, my gracious Father reminded me that I am not 'single'.  I have been promised as the bride to His Son, so if I step outside the boundaries He has set, I am cheating on Jesus and He gave up and has given everything for me.  I would NEVER have cheated on my husband, can I do anything less for my Lord?

I hope this helps someone else put our purity into perspective.  Blessings

I read the book "Every Man's Desire" by Stephen Arterburn, and in it he talks about "bouncing the eyes."  What it means is every time I'm tempted to lust after a women, I just "bounce" my eyes away from her and onto something else.  It actually works!

Well, although I have been a Christian sicne a child,  I have not always been sexually pure in my relationships.  I have repented and now practice sexual purity in my relationships.  I practice two things which are prayer and very concrete boundaries to stay sexually pure.  My boundaries are  I only allow hand holding and chaste hugs.  No kissing, petting, fondling etc. 

What has been helping so far is this; I think of how devastating it will be for me to loose my relationship with God and His Son and what I will loose from that and the kind of torment I will receive if that should happen.

Our Heavenly Father is protective of our dignity in ways we can not begin to imagine the depth of.
Pornographic addiction, our flesh (hormones), the demands of daily living that are beyond the realm of what should be necessary (in these times)...all work to reduce us, degrade us, ridicule us...render us, quite literally, to 'a snivelling bag of bones, destined for the wormbed'.
We know that in Christ, this is surely a lie, because we have his mind and are able to discern all things...be them of darkness or of light.
Praise God!  Prisoners, captives...in dungeons of shame, guilt and addiction.  But the love and tenderness of our Father and the empathy of our saviour for our creaturehood is new every morning...
No shame!  JOY.

Don't these posts just break your empty, immoral atheistic heart? I mean, poor things! Fighting against something so harmless like admiring an attractive member of the opposite sex? I wish I could give them all a hug, but then again, oops, is that a Bible in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?

Street Preachers (Operation: Cognitive Dissonance)

On the day of the Rapture, May 21, 2011, I held a party downtown. A good showing of heathens, about fifty of us, gathered together at precisely 6:00 p.m. central time to watch the saved souls float off to heaven. When that did not happen, instead, we laughed, ate, drank beer and wine, and enjoyed the company and conversation.

As night fell, some of the stragglers coming into the party late reported offhandedly that there were sign-holding, yelling street preachers and floral-skirted women handing out tracts in front of the bar. I chuckled, believing they were simply referring to the Rapture nonsense. When I walked out to my car to get my iPhone, lo, in front of the establishment, on the contrary, there they were!

The preacher-men, all in their twenties except for an older, scowling man in a yellow button-down shirt, wore cheap black suits, ties, and brightly colored shirts. They held small, homemade signs with stick-on black stencil lettering, sporting various vague Bible verses. Not the obnoxious colored condemnatory signs you may have seen from the Fred Phelps gang. Very understated. Though their appearances and signs were understated and conservative, their words were not. All of the approximately ten young street preachers yelled at different times. They screamed and held their black, plastic-coated Bibles high in the air, and bleated out obviously-rehearsed doomsday, repent types of tirades. Then they'd swap out, and the screamer would take a break to quietly hold the sign, while the sign holder would begin pacing and blaring Bible verses and threats. They tracked up and down the sidewalk, and the bar-goers tried their best to walk around them. A gaggle of older, glassy-eyed, floral-dressed overweight women stretched their trembling hands into my personal space and shoved pamphlets at me as I walked to my car and goggled at this spectacle.

I remember I stood awe-struck and slack-jawed in the parking lot, and though the black strappy high heels I had worn made my feet scream, I just stood there for several minutes...watching. I have occasionally seen one or two sign-holding, screaming, you're-going-to-hell people on the side of the road, but never a large group like this, yelling and yelling, making such a racket. They had taken over an entire city block. It was too much to resist.

I returned to the party. I drank another glass of Cabernet, and as expected, the scene outside lingered in my head. The red wine finally hit my brain, and I proclaimed, "I wanna go ask 'em why they're screamin'. Who's with me!?"

