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.


-------------------

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. 

So, it's been a few weeks since I've blogged about my impending damnation. 206 to be exact, ​but who's counting? (You? Oh. Sorry. But, thanks for keeping track.)

In case you're wondering why I ran silent, and more importantly, why I've come back, the answer is the same: I'm exploring 1,000 Reasons I'm Going to Hell as a sitcom idea.

​No doubt you remember the blog entries from 2015. Most do. If not, you can check them out below. Turns out, I very quickly started to think of the concept as a potential sitcom, so I pulled back on writing the blog -- fearful that I'd burn up a bunch of episode ideas.

So, where did I go, and why have I returned? It's a bit of a long story, but I'll shorten it for you: 1. I had multiple other ideas I wanted to explore first. 2. I had multiple other genres I wanted to explore first. 3. I had no clear path for success for a sitcom pilot. 4. Now I do.

Let's take them in order.

​First, I'm always swimming with ideas. My idea board currently lists 8 priority ideas, not including the 3 that I'm actively writing. Every day new ideas push into my head. Some are actually even invited to stick around. It's just that now, 1,000 Reasons I'm Going to Hell seems to be pushing harder than the others, so, it's time to explore it further.

Second, I want to get back to comedy. It's where I started. It's a natural landing point for me: I like to make people laugh. I've enjoyed writing thrillers, and I'm sure I'll write more (there are 2 on my idea board -- along with 2 SciFi ideas that came out of nowhere). I'll certainly continue writing shorts in all genres. That's just fun. And, I'm getting pretty good at it. But, in the end, my inner comedian is too strong to ignore. So, back to writing a sitcom for my next project.

Finally, and maybe most importantly, I see a clear path to success. For features, it's possible to write a killer script and be discovered from just about anywhere. For shorts, it's the same. But, for sitcoms... from Kansas? And, from a writer that's not staffed? It doesn't happen. Unless... something really unique comes along. A path opens up. Which is what happened last year. 

Mind you, it's only one path. But, I only need one path to motivate me to write a script. (For shorts, I don't even need one. I just write.)

What's the path? Turns out there's a company out there that wants to cultivate talent and is turning over the tiniest of stones to find it. They don't care where you live. They don't care what experience you have. If you have a good enough idea, and can demonstrate the talent to pull it off -- they're willing to invest in you. It's called Imagine Impact, and I'm gunning for 'em.

So, over the next 4 or 5 months, I'm going to kick the blog back up. I'm going to use this as a testing ground for story ideas. Yes, I'm putting them out there. Mainly, because I need to know if the concept has legs (not necessarily commercially -- more so creatively). So, I hope you'll check in occasionally. I'll be experimenting with forms, making fun of myself and others, and exploring the concepts of heaven, hell and humanity.

​Nothing too big.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new 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 #724: I’m ungrateful.

Youth is no excuse, but if I’m standing before St. Peter and he asks, that’s what I’m going with. I was young, and stupid hadn’t worn off, yet. (Sure, I’ve done many stupid things since then, but I’m working on other excuses for those moments. I’ve got time, right?)

I was 20 and feeling a bit inadequate. Not that I had reason.

My brother majored in defending the world. Me? Radio.

He chose West Point. I aimed just a touch lower.

On trips home, he wore perfectly tailored, status-elevating dress uniforms with buttons so shiny they could power small towns. I wore radio station T-shirts adorned with liquor store sponsorships.

He was Captain America, I was Mr. Microphone.

But this story isn’t about how I viewed my brother. It’s about how I viewed my parents. (Psychologists, amateur and otherwise, will see a third option.)

From my view, my parents were proud of my brother, and indifferent to me.

Not that I didn’t have evidence. 

Upon his college acceptance, our house morphed into a shrine to all things West Point. Conversation became Army centric. Eventually, the postal service established a virtual home office in our living room to handle the onslaught of care packages from our house to The Academy.

Army-Navy day was immediately upgraded to prime holiday status, below only Christmas and any Imo’s Pizza delivery.

A return trip by my brother was akin to a Papal visit.

Lest you think I’m a total clod, I was proud, too. But, I was also looking forward to star treatment when I left home. And, when it didn’t come, I was disappointed.

