1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #7: I Don't Show Reverence.

I'm always struck by the language surrounding people who believe in God. They talk of a personal relationship that runs deeper than any relationship on earth. It's a language swathed (that's a good religious word, yes?) in deference. And, from my point of view: fear. 

I'll never forget when my young nephew asked me for the first time if I believed in God. He was raised in a church and, until this point, I'd always shaped my answers in such a way as to fit the worldview his parents were setting up for him. It felt respectful to do so. But, he was getting older, and I'd yet to tell him a lie. I really didn't want to start now. (Best to save your first lie for something big, like "Are you available to help me move this weekend?")

When I answered honestly with a simple "No.", I think I rocked his world a little bit. The fear on his face was immediate.  He literally looked to the sky, no doubt checking for the lightning bolt that was sure to instantly smite me. (Now THERE'S a religious word: smite. That word alone is worth two bonus points for God. Nicely done, Big Guy.)

"Aren't you afraid?" It was the same question the Baptist preacher asked me when he knocked on my door, welcoming me to town a few years earlier. I gave my nephew the same answer I gave God's door-to-door salesman: "How can I be afraid of something I don't believe in?" The preacher was perplexed by my lack of fear regarding the devil. My nephew was concerned about my lack of fear regarding God. 

But, it's not just disbelief that drive's my direct approach to dis-respecting the man upstairs. It's the whole idea of the relationship. See, if I DID believe in God, I think my friends and family would be horrified if they heard me speak to Him.  Because, to me, a real relationship... one you care so deeply about... has fireworks. It's messy. It's angry. It's loving. It's fun and maddening. It's hard and soft. It's off and on. 

What's a relationship worth if the only conversation is deferential and easy? What kind of relationship is based primarily on fear? None worth having, I can tell you that. 

So, when someone tells me about the great relationship they have with God, I wonder to myself: Have you ever cussed him out? When was the last time you got so mad at him, you slept on the couch? (What's the metaphorical equivalent to a couch here?) How many times have you said something to Him that you instantly regretted?

The big one for me would be: When was the last time I demanded something better? Because, look around. There's quite a bit to improve on down here. You telling me that I've got to accept some of this b.s. as what -- the cost for free will? No. He can do better. He should do better. If He's real, I demand it. And, He's free to tell me to go to hell.

Which brings me to my next entry... (coming soon.)

TEASER: My next entry is the highest one, yet. We're talking #3 on the top 1,000. 

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #4: I Don't Go To Church. (Part 2.5. Because, this topic DEFINITELY needed 2.5 parts. Or, not.)

It has to be the worst saying in the history of mankind: "Don't beat a dead horse." Was there a time when beating dead horses was common - only slightly frowned upon? And, it feels a bit weird to suggest that beating a live horse might somehow be acceptable. 

Disgusting imagery aside, that's what I'll be doing today, though. Why? Because I still haven't explained why Christmas church is worse than all other church services. And, given that Christmas is now past... it's now or never. (I'm not saying Americans spend more time looking forward than enjoying the present - but, Fourth of July decorations are now going up.)

So, let's (finally) talk Christmas church. 

I've had many horrible Christmas church experiences. Back-breaking, soul-taking, frost-bite-inducing bad experiences.

The church is always stuffed to the hilt with people just like me: only there out of family obligation. One year, there were so many guilted mom-lovers that my wife and I had to sit in the aisle. Let me tell you, it's hard to feel spiritual when the ushers are constantly stepping over you. "Oh, Come All Ye..." "Excuse me. Pardon me." "Joyful and..." "Yeah, if you could just scoot... yes, that way. Thank you."

And, like most Americans, and every Republican, I assume that everyone is exactly like me. Which means, I'm assuming everyone there is acting. "So happy to see you." No. I'm not happy to see you. At least, not here. If I were at at home, Christmas snacks in hand, enjoying a hot chocolate... THEN I'd be happy to see you. Right now, I just want an Advil from sitting on steps for 2 hours.

Did I mention Christmas services are always too long? Come on. Sing a few songs. Tell me the Christmas story and send me home for cookies.

Which brings me to the next point: It's Christmas. Take a break from telling me I'm going to hell. (Here's a bit of free marketing advice from me to Christians everywhere - or, at least in Kansas: You've got a great story. Jesus loves you. He died for you. Heaven is awesome. Maybe don't focus so much on hell. When Pillsbury sells you crescent rolls, they don't talk about what happens when you  burn them.) Seriously. I've been to Christmas services where the entire sermon was spent telling me how lost and awful I was. (Do I have to point fingers here, Baptists?) Definitely want to go back for more of that.