As if from a scene in a gangster movie, I began walking with a sense of purpose down the alleyway toward the public block, and I heard dramatic foot falls behind me. I turned, and no less than ten of my fellow nonbelievers had fallen into a cocky, strutting line, like they were my posse. They had my back. I imagined some victorious, anticipatory Beastie Boys song playing as we confidently strode toward these young men, ready for battle.

Operation: Cognitive Dissonance began.

It was like a well-rehearsed military stealth move. The freethinkers quietly dispersed. We fanned out over the block and chose our street preachers without hesitation. Mine was a short, Hispanic man, about twenty-three years old, who was wearing a polyester suit, lame shoes, a bright purple shirt, and a blue tie with Bible verses on it, I kid you not.

I walked up to him and quietly asked in a hushed voice, as if we were sharing a secret, "Why is that guy behind you screaming?" He blinked, and quickly regained focus.

"He is spreading the word of our Savior, Jesus Christ."

"So you believe in Jesus, then?"

He smiled at my sarcasm, and delivered his rehearsed schlock. I then informed him that, in actuality, the Rapture never came to pass, and so I asked, what's with the doomsday stuff? I assured him that we can breathe easy now! I invited him to have a drink with me at the bar. He told me, "Five years ago, I was just like you. I was going into that bar, and I was a drug addict and shooting heroin in the alleyway there. Then I was saved, and now my soul is clean and I have Christ in my heart."

I told him, "Sir, I've never even smoked pot. I'm not sure I appreciate you saying I'm like you in that way. I'm not a drug addict." He apologized, but continued to spout how I needed to repent for my numerous sins.

I retorted, "I think I'm a good person. I donate to charity, I don't lie, I don't do drugs, I love my fellow man. Why would I be punished, just because I don't happen to worship the right god? Do you actually believe that the billions upon billions of human beings who may not have even had the chance to hear about Jesus Christ, are all going to hell?"

"Yes, ma'am. They will."

"Yeahhhhhh, mkay." I remember I stretched the word, "Yeah," out for about three seconds. And I let the silence after that just hang there.

"Wow, that's pretty cruel, dude."

He shuffled his feet. At this point, I noticed he had sprouted a sweat mustache and his hands were shaking.

I reached out my hand, and laid it on his elbow. I told him I was very proud of him for getting off heroin. And that if believing in something like this helped him, I was thankful. In the meantime, what is it that made him decide he had to take it to this new level, condemning strangers in the street for not agreeing with him?

He gave me more rehearsed lines about "The Truth." I asked him how 1.5 billion Muslims also had "The Truth." Another dismissive response that in my wine-brain sounded like "Words words truth, words words savior, words, mysterious ways."

I asked him other things like "Why does an almighty, omnipotent god need us to worship him, is he that insecure?" Answer: Mysterious Ways.

"How is it that God created the source of light after he created light?" Mysterious Ways.

I smiled and nodded as we talked, emulating my psychologist father's therapeutic, empathetic tone. I was the picture of syrupy-sweet tolerance and understanding. I then said something about the universe being such an amazing place anyway, why the need for the supernatural? Isn't this enough?

Suddenly, the yellow-shirted supervisor interrupted our civil discourse. "Who TOLD you about the universe? Who TOLD you about science?!"

"Um, sir, I guess at first my parents and teachers did, and then I began reading books."

"WHO do you think made the world? WHO could have created all these miracles and something so complex as the human body?!"

I noted that he was yelling at me.

I asked him, calmly, "Why does it have to be a 'WHO' behind the forces of nature and the complexity of the known universe?"

He turned red in the face and actually said to me, "You think you're smarter than me? You and your big words and education?!"

How the hell did he know about my education?

He seriously said that. I couldn't believe it. I politely dismissed him by responding, "Excuse me, sir, your friend and I were having a very respectful, interesting discussion. Would you mind if we continued?"