There were no life-size portraits of me wearing headphones. No tape recorders hung on the wall with descriptive plaques.

In my mind, I was being slighted.

And, for some reason, the sweatshirt became my focus.

I could have chosen anything. My dad had seventeen Army hats, my mom five pairs of USMA sweatpants. But it was the sweatshirt disparity that I decided had to be resolved.

So, one day, I decided to make a stand.

“Why don’t you own a single sweatshirt that represents my college?”

The question was direct. The message implied.

Now, my parents could have answered with a single sentence. “I guess we’re too busy working double shifts to pay for your college.”

It would have been a show stopper.

But, they didn’t.

Instead, they handed me 60 bucks and charged me with finding the perfect sweatshirt to display their pride.

I promptly spent it on Imo’s pizza.

-------------------

Have a burning desire to tell me I'm not a horrible person? Drop it in the comments below.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new 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 #11: I’m a screenwriter.

At first glance, eleven might feel like a high number to rank my profession on a list of reasons I’m going to hell, but allow me to explain. 

The top ten is, of course, reserved for the biggies like (spoiler alert) I don’t believe in God. But a person’s profession is a big part of their identity. You think Al Capone’s career choice had an influence on his eternal destination?

But screenwriter?

I think most reasonable people would concede that while screenwriting is a dastardly profession, it doesn’t generally rate as high on the evil scale as say, Ruthless Dictator.

For me, though, it’s a bit of a different equation. It seems that my writing wheelhouse is consistently in areas that are, as one friend put it, “hard on God.”

My very first project, a sitcom called OH, BROTHER!, centers on characters that were born out of long conversations with my brother regarding areas of faith. Specifically, my lack of it.

Since birthing that project, I’ve written several others that also hinge on questions of faith. 

Recently I entered a new project in a contest sponsored by the evil-doers at the Center For Inquiry and the Freedom From Religion Foundation. (I didn’t win, but since they don’t announce runners-up, I’m left to assume I finished 2nd.)

The decision to enter the contest forced me to face a fact: I’ve been pulling my punches. It’s not to say I need to be harder on God. It’s just, I need to be more okay with who I am, and let my work reflect that.

I don’t believe in God and I don’t pray for divine intervention. Well, except when I really wanted to win the Atheist screenwriting competition. Then I prayed, just for the delicious irony of it all. (It didn’t work.)

I need to be as comfortable not praying at family gatherings as my brother is praying. I need to not get my gander up when my brother unintentionally intimates that I’m incapable of making moral decisions. (Breath. He didn’t mean it that way. I think.)

I need to own the fact that I entered a contest sponsored by groups that align with my values, but not those of my parents. If you’re reading this Mom and Dad, consider yourself informed. (That counts, right?) 

And, as a screenwriter, I need to be comfortable writing projects that reflect my voice, evil as it may be. 

So, I announce to the world: I’ve written a feature drama called THE HAND OF GOD. It’s about a guy who absolutely knows that God exists. He just hates Him. 

No, the lead character is not me. He’s not even a reflection of me. But the script does represent my desire to write every character exactly as they are. No pulled punches. Even if that means I write a story about a God I don’t believe in.

If I’m hell-bound because I'm a screenwriter, so be it. At least I'll have something to do.

--------------------

On a highway to hell? Lonely screenwriter looking for salvation? Drop in a comment below.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new 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 #438: I tend to exaggerate.

The first time I nearly died, I was probably ten years old. It was a hot summer afternoon. The kind of day you wouldn’t dare step outside for fear your shoes would melt to the pavement.  I think.

It might have been a frigid winter’s night, so cold it would freeze a sneeze in mid-air.

Doesn’t matter. Point is, I was ten. Probably.

My parents weren’t home. No doubt taking my sister, the only child they truly loved, to dance class. I didn’t get classes. Or attention. Just scraps of food, tossed into my room every other day or so. Usually leftover peas.

Again, doesn’t matter. Point is, my parents weren’t home.

It was just my brother, a twelve-year-old trouble-making machine, alone with his naïve, innocent little sibling. Me.

I was minding my own business, making papier-mâché figures of Gandhi or writing letters of peaceful protest to evil animal-testing corporations. I don’t remember exactly. But, I was doing God’s work.

