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 #99 I Am An Egotist

Starting out, I never thought of myself as having an ego. To be honest, I always had kind of the opposite problem. I cared so much about what everyone else thought, I generally let myself get run over. 

That is, until I sat behind a microphone for the first time.

It was in college. I was studying broadcasting. Specifically, radio. An excellent choice with a bright and unending future.

Something about the microphone brought out a power in me. Some might say beast. (No one would say artist.)

I didn't really notice it at first. But, it was there. A confidence. And, it quickly grew.

The beast really came out in my first radio job. I was hired and handed a hosting job. Start time: 5 minutes after the job interview. Ironically, I was to be the evening sports talk show host (and, later, morning DJ) for a small-town Christian radio station. (Ironic, because I was no more a Christian then than I am now. But, I would bring sunshine to 10s of people every morning for the better part of a year, before moving to bigger small things.)

As host of said talk show, I had free reign. And, apparently, I wanted to scorch some earth. I wouldn't go so far to say I was a shock jock. That could never be me. But, compared to the version of myself up to that point in life, I was at least a bad case of static electricity. I had --- ego.

I sounded confident. I felt confident. I was like a driver on the freeway, flush with a certain anonymity, daring people to cut me off, simply for the chance to throw a bird. 

(Again, not that I'd every throw a bird. Not me. But, for someone who still struggles to make a restaurant choice in a party bigger than one, I was amazingly selfish.)

I had opinions. I would challenge any takers. I would scoff at people's ignorance.

Of course, when I turned off the mic... I was a walking apology. Was I too strong? Did I upset my cohost? Basically, I was back to me.

Still, I had discovered a different side of myself. Just a tad bit of a dark side.

I eventually quit that job -- a story for another day that involves me being accused of stealing my own golf clubs (spoiler alert: I didn't.)

I moved on to other radio jobs. Some required more ego than others, but the mic always provided the strength.

To this day I try to tap into a bit of that ego. It's probably not a good idea. I'm probably a better person without it. But, I like the strength. I like knowing, and being able to say: I want Arby's. (Just kidding, nobody says they want Arby's.)

I like my ego, though I know I shouldn't. Sometimes, I wish it were bigger. 

And, yes. I'll have to answer for that.

So, if, someday, we're both "down south," and you see me chomping on a roast beef sandwich in the only restaurant available in hell, just nod. Please, don't hand me a microphone. It will only make things worse.

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 #24 I Covet

Last week we covered one of the seven deadly sins. I probably should have ranked it higher, as the term "deadly sins" does suggest a bit of karmic importance. But, as I said, gluttony just ain't that big an issue for me.

Still, there's only seven of them, and I should have ranked it higher. That in mind, I've run this week's "sin" up the list. Not because it's a HUGE problem for me, but because God deemed it important enough to carve it into stone. If I remember correctly (Google? I don't need no stinkin' Google), God even thought so much of it, he made a pretty big show about delivering this particular set of instructions: casting Charlton Heston and dropping some cash on production values (that burning bush is a definite Old Testament highlight.)

This week we're talking about one of the 10 Commandments.  

Specifically, #10 on God's greatest hits list: Thou shalt not covet your neighbor's wife, or his manservant, or his maidservant, or his ox, or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor's.

As I was reading through this list of spiritual no-no's, I was feeling pretty good about myself.

Don't care about his wife. Happy with mine, thank you very much.

He doesn't have a manservant, nor a maidservant.

We're clear on the ox thing. Though, if he did have an ox, I might have a problem.

His ass is his. I've got my own.

It's not until we get to the final unfairly broad phrase that problems arise: "or anything that is your neighbor's." Damn. I can't want the quad runner? Or, the kayak? Not the lake house, the 950-cc motorcycle OR the jet ski? That's rough.

It's not like I'm desperate for any of them. I, too, could have a kayak I never use. A 950-cc motorcycle is just a bad idea for me. I'm not sure his jet ski even starts, and the quad runner doesn't even have brakes. (Sure, that makes it MORE exiting. For a short spell anyway. Still, it's not a sin-inducing item.)

Funny thing is... we're golfing buddies. And, what does he tell me all the time? "Man, you got it going on. Living the good life over there."

He's right.

I'm happy with what I have. And, I'm happy I've got a neighbor who will gladly lend me anything he has. It's the perfect scenario.

But, what if he gets a pool table? And, what if he puts that pool table in his living room? 

Those two things happen, I'm cooked. Put me on the rotisserie and call our fiery friend. 'Cause I'm definitely gonna covet.

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 #323 I'm A Glutton

Gluttony. One of the seven deadly sins. Not to be confused with gluteny, which, in California, might get you banned, but won't send you to hell. And, in Kansas, actually gets you celebrated.

Gluttony. Not a problem I'm generally associated with -- hence the lower placement on my list of 1,000. I have my moments, of course. Most of them donut related, and a few of them already documented in this space. 

But, this weekend I had a definite gluttonous moment. (Seriously? Spell check didn't bang me for gluttonous? Awesome.) Super Bowl weekend. My team in the game. Go big or go home. I went big.

I generally attempt to eat well. Generally. And, sometimes, I even succeed. Sometimes. But, there are foods I try very hard to avoid. Foods so toxically bad for me, even I can't ignore. One of these super bad foods happens to be my favorite food item of all time. It comes conveniently shaped for maximum flexibility. Its brick form can be melted into a golden, cheesy goodness or, given the passage of enough time (say, one week) can instead be used to build small buildings, like a doghouse, or a shed. 

I'm talking about Velveeta, of course -- the cheese food that pairs so perfectly with the equally-artificial Dorito. (Nacho cheese, if done correctly.)

Velveeta. The cheese food that's so toxic, it doesn't come with an expiration date, it comes with a half-life printed right there on its protective metal shell.

It's delicious, of course. The fact that it can also serve as an alternative fuel source for the Mar's mission is purely bonus.

I'm not saying that Velveeta is bad for you, but, once I finished my gluttonous evening, and time came for me to toss out the mere spoonfuls of leftover rubbery goodness... I refused to put it down the garbage disposal. Into my system, okay. Into my home's plumbing system? That's where I drew the line.

Yes, I ate damn near an entire block of Velveeta in 3 hours. Paired with a full, party-size bag of nacho cheese Doritos. (Plus some popcorn -- two flavors, regular nacho chips, two bowls of chili and a couple bottles of Gatorade to maintain my strength and prevent cramping.) It was undoubtedly gluttony. I still have a healthy orange glow. 

But, it was the Super Bowl. MY Super Bowl. And, I prevailed.

Will a single block of Velveeta send me to hell? I don't know. But, if it does, I'll be thankful for one thing: it should be hot enough down there that I won't have to make every-10-minute runs to the microwave to keep my food source at the perfect level of "molten."

Apologies to fans of the blog. I have a close family member in the ICU which has required enormous amounts of effort and emotion. Happily, things seem to be resolving positively, (though slowly.)

I'll be returning to my normal level of sin shortly! Maybe even within the week. So, please check back!

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.