He turned on his toes and started yelling again, traipsing up and down the sidewalk. I gawked at him, and how easily he was vanquished. My street preacher and I were then free to continue our back-and-forth. Me asking questions, him giving me canned responses. Him giving me thinly veiled threats about hell and stabs at my supposed immorality, me smiling and nodding. That is, until the balls of my feet started throbbing and I could no longer stand the pain in my feet. Why the hell did I wear these shoes?!?

I noticed the sweet, sweet blue-eyed boyfriend had joined me and stood gently at my side. The pain in my feet took over, and I realized that my curiosity had been sated. I thanked my street preacher for a great talk, and gracefully bid him good night.

Before I left, I walked over to say goodbye to my friends. All of the other Atheist Gansta's were still raptly talking with their sign holders. It was eerily quiet, because none of the preachers could scream. They were just...talking. It was a miraculous scene. Civil, respectful debate in place of yelling rants. On my way to the parking lot arm-in-arm with the boyfriend, I passed my purple street preacher again, and I reached out for a half hug, and said, "Thank you so much for the wonderful conversation!" As I glanced over my shoulder, I sadly saw that he was being lectured and angrily chewed out by his yellow-shirted elder. He looked upset. I then felt sorry for what I did, and I hoped that I didn't get him in trouble for ... well, whatever he may have failed to do.

We'll get her next time, don't worry. 

The True Rapture of the Fig and the False Prophet

False Prophet. 

^{This is the divine inspired message I received from God in a dream last night after I fell asleep with my hand in my pants. I was told that Harold Camping's upcoming Rapture prediction is false, and that he is, in fact, the False Prophet. God told me to follow the signs in the scripture and the Parable of the Fig, and that these would lead me to the Truth.} 

Numbers don't lie. Unless they are Harold Camping's numbers. 

Let's begin here:

Matthew  24:23-27

²³Then if any man [Harold Camping] shall say unto you, Lo, here is Christ, or there; believe it not.

²⁴For there shall arise false Christs, and false prophets, and shall shew great signs [billboards] and wonders [Judgment Day vans]; insomuch that, if it were possible, they shall deceive the very elect [America].

²⁵Behold, I have told you before.

²⁶Wherefore if they shall say unto you, Behold, he is in the desert; go not forth: behold, he is in the secret chambers; believe it not.

 ²⁷For as the lightning cometh out of the east, and shineth even unto the west; so shall also the coming of the Son of man be.

 ²⁹Immediately after the tribulation of those days [the False Rapture] shall the sun be darkened, and the moon shall not give her light, and the stars shall fall from heaven, and the powers of the heavens shall be shaken:

 ³⁰And then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory.

 ³¹And he shall send his angels with a great sound of a trumpet, and they shall gather together his elect from the four winds, from one end of heaven to the other.

 ³²Now learn the parable of the fig tree; When his branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh:

 ³³So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things, know that it [the True Rapture] is near [approaching], even at the doors.

To summarize, there will be a false revelation of the Rapture. It will fool "the very elect." This is a trap, made by a False Prophet, and He will trick Christ's followers to their downfall. One must resist this sneaky attempt by Harold Camping and his minions. But in fact, we should look to the fig parable to find the true day of the Rapture.

There are two parts to my prediction: 1. Proving the False Prophet is, in fact, Harold Camping and 2. Finding the clues in the Scripture about the fig to derive the true day of the Rapture. 

1. Proving the False Prophet

Now, let's take the science of numerology, just as the False Prophet has done in his prediction and apply it toward his name, Harold Camping. 

Each letter of the alphabet has an ancient number associated with it. If we assign these numbers to derive the False Prophet's numerological identity, you have the following:

H5 a1 r2 o7 l3 d4 

C3 a1 m4 p8 i1 n5 g3

Multiplying the numerals in his first name gives us 840. Multiplying the numerals in his last name gives us 1,440. Subtracting his first name from his last name, we have the number 600.

Now, there are 13 letters total in Harold Camping's name. When you add all thirteen numerological values together, you arrive at the sum of 47. Adding the total numbers of his name 13 plus the sum 47, you get the number 60.