One year, the preacher was on some sort of weird power trip. He literally said the phrase "EVERY knee shall bend and EVERY head shall bow" at least 15 times in ONE prayer. He did it while constantly looking at my wife and I. (I probably don't have to mention that neither our knees were bent or our heads bowed.) Each time he said it, he grew more forceful. I couldn't help but wonder, if HIS head was bowed, he wouldn't have noticed mine wasn't. (I take great pleasure in pointing out that he was shuffled from the church not long after, for stealing thousands of dollars from the good people who trusted him.)

And, then there was the time one pastor used the Christmas sermon to brag about his firearm skills. "If I had my .38, and Satan were standing right in front of me... I'd blast his head off. Wouldn't even hesitate. That's what I'd do." Nothing captures the spirit of Baby Jesus like the smell of gunpowder. Tarantino should direct this Christmas story.

And finally, because this is part 2.5 of a 1-part series, I'll keep this short... Christmas church is cold. Always. Turn up the heat. I know you're expecting, and getting, more people into this building than every before, and they're gonna get hot when you tell them how lost they are, but if it gets you turn on the furnace, I'll even bow my head.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #72: I have NO holiday spirit.

Christmastime brings out the worst in me. It's a 30-day run highlighting every bad trait I have.

Starting with the gluttony of Thanksgiving, carrying through Christmas itself, I'm a non-stop train of selfishness, pettiness, cheapness and greediness. Someone should create one of those 30 days of Christmas boxes for me, where each day you open a new window: "Oh, look! Today he wants a plastic Christmas tree. Anti-earth jerk!"

That's me this year. For some reason, a live Christmas tree feels like too much work. As if the artificial tree trims itself. 

But, that's not enough to send me to hell. I mean, I could even make the argument I'm SAVING the life of an actual tree. I'm a virtual tree-hugging saint.

No, it really is a cumulative thing for me.

In no month do I tell more lies. Take office Christmas parties. I would enlist in the Army to get out of an office Christmas party. (Do they have office Christmas parties in Afghanistan?) So, a lie? That's nothing. In fact, I've told more lies to avoid office parties than I've told myself in front of mirrors. That's a lot.

One year, I even lied my way out of an office party, despite knowing that I was going to get the coveted "Employee of the Year" plaque. My lie cost me the plaque and all the free stuff that came with it. (Don't feel too bad for me, I worked at a radio station, so the free stuff was anything they could get on trade. I likely missed out on a 50-lb bag of cat food, a free car wash and year's supply of bagel dogs.)

I'm horrible at gift-giving. It's all junk to me, and why would I give anyone junk? "I love you, Mom. Which is why I'll help you throw this away in June." I'm worse at gift-receiving.

I want all the cinnamon rolls and none of the broccoli florets. (You aren't fooling me with your fancy words, broccoli!)

The music makes me want to murder.

The cold makes me want to steal. (Ask my wife about my cover-thieving tendencies.)

It's all just too much for too long.

Now, if we could cut it down to say... a week? Agree that Christmas parties are meant for the home and not to be extended to places you only go because they pay you? Maybe.

If everyone would sign a contract stating the obvious: a Christmas meal includes ham, baked beans, at least 3 bread choices (stuffing doesn't count), 2 desserts and nothing green...

If Mariah Carey went back to being someone I could ignore...

If everyone gave everyone else Apple watches...

If the tree really could trim itself... or, more importantly, UN-trim itself...

Maybe I'm in.

But, we all know that's not happening. Instead, I'll continue to be the guy lying to his mom about church. "Christmas service? 'Cough. 'Cough. You REALLY don't want me there." (Did I forget to mention that? I don't do Christmas church. It's the worst.)

I'll go to hell, I know. I'll be the grinchiest guy down there, lying my way out of hell's office party.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #14: That "no other gods" thing.  

One of the reasons I write this blog is to remind myself, in my own twisted way, that I'm not actually a bad guy. Let's face it, creatives are not known for their self-confidence, and I live in a world that consistently tells me I'm evil. (Though, to be fair, you probably do, too. To say the least, the world is a very weird place right now.) 

I was most recently reminded of what the supposed "good guys" think of me, when I was reading an article about an evangelical pastor that supports Donald Trump. Now, I'm not going to go all political on you here. There are many outlets for that, and I don't want this to be one of them. But, suffice to say, I already knew that my desire for every American to have equal access to healthcare makes me a socialist. Which, in turn, makes me a threat to all that is good in America. I already knew all that.

What I didn't know, and the good pastor had to tell me, was that I worship the pagan god Moloch. (To be fair, he said, I "might" worship Moloch.) Still, that was a new one. Here I thought I didn't believe in gods. 

It got me thinking. Are there other gods that I worship?

I could wait for the good pastor to let me know, but, surely I should be able to identify my own deities.

Looking around my house, it became clear pretty quickly. Yes, I have gods.

The hockey gods granted me a Stanley Cup win last year. I prayed hard for that one. (The golf gods, despite copious amounts of attention from me, are largely silent.)

