If there is a God, he's some fat guy in a bowling shirt, who will yank your underwear up your crack if you bend over in front of him. He'll say, "pull my finger," and then blow up Mount Saint Helens.
Waaa ha ha ha ha ha.
Bite me.
Back in my young adulthood I fed all the data I'd gathered in childhood and all the new information that came my way into my theological computer and concluded that prayer was a waste of breath. If anything, it was a symbolic vote that could be tallied at some theoretical judgement to see which side you had supported on a given issue, but it would make no difference whatsoever to what you got at the time you prayed.
Oh, you might get what you wanted, but only coincidentally.
No hard feelings, but no single human can know all the variables. This is true with or without a divine being who does know all the variables. So if God's grand plan or the simple grinding of the gears of chance require that Thou Shalt Be Screwed, then Screwed Shalt Thou Be. So suck it up.
Scoot over there, Siddhartha. Any room under that tree?
As the megalopolitan Northeast and Middle Atlantic dig and thaw their way out from under one to two feet of powder we could really have used to make our livings up here in the further north, we brush away the dusting on our cars and settle in for another couple of months of fasting, character-building poverty. And dig our underwear back out of our cracks until the next attempt at humor. Just for God's sake don't pull his damn finger.
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