Okay, Harold Camping himself outlined the importance of the number 10 in his False Rapture prediction. Camping wrote: 

"The number 10 or 100 (10 multiplied by 10) or 1,000 (100 multiplied by 10) signifies Completeness....The Bible speaks of [Satan] being bound 1,000 years to signify that he was bound for the completeness of God's plan."

Harold Camping is 89 years old. If we subtract his age from 100, the number of completion, we are left with 11. Adding the numerals of his age, 8+9, gives us 17. Subtracting this sum from the difference between the year of completion and his age, 17-11, gives us 6. Simple, right? Using the hard, proven science of numerology, we now have easily derived the number 6!!!

We have the numbers 600, 60, and 6. The Mark of the Beast, 666!!! Proof that Harold Camping is not only the False Prophet, but the Antichrist Himself!

So, Satan has predicted the False Rapture. The Matthew passage in fact tells us that after this time of tribulation, the False Rapture, then the True Rapture will begin. So when will it be? 

2. Deciphering the true date of the Rapture by looking to the "fig parable" as the scripture instructs us 

Matthew 24:32-33

 ³²Now learn the parable of the fig tree; When his branch is yet tender, and putteth forth leaves, ye know that summer is nigh:

 ³³So likewise ye, when ye shall see all these things, know that it [the True Rapture] is near, even at the doors.

The fig, or latin name Ficus Carica, always bears two crops of fruit. The Breba (or Breva) Crop comes in the Spring, and bears bitter, acidic poor quality fig fruits. This is the sign of the False Rapture. We now know that May 21, 2011 CANNOT POSSIBLY be the real Rapture, because it comes on the immature shoots of the Breba Crop, and in the Spring. But the Scripture says that summer is nigh, and likewise then we will see these things and know that the Son of Man is coming and it is true. So we need a Rapture date that is AT LEAST during the Summer, right?

Well, the complete, true fig crop always comes in the late Summer to early Fall. This is when Ficus Carica bears the mature, delicious, whole crop that is harvested and meaningful to us. This is the clue for the True Rapture, based on the fig parable. It must be in late Summer to early Fall!

Note: There are 1,000 species of fig. Another number of completion, by the way. 

When looking for more evidence of the fig as it pertains to the End of Days, there is the Scripture Revelations 6:13.

Revelation 6:13

 ¹³And the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig tree casteth her figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind.

Let us go back to our analysis using Harold Camping's favorite method, numerology. Yes, he is the False Prophet, but the method of numerology is an ancient, steadfast way to decipher the mysteries of the universe and reveal hidden clues therein. 

If we add up the letters using numerology again for Ficus Carica, you get the numbers 21 and 11, or 2,111. If we then subtract the number of completion, 100, we easily arrive at the year, 2,011. So we know the Rapture will be in the year 2011.

6:13 is the fig verse from Revelations. 24:32 is the verse from Matthew of the fig parable. Let's add the numbers from the verses. 

6+1+3=10 

2+4+3+2=11 

Lo, I have predicted the True Rapture. 10/11/2011. Jesus will Return on October 11, 2011. We know this is true, because this date is in the early Fall, just as the Parable of the Fig tells us! The True Fig Crop comes in Early Fall, October!

Why did God reveal this to you, Kasha, a lowly woman, you ask? Well, following the Matthew verse from above, it is said: 

Matthew 24:36

"But of that day and hour knows no man, no, not the angels of heaven..." 

So obviously, it must be revealed to a woman!  

Kasha's True Rapture of the Fig

October 11, 2011

Take that, Harold Camping a.k.a. Satan!

Man. Making doomsday predictions is easy. Just sayin'. 

I Received a Message from God

False Prophet. Stay tuned.

I had a dream when I fell asleep on the couch today with my hand in my pants. God spoke to me in my dream. May 21st, 2011 is a sham, made by a false prophet. I have done the math, and I know the true date of the Rapture. It is based on real, solid math and scripture. It was reached with  the witness of a bible scholar. I will release it tomorrow. I am so sure of my prediction, I will put it out there before the Harold Camping Rapture. Come see me tomorrow, and I will deliver the truth about the End Times.