Suddenly, and without provocation, my ne’er-do-well brother maliciously and violently attacked me.

Keep in mind, I’m a strong guy. Even then I was the toughest 76-lb string bean this side of fourth grade. But Jeff, he's a beast. At twelve, he carried 180 pounds of sheer muscle with the ease of Hercules delivering helium balloons to a kindergartner’s birthday party.

Still, I could have taken him, if I saw it coming.

There, sitting quietly, quilting an afghan for my mother, I was blind sided with a kidney shot so vicious it would have knocked Rocky 2 all the way to Rocky 4.

My breath was sucked out of me faster than the cream filling from my birthday donut. (My parents didn’t love me enough to buy me treats. All I got was one donut. Per year. On my birthday. And, I don’t even like cream filled donuts.)

Point is, I couldn’t breath. I was dying. Right there. In front of my brother.

What did he do? My only brother? Convinced I was dying?

He ran.

He ran to the phone and called for help. “Please get here fast. My loving, innocent brother, who I so callously and rebelliously boxed, is desperately attempting to draw what could be his final breath! Please, hurry!”

Except that’s not what he did.

To be clear, I’m not saying he didn’t run. He definitely ran.

It’s just, he ran downstairs. To watch reruns of Gilligan’s Island.

But I’m the one who’s going to hell.

-----------------------

Have a near-death experience of your own involving Bob Denver? Share it in the comments below.

1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a new 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 #78: I’m a liar.

“Do you know Jesus?”

The question bounced off the tile walls like a Ping-Pong ball in a hot clothes dryer.

Under normal circumstances, I might answer this question in a different way. But, this wasn’t a normal circumstance.

So, I did what had to be done. I lied.

“Yes. God has blessed me.”

I realize the egregious level of my infraction. 

On the scale of “Bible Thumper” to “Fire Surfer,” I generally rate on the warmer side. That is, the religion stuff just doesn’t work for me. But, I was raised in a Christian household, so there remains a basic discomfort in saying my beliefs out loud. This, however, was not that. This was survival.

You see. The man with the question was naked. And, so was I.

I had taken a chance. The community center shower was empty 10 seconds ago. Quick calculations showed that I could shower, dress and clear the room in approximately 44 seconds.

I had just ridden my bike 59 miles and I was sweaty. My car was new. The risk was worth it. 

Until it wasn’t.

He was six feet tall and easily 240 pounds. I am neither. But, it wasn’t fear of assault that made me lie. This guy was a gentle giant, a fact that was obvious before I turned around.

No, this was fear of having “that conversation” while naked.

If you’re like me, you’ve been approached about salvation many times. I’ve successfully fended off well-dressed youngsters on bikes on at least five occasions. 

I’ve hid in my darkened house, lying on the floor, sneaking glances, desperately trying not to get noticed moving the blinds. I’ve tried the direct approach, “I have no interest in having this discussion.” The brushoff, “I have a pizza in the oven.” Most times, I’m overwhelmed by my fear of confrontation. “Yeah, thanks for stopping by. It’s just, you know, I don’t really-- Sure, I’ll take some literature.”

You may be shocked to learn, but I’ve even answered the question honestly. (I’m not a total coward.)

In fact, one of my favorite life moments came from the direct engagement of a salvation soldier. It’s a story for another day, but the short version has an extremely kind Baptist preacher standing on my doorstop in a completely flummoxed state asking me, “Aren’t you afraid?”

Truth be told, if I felt like any of these well-intentioned soul-savers were actually interested in a conversation, I’d likely participate more often. Most times, though, I find the point is not to engage in an exchange of ideas, but rather just to tell me how utterly wrong I am.

But, the moment in the shower was none of these. Or, all of these. I was too thrown to know for certain.

I had never had “that conversation” while dressed like Adam and Eve.

I wanted out, and I was willing to do anything to get there. So, I lied. I lied a big lie. And, I sold the lie. That day, in that moment, I was Pat Robertson rolled into Billy Graham. I was the single most saved guy on the planet. I loved Jesus like no one has ever loved Him before.

Then, I got dressed. And went directly to hell.

---------------

Have a salvation-avoidance story of your own? Like to share how you would have handled the situation? Add it to the comments below. At worst, I'll know I won't be alone when the end times come.