Entry 38: Mosquitoes, God, and Adam Carolla

Apparently mosquitoes do not prefer my blood, which is a good thing for me. My university was built on swampland and it is infested with mosquitoes. Thankfully, though, they tend to leave me alone. My coworkers frequently complain about being bitten (as does S on the occasions she’s on campus). They burn incense in their offices and spray deet all over their bodies, but not me. I might find the odd bite once in a while, but it’s extremely disproportionate for how often I see a mosquito buzzing around my office. I’d say I swat down about five a day, and I encounter another two or three that get away.

[Incidental fact, Gary Larson went to the same high school I did (long before me, obviously).]

Every time I’m about to squash one, I’m reminded of a Family Circus cartoon in which Jeffy is sitting in church obviously being annoyed by a bug of some sort and the caption reads, “Do you think God would mind if I killed this ‘skeeto?” I never really liked Family Circus. Then again I never really liked most of the comic strips that I used to read in the daily newspaper as a kid. Calvin and Hobbes and The Far Side were excellent, but that’s about it. I definitely didn’t like the older comics (Family Circus, Dennis the Menace, Blondie, Peanuts, etc.). I think the reason The Far Side was so popular is because it revolutionized comics. It was the first one to actually be funny.

[I couldn't find the one I reference, but this one is even more hilarious.]

Anyway, the relationship between mosquitoes and God is an interesting one to me. The existence of the former doesn’t exactly bode well for the existence of the latter, in my opinion. When I kill a mosquito I find it extremely hard to believe that anything profound happens. It either falls to the floor and I ground it into the carpet with my shoe, or, in the more unfortunate case for me, it splatters on the palm of my hand and I have to clean its remains off with a napkin. I don’t think it has a soul or that there was a divine purpose for its existence. It was just one of the unthinkably many indistinguishable, meaningless mosquitoes that have ever lived. So, my train of thought goes, if that’s the case, then why is my existence any different? I never have a satisfactory answer. Mentally, I’m obviously the superior creature, and I’m aware of my own purposelessness, but does that (somewhat paradoxically) give my life purpose? I don't think so.

[One of the many The Far Side cartoons featuring God.]

If I were a man of faith I’m sure I could pretty easily reconcile this, and it wouldn’t bother me, but I’m not. I never have been. My parents raised me and my siblings in a very irreligious manner. It’s something that I’ve always appreciated. Not being religious doesn’t get nearly enough credit. You get to spend your Sundays doing things that are actually enjoyable, you aren’t racked with guilt every time you wake up with morning wood, and you don’t have to worry about “God’s plan” or living up to some unrealistic holy standard or obeying some arcane, cryptic holy text. It’s quite nice to not be religious, but it doesn’t get enough love. Star athletes and musicians are always on about God this and God that, and they often wear religious accessories (because as a friend of mine once said, nothing exemplifies humility like a $10,000 jewel-encrusted crucifix necklace). If I were a star professional athlete, every time I gave an interview I’d say, “I owe all my success to my lack of faith. I knew it was all on me, so I trained hard and it paid off.” Either that or instead of pointing to the sky in an exalted manner after making a good play, I’d wag my finger at the sky in an angry manner, after making a bad play. If you can thank the Lord when you win, can’t you blame the Lord when you lose? “Unfortunately, the good Lord just didn’t give me the ability to get the ball in the end zone. What could I do?”

[Do you think there will ever be a Satan-worshiping slugger who points to the ground in exaltation every time he hits a home run?]

So yeah, I’m not religious. I’m nothing – not spiritual, not agnostic, nothing. I don’t even say I’m atheist, because then you run into the “it takes just as much faith to be an atheist” argument, which I find extremely tiring, so I sidestep it. I’m just nothing. Whatever the default setting is, I’m on it. Don’t get me wrong, if there is some sort of divine master plan, I’m all for it. If, when I die something cool happens, like the mystery of the universe is explained to me, or my soul lives for eternity, that would be awesome. I’m just not holding out hope. That’s all.

On a very tangentially related note I recently bought the audio version of Adam Carolla’s book, In Fifty Years We’ll All Be Chicks. (Adam is outspoken about his atheism, which gives me a bit of a segue.) It’s OK, not bad, not great. I’m a big Adam Carolla fan, but his thing is free-flow conversation. On the radio, with guests, when he’s completely off-the-cuff he’s hysterical. With scripted material he’s mediocre. I never really liked his shows on Comedy Central (The Man Show and Crank Yankers), but I love his podcasts. In fact, the main reason I bought the book is because I felt compelled since I listen to his free podcasts so often, and I’m a big of that type of pay-if-you-listen, quasi-honor-system business model for things like podcasts.

On that note, I leave you with a link to a clip of Adam Carolla with Ann Coulter. It's pretty funny and very short.