The Final Countdown!

This song causes me to have some serious End of Days goosebumps. I thought I'd unabashedly give away my age and post this most radical, White Rain hairspray, leather pants that leave nothing to the imagination, synthesizers and squealing frenetic guitar solos, coordinated permed head banging, screaming groupies and soulful audience lighters, cool as shit video from my childhood.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9jK-NcRmVcw

We are now in...the Final Countdown. I love you guys! I'm Rapture ready. Are you? One more shopping day left until...there are no more shopping days left!

Will You Be Raptured Flow Chart

On the precipice of the upcoming Rapture, I was searching for the chance that I might be raptured. Sure, I'm an outspoken blasphemer, but I'm actually a good person. I am! I don't lie, I treat people respectfully, I recycle, I always return grocery store carts to the designated spot.

So, I was relieved to see that someone took the time to answer the question, "Will I be raptured?" on May 21st at approximately 6:00 p.m. in an easy to navigate, logical flow chart.

Oh well, it was worth a shot. 

Source: http://peasandcougars.wordpress.com/2011/05/19/will-you-be-raptured-flowchart/#comment-19

That Takes Balls

You may have heard Stephen Hawking's recent remarks that the notions of heaven and an afterlife are just "a fairy story for people afraid of the dark." They caused quite a fuss, and apparently really pissed off Kirk Cameron. *stifles laughter* Oh, that guy just cracks me up.

Anyway, since I started this blog, I've never pretended to be a big intellectual. This is basically a place for my personal ramblings and venting, and of course cat pictures. I don't have any degrees in theology or science. I'm just a four year college graduate.

But...

Even if I did have some advanced degree or was a big name in my field, I would never, NEVER, say that Stephen Hawking "doesn't understand" something. He understands most everything, in my estimation. He understands things down to the level smaller than atoms to dark matter and the edges of the known universe. He knows how they all work together and where they came from. He is. Stephen. Effin'. Hawking!

So it must take a whole load of testicular fortitude to have written this article, "What Stephen Hawking doesn't understand about heaven."

Go read it now, if you like, but promise you'll come back?

Oh good, thanks. Wow, you read slowly.

So, is it just me? Is your brain exploding? His arguments in support of heaven are like saying, "It's depressing because Albert Einstein didn't understand the true nature of the Cheshire Cat's mechanism to disappear, or that Alice's capability to grow and shrink was not really caused by mushrooms, but by the magic particles inside the mushrooms, but Einstein would no doubt dismiss this as incredible."

The article mixes fantasy and reality and somehow attempts to validate something unknowable, the afterlife. I had to read the article several times because my brain was screaming so loudly I couldn't concentrate on the words. The author, an Anglican bishop, takes another weak stab by asking whether Stephen Hawking has applied his "high octane intellect" to examining the "evidence" of Jesus and the resurrection. And until he has, this bishop believes that Mr. Hawking's opinion on heaven is about as worthy as his is on nuclear physics. Not very.

Really? An "opinion" on the validity of nuclear physics?

Stephen Hawking "sadly seems to know rather less" about heaven than many "averagely intelligent Christians."

You betcha!

Silly Stephen Hawking. You are so uninformed. Heaven isn't a place we go after we die. It's obviously God's space while we are on Earth. And it is also, according to ancient Jewish belief, found through temple. And if you are a Christian, Jesus is heaven, and you are the "temple," too, of God's own spirit. 

Stephen Hawking just doesn't understand. How "depressing."  

MAN, THAT TAKES BALLS!

Faulty Logic Super Happy Fun Game!

Source: http://lolgod.blogspot.com/2011/05/if-harry-potter-doesnt-exist-who-wrote.html

Yes, I am aware that this girl admitted to being a "Poe," but this is just too fun to resist!

So...