But, one god stands above the rest: the creator of the donut. Perfect in all its forms, the donut is my strongest evidence of a higher power. (Bacon is a close second. Melted cheese is third.) Whatever god created the donut (I'll call her Dunkin') deserves the highest levels of praise.

There's definitely an invisible force at play every time I walk through the baked goods section at the grocery store. Now I know, it's Dunkin', calling me to prayer. Adam gave a rib to get Eve. I'd give a lung for a long john. Just walking past the donut case puts me on a new spiritual plain.

Thankfully, I'm not alone in my service to Dunkin'. Every Sunday, masses of believers swarm their place of worship and order up dozens of praise-inducing chunks of fried holy food.

So, all hail Dunkin', creator of the cake donut! And, move over Moloch, I hardly knew ye'.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #423: I’m insensitive.  

We've already established that I'm a liar, so I'm comfortable in sharing the deception in my post's title. It wasn't a bar. It was an ICU. Though, to be fair, there might have been a jukebox in the hospital waiting room. 

It was several years ago, and my mother was fighting for her life. It started with a spider bite, we think. Though, rather than giving my mom super powers, this bite led to a hospital visit. (Worst superhero movie ever. Get a better origin story, Mom.)

​The pre-story includes an out-of-town trip and some John Denver music*. And, I wasn't there, so who really knows. Point is, mom got that flesh-eating bacteria. You know, the one that makes local news reporters pump their fist and shout, "Yes!". (*To be clear, I'm not blaming John Denver here.)

It had already cost her multiple surgeries and the doctors were trying to determine if saving her leg would cost her her life. She was in and out of consciousness and her temperature had risen so high, so fast, that we were considering calling Al Gore to make a movie.

That's when the nun came in. I didn't realize that she was a nun at first. Just to be in the room, we all (my sister, brother, the doc and the nun) were dressed like government workers in a bad CDC-based disaster movie: masks, gloves, gowns. Head-to-toe coverage. I half expected Jeff Goldblum to walk in. "Oh, my. It appears we... might have... a... situation." (I'm not exactly sure why Jeff Goldblum jumps into my brain here, but, he did. So, deal with it.)

Instead of Jeff Goldblum, we got a nun. Sister Somethingoranother. I can't remember her name.

Sister Somethingoranother was here for my mom to sign power of attorney papers. I knew immediately what would come next: my mom would have to choose one, and ONLY one, of her children. I also immediately knew something else: she would choose me. (There were obvious logistical reasons for the choice, but, since they don't support my inner narrative that I'm the favorite... we'll leave them out of this particular story.)

Of course, my inner comedian sprang to life, and I quickly prepared my reaction.

NUN: So, who would you like to designate as power of attorney?
MOM: (half out of it) Um. I guess, Paul.
ME: (Pumps fist hard in celebration.) Yes! (Leans in slightly) I knew I was your favorite.

The poor nun was horrified. "No, that  doesn't mean -- "

I didn't hear the rest. Because, I didn't care. My line was for one person, and one person only.

My mom rolled her eyes and tried to hide the smile. But, I saw it.

Yes, I got labeled: the insensitive one. I bet Sister Somethingoranother still prays for me. I'm good with that, though. 

Mom got the joke.

(Just so you know I'm not completely insensitive in telling this story: Mom's fine now. But, just to be safe, I've stolen all of her John Denver music.)

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #17: I’m a cold-blooded killer. Part Two.  

So, I've reached that point in life, as everyone does, where I find myself asking the question: "What's the correct dosage of Benadryl for a skunk?"

It's a story as old as man. Man finds a rat living in his 1998 Toyota Corolla. Man's wife doesn't want to kill rat. Man buys too big a trap. Man catches skunk instead. Rat lives on, happily munching on 1998 Toyota Corolla's electrical system.

A victim of this all-too-cliche story, the other day I found myself devising a plan for releasing a skunk from a trap that requires me to stand 6 inches away to open it. I'd already read online about how the local authorities wish for me to handle this situation. (Hint: It involves a towel, some dirt and a chunk of dry ice. Seriously.) And, while I'm definitely ready for this problem to be gone, I'm not quite ready to off a skunk. So, my wife and I are contemplating how to put a skunk to sleep. Since Benadryl works for me, it's gotta work for a skunk, right?

We decide on a dosage (half a pill, chopped into a fine powder) and a delivery method. Two, actually. It was peanut butter that got us into this mess (the bait in the original trap), so it should be peanut butter to get us out. We mixed the Benadryl in PB and then, as a back-up plan (because, clearly, we're the types to think everything through) we baked more Benadryl into ground turkey. Skunks love meatballs, right? I mean, they're people, too.

We tossed the PB&M bait to the cage, then waited.

