skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Thursday, 06 April
Some big news this week came out of a largeish clinical trial that determined that prayer had little or no effect on patients recovering from cardiac bypass surgery. Pfft. I could have told folks this. Yeah, this trial--which ate up a couple million bucks or so--had to do with "intercessory prayer," where other people prayed on the subjects' behalf, and my bitter experiences all relate to personal prayers going totally ignored, sure, but I think we can all confidently now assert that prayer is a waste of time. Or, possibly, that God hates me. Here's just a few of my prayers that have gone TOTALLY IGNORED over the years.
AGE app. 6 months
I clearly remember praying for formula. Was this too much to ask? Here I was, suckling on my mother's teat--like that's not enough to damage a kid . . . she was my MOM, for Christ's sake! Gross!--while all around me the cool kids were getting shiny cans of delicious formula. "Please, God," I cried, "don't make me face that creepy nipple again. Can't I have some of that sweet, sweet Similac?" But no. I tried to resist, but dammit . . . I'd get hungry! All the time! And then I'd find myself back gnawing on that awful boob.
In the end, I extracted some revenge on God. We lived on a ranch in the country with feral barn cats, and occasionally, we would feed the cats expired Similac. Or so my parents suspected. What they didn't know was, late at night, I would skitter out to the barn and kick the shit out of those cats and hungrily drink down the out-of-date warm formula like a dairy vampire. Eat it, God! Thanks for nothing.
AGE app. 4 years old
On Saturdays, I would religiously wake up around 7 AM so as to thoroughly rinse out my brains with weekend cartoons. And, being a deranged little kid, I would also want to feed myelf after building an awesome fort with kitchen chairs and blankets, so I would then raid the kitchen for my favorites: cold hot dogs, raw potatoes and plain old butter. These things I would eat with wild abandon, despite my parents' horror. "Jesus Christ!" they would wail. "Where's the butter?" And "Did you . . . did you eat a whole potato? Did you wash it?"
My beef here with God is, for one thing, there was never enough butter. Thanks for nothing, God! I would have eaten like three sticks of the stuff, but You did not provide me with divine bounty! Also, I really should have washed that potato, since I'm pretty sure it gave me worms, which was fairly disgusting. I asked You, and You gave me worms. What a tool.
AGE app. 15 years old
God, I pleaded with you to strike Mike H. dead. (I really wanted to print his real name, but I held back. Let's call him Mike Hollaback. Close enough.) You failed to strike him dead. This despite my frantic entreaties for intercessions when he administered countless Purple Nurples, "whistle or you lose its," and various attacks on my groin with a tennis racket. The best you could do was give him a great big zit on his shoulder, which unexpectedly and audibly popped in gym class one day when his friend Kendall slapped Mike on the back in a companiable fashion, and the incredible whitehead blasted a stunning amount of terrible goo onto Kendall's hand.
Then Kendall wiped that shit on my gym shorts. I've gotta say, God, you're kind of a dick. Although I can kind of see why You made sure Porky's was a huge success.
Oh, I could go on, I guess, but what's the point? I suppose God thinks He's made it all up to me by coughing up a wonderful wife, a good job, and a reasonably satisfying side hobby as a lazy-ass stage actor. All in all, life isn't bad.
On the other hand, was it too much to ask for just a little more butter?
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I've known that prayer doesn't work for a long time, now. I used to pray for comments on my blog.
Wasn't the whitehead covered up by a shirt? Or did the goo blow a hole through the material?
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