In the style of a retort I shared a couple of weeks ago, Wittiest Atheist Response Ever, please oblige me to waste some time...

If Santa Claus doesn't exist, why do we have chimneys? If unicorns don't exist, where do narwhals come from? If the tooth fairy doesn't exist, what, our teeth just fall out for no reason? If Thor doesn't exist, why did they make a movie about Him?  If Nanook doesn't exist, who keeps the bears from taking over America? If the moon isn't made of green cheese, why does it look so friggin' delicious up there? If leprechauns don't exist, who guards the world's gold supply? If Superman doesn't exist, then who did Lois Lane sleep with that night? If angels don't exist, then why did I dress up as one in a church play when I was three years old? If Zeus doesn't exist, where does lightning come from? If vampires don't exist, why is there a bat named after them? If miracles don't exist, how come the light miraculously comes on when I open the refrigerator? If ghosts don't exist, why all those TV shows about ghosts on the History Channel? If Atlacamani doesn't exist, why do we have hurricanes? If heaven doesn't exist, why is there the saying, "This is heavenly!" If magic doesn't exist, hello! David Copperfield? If Jupiter and Venus and other Roman gods don't exist, why are our planets named after them? If witchcraft isn't real, then why did they have the Salem Witch Trials? If the power of prayer isn't real, why does it make me feel better? If Jesus doesn't exist, why are there wonderful things like puppies and babies and cheesecake? If Allah and Vishnu don't exist...

*blinky pause*

Oh wait, they don't. They're completely fictitious and totally ridiculous. People can be so gullible, right? Allah and Vishnu. LOLZ!

***

This could go on and on. Want to play?

Support Groups and Chocolate Wine

The reason I found myself living the high life at the beach started out bad. Because I am an eternal optimist, however, and this kind of runs in the family, I easily turn shit into gold. Though my parents have been happily married for over forty years, and I expected nothing different for myself, it takes two to nurture a marriage. And by nurture, I mean refraining from having a months-long affair with a coworker. After the shock and fury and crumpling crying in a corner wore off, I realized this was not a disaster at all, but an opportunity! So I moved to the Gulf coast, bought a little condo, and now spend my days exploring bike trails, playing with kittens, kayaking, cooking awesome meals, and exploring new cheeses and wines with the boyfriend. If you had told me I'd be doing these things two years ago, I'd have laughed in your future-reading face.

You are so full of shit, Nostradamus!

But every once in a while over the past two years, I'd get a little sad. I had never lived alone, either, so sometimes I would get lonely. Now I embrace my single status and enjoy the freedom to walk around naked without shame, eat chocolate-covered almonds for dinner, and watch Shark Week shows all day if I so care, without anyone complaining, but, you understand. One day, I decided I had been in an uncharacteristic furry, deep blue funk for too long, and thought maybe a divorce support group might be a good way to meet people and learn about what I was feeling. Plus, maybe meeting a hot, young divorced man to comfort would be a bonus! I looked up support groups in the yellow pages and began making calls.

Then I noticed every support group was hosted by a church.

Hi, I'm John, and I believe that evolution is a myth.

My nonbelief is pretty relevant to who I am, and I wondered whether I would benefit from a program at a church. Were these services just using the church building and geared toward everyone, or were they church-run and inherently religious in nature? I remember this conversation:

"Hi, I was calling about your divorce support group that you have on Mondays." *picking nose*

"Yes, what can we do for you?"

"Well, I have a question, actually. I'm er, um...not really religious. I don't really go to church. Do you, that is to say, do you think I would benefit from your program?"

"No, ma'am. You wouldn't." *Tight lipped, disapproving voice*

"Excuse me?"

"Our program is based on a belief in a higher power and the teachings of Jesus Christ. If you are not a Christian, I really don't think you would receive any benefit from our support group."

"Oh-" *awkward phone pause, nose picking pause*

"Would you be interested in coming in to talk about your lack of faith?" *cheery smiley voice*

"........no, but, thank you for your time."