Three hours later, the Benadryl-bait-balls sat uneaten. It was here that my murderous thoughts returned. There are worse ways to die than dry-iced induced fumigation, I reasoned. Sure, he might be a bit chilly, but there's a definite cool factor to making your exit in the same way rock stars make their entrances.

Alas, my wife wasn't wavering. And, if I were to convince her otherwise, surely my ticket to hell would be punched with conviction. I mean, it's one thing to be evil yourself -- but, to convince others to join you on the dark side? That's gotta be a fast pass to fire.

So, we suited up in our Personal Protection Units (PPU's we called them -- emphasis on the PU).

Where some saw trash bags with holes cut out for our head and limbs, we saw a fail-proof shield from the surely-imminent spray. Our Hefty-branded anti-stink suits weren't the most breathable outer layer, but that was kind of the point. Nothing out, and more importantly, nothing in. Another hour and 90 degrees later, we'd lost a collective 45 pounds, but not the skunk. Turns out, even a trash bag-based protective layer is no substitute for pure courage.

Long story shorter, we sweet talked our way close enough to place a towel over his cage (Yes, you CAN sweet talk a skunk), pulled the cage from under the car into the center of the driveway and devised a plan for the final move: the releasing of the hatch. Flawlessly execute our 17-step plan, and nobody gets sprayed. 

Now, when I write this up as a sitcom episode (and believe me, I will), the ending will be different. It'll end with the skunk toddling merrily down our drive, just as our actual story did. But, on TV, someone's getting sprayed. Which, thankfully, we avoided.

Which also means, maybe -- for today anyway -- I might not actually be going to hell.

Tomorrow? Who knows. That rat's still in there.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #17: I’m a cold-blooded killer. At least, I want to be.

I have murder on my mind this week. Complete, pre-meditated, decidedly-calculated murder. 

It started last Friday when my wife and I headed out for one of our twice-annual walks. (We'll eventually cover sloth in this space. Right now, I'm too tired to tackle two of these puppies.) We hop into (drag ourselves to) our car and I turn the key. Immediately, the car makes one of those noises that you can never explain to your mechanic: CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU. 

I try again. Same thing. CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU. And, for good measure, because I'm the eternal optimist when it comes to my 1998 Toyota Corolla... I give it one more run.  CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU-CHU.

"It's the battery." I say. Because, I know these things.

(My wife let's it go unchallenged, even though we both know that my knowledge of 1998 Toyota Corollas extends no further than that steering thingy.)

We switch cars and head for the park.

Saturday, I decide to fix the car. If there's one thing I can do, it's connect the red wire to the red thing and the black wire to the black thing and plug the charging-thingy into the wall thingy.

I pop the hood.

That's when murder came to mind. 

Well, not immediately.

Murder came to mind after I crawled down from the dining room table precisely 38 minutes later. Because, as soon as I popped the hood, I turned into a 1950's housewife. 

The rat -- the one inside my 1998 Toyota Corolla, perched so comfortably on the engine thingy -- screamed. Loud. Like, teenager girl at a Shawn Mendes concert loud.

To be clear, I never heard it. I was too busy with my own manly screams. But, the look on his face was the same as the look on mine, so, I'm sure he screamed.  And, I'm sure he ran to his rat-equivalent dining room table as I ran to mine.

It's three days later and that rat's still in there. I've named him Guido and given him a New York accent. Mainly, because there's no way he's not from New York. My wife will tell you he's smaller, but, I'm not kidding when I say he's at least a foot long and weighs about as much as a subway car.

I want to kill him. I really do.

He's eaten half the wires in there, and I'm sure at least one of them's important. There used to be four wires that go to four things. (My neighbor calls them spark plugs and I believe him.) Now, there is only one half of one wire. That feels like it could be an issue.

But, that's not the reason I want to kill him. No, I want to kill him because he's no longer afraid of me. And, because my wife is no longer afraid of him. He's seriously making me look bad.

To pop the hood, I suit up for battle: gloves, face protection, armor plating, a broom in one hand, a hose in the other. Yesterday, I mowed the lawn. Well, most of it. There's a 5-foot patch of un-mowed grass near the car. No way I was getting any closer. 

My wife? She watched videos on removing rats. And now, she's perfectly comfortable. She sees me suit up and says, "I got this." 

What the hell? Videos? That's all it took?

I'm the man. I GOT THIS. Except, I don't. I really, really don't.

So, now, she's building humane traps to catch and release our little CarBNB friend. (Side note: New York rats love peanut butter. Probably Kansas rats, too.) Between the traps, the ammonia-soaked rags and the non-stop Taylor Swift music (yes, playing loud music is one suggested way of dealing with an unwanted rat), I'm sure she'll get him out of his little rat recliner someday.

Until then, I'll be on the dining room table, thinking murderous thoughts and writing "I miss you" notes to my dignity.


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Whether you're a New Yorker offended by my rat references or a rat offended by my New York references, drop it in the comments below.