Weepy, sorry-for-self Kasha now feels sorrier-for-self. And so, so alone! Where is that chocolate-flavored wine, dammit!?!

Yes, it does exist. 

This conversation was repeated consistently with the representatives of every support group I called. How myopic is the South that one must be of a certain religious faith to participate in something that occurs across all demographics and cultures, like divorce, alcoholism, and drug-dependence? Alcoholics Anonymous and Narcotics Anonymous are no different. They say one can define their own "god" or higher power, like my personal choice, worshiping grass clippings, but you must believe in a higher power nonetheless. And no, it's traditional God in their 12 steps, they're lying.

Man made booze. God made grass. Enough said.

The good news is that little soury-puss phase passed the moment I looked out the window and realized I needed to wake the hell up and look at how lucky I am! So I changed out of the nasty chocolate wine-stained sleep pants, bathed myself, and went to the beach, bitch!

The A Word

I was waiting to see a doctor last week for a bad flu, and since I am a germaphobe, I chose to sit outside in the sun on the sidewalk instead of watching the pale, hacking patrons in the waiting room while holding my breath from imaginary microbes. One of my best friends, who is a life-long Christian Scientist, called to chat while I was copping a squat in the southern rays. I told her about my new blog. She and I obviously disagree about religion, but because we are intelligent and secure in our views, we don't feel the need to argue with each other. I respect her, she respects me. She doesn't try to convince me, I don't question her beliefs. (Okay, sometimes I do.) I was describing the nature of my blog just as a nurse exited the front door of the walk-in clinic. Surprisingly, I noticed that I unintentionally lowered my voice when I said the word, "atheist" as this stranger passed.

Wow. Really? I am a proud, unabashed nontheist who is deeply involved with a large social group of atheists, skeptics, agnostics, etc. I embrace this part of me whole-heartedly. So, why did I subconsciously begin whisper about my beliefs when a person walked past?

It's not like I was holding up an offensive sign or wearing an American flag on my flabby ass.

Here is something else that made me think.

The boyfriend has two teenage sons. When they are together, they all act like teenage boys, and you can imagine their language is sometimes vulgar. They were out to dinner the other day when a large bus-load of church-goers entered, as made obvious by their matching Christian t-shirts.

I want this shirt. 

They inundated the restaurant, raided the pizza buffet, and sat on all sides of my boyfriend and his sons. Without even acknowledging it, they all three cleaned up their conversation to save these poor innocent churchies from hearing the occasional "shit."

Don't say that! I'm Baptist!

Why? Why do we unconsciously "protect" religious people from our true selves and opinions? I'm not promoting being rude, and yes, it was courteous of the boys to straighten up their conversation. But why did they assume that these church members would automatically be offended by four letter words? Why is "atheist" seemingly also a "four letter word?" When can we be assured that speaking freely about our beliefs and being ourselves will not be met with a subtle widening of the eyes or disapproving pursing of lips? I don't know. What would Jesus do?

"Please just stop asking that."

New Poll

I have added a poll at the bottom of my side bar. I'm curious about who comes to this little obscure blog, and why. Please take a minute to respond if you are bored at work or staying up late on the internet drinking and neglecting your family. By the way, I have yet to receive a death threat, but that day will surely come. (Oh, come on, I'm too sweet to threaten! Look at all my kitty pictures!)

Three Rooms in Hell

I feel certain that there are three special rooms set aside in Hell for the following:

1. Owners of landscaping companies who make their employees begin work with the weed eating, lawn mowing, and supercharged leaf blowing before 7:00 a.m.

2. People who accidentally set off their car alarms and cannot figure out how to turn them off. Before 7:00 a.m.

3. Little orange tabby kittens who decide it would be fun to run full speed, claws out, and land on my head while I'm sleeping. Also before 7:00 a.m.

All three of these things happened to me this morning. I now have decided I believe in Jesus and eternal salvation, so conversely I can believe that these three culprits will burn in Hell and writhe in searing agony for eternity. Okay, I'll pardon my sweet little kitten, just this once. You've been warned, buster!

You heard me.