Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
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20-07-2015, 12:27 AM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
(19-07-2015 09:17 AM)RocketSurgeon76 Wrote:  Szuchow - Not a month goes by that something doesn't happen here in the States to make me jealous of Europeans. I know things aren't perfect there, either, but our particular brand of crazy is widespread enough to be truly dangerous. At least over there you guys have the numbers to make the nutters less-bold.

You might drawn wrong conclusions form my posts - nothing happened to me but it not mean that Poland is free of religious nutjobs. Church have it's dirty hands in nearly everything in this country, religion is "teached" in school and sometimes time spent for it is greater than time for biology or chemistry, abortion and in vitro are huge religious issues, etc.

It's just that I spent most of my time amongst highly educated people so one cared about my atheism. But when I have travel by train or simply go to shop I often heard fair share of religious idiocy.

The first revolt is against the supreme tyranny of theology, of the phantom of God. As long as we have a master in heaven, we will be slaves on earth.

Mikhail Bakunin.
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20-07-2015, 04:49 PM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
(19-07-2015 06:48 PM)ClydeLee Wrote:  My atheist horror story is how I have to deal with old atheist necrothreads, that's about it.

Can someone explain to me why "necrothreads" cause so much butt hurt here? Not trying to be a dick. Just don't get it.
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20-07-2015, 04:58 PM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
(20-07-2015 04:49 PM)Fodder_From_The_Truth Wrote:  
(19-07-2015 06:48 PM)ClydeLee Wrote:  My atheist horror story is how I have to deal with old atheist necrothreads, that's about it.

Can someone explain to me why "necrothreads" cause so much butt hurt here? Not trying to be a dick. Just don't get it.

This is something that has always baffled me.

If a person (particularly someone new) posts a thread and there are similar ones from ages ago they are taken to task for starting a new thread about an old topic.

If a person takes the time to search to find the topic they want to speak on and it's an old thread...they are blasted for necroposting.

Perfect example of damned if you do and damned if you don't.

I have seen it many times since I have been here.

See here they are the bruises some were self-inflicted and some showed up along the way. - JF

We're all mad here. The Cheshire Cat
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20-07-2015, 10:37 PM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
(20-07-2015 04:49 PM)Fodder_From_The_Truth Wrote:  
(19-07-2015 06:48 PM)ClydeLee Wrote:  My atheist horror story is how I have to deal with old atheist necrothreads, that's about it.

Can someone explain to me why "necrothreads" cause so much butt hurt here? Not trying to be a dick. Just don't get it.

It's more of a long running joke now to just mock it, but it often is just the sign a person is a troll searching for some pet peeve topic and you know they're posting their little tiddy and leaving. So it's strange to see that keep going on.. The only ones that bother me or are really head scratching though is people who respond to a 3 year old thread when they can easily look for 30 seconds and see that person is long gone and will not be there to answer.

"Allow there to be a spectrum in all that you see" - Neil Degrasse Tyson
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22-07-2015, 06:21 PM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
(20-07-2015 04:49 PM)Fodder_From_The_Truth Wrote:  
(19-07-2015 06:48 PM)ClydeLee Wrote:  My atheist horror story is how I have to deal with old atheist necrothreads, that's about it.

Can someone explain to me why "necrothreads" cause so much butt hurt here? Not trying to be a dick. Just don't get it.




I'm homophobic in the same way that I'm arachnophobic. I'm not scared of gay people but I'm going to scream if I find one in my bath.

I'm. Also homophobic in the same way I'm arachnophobic. I'm scared of spiders but I'd still fuck'em.
- my friend Marc
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23-07-2015, 05:48 PM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
Bought a huge farm back home in the Deep South three doors down from the Confederate flag Memorial Meth Lab trailer park where most of my high school class lounge during working hours, their overalls stuffed with tightly bound wads of Franklins.

Broke ground on "The Dream House" after years and years and years of living all over the world in the service of a largely ungrateful populace. The Military Hub is mauled with co-dependant gratitude when we attend church near Memorial Day---Independence Day.---Veteran's Day...

Overdosed on the Red Pill before the mortar was dry on the brick foundation.

Now can't go to the GD post office that I don't encounter some "Precious Blood" soaked rube I would rather pound flat than suffer the latest Jeebus soaked Glenn Beck conspiracy rant.

I am a prisoner of Location, location, GODDAMNED LOCATION!
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23-07-2015, 11:42 PM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
Alchron was a fellow moderator and great guy at TAF. Sure wish he'd post around here.
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23-07-2015, 11:47 PM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
Quote:three doors down from the Confederate flag Memorial Meth Lab trailer park


Hypatia - Apparently, we're next-door neighbors. C'mon by! Bring beer. I'll make sandwiches.

"Theology made no provision for evolution. The biblical authors had missed the most important revelation of all! Could it be that they were not really privy to the thoughts of God?" - E. O. Wilson
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24-07-2015, 06:32 PM
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
(23-07-2015 11:47 PM)RocketSurgeon76 Wrote:  
Quote:three doors down from the Confederate flag Memorial Meth Lab trailer park


Hypatia - Apparently, we're next-door neighbors. C'mon by! Bring beer. I'll make sandwiches.

Oh YAY! YAAAaaaay! I love a party! I'll wear my Confederate bikini top and Daisy Duke's. I'll be the one in the flatbed Ford.

PBR is already on ice......and I'll have HAM, double side DUKE'S on Sunbeam.

::Gotta have the DUKE'S...and EEEEVerybody knows that since 9-11, pork is patriotic:: Thumbsup
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24-07-2015, 06:59 PM (This post was last modified: 24-07-2015 09:38 PM by Thumpalumpacus.)
RE: Your Horror Stories when you became an atheist
(23-07-2015 11:42 PM)Thumpalumpacus Wrote:  Alchron was a fellow moderator and great guy at TAF. Sure wish he'd post around here.

I'll post mine once I get home ... the incident which started my journey.

eta: Got off early, always good. Son's on the phone with his girlfriend right now, we'll dash it off.

This is an excerpt from an unpublished book I wrote. This happened on 5 November 1978, and while I had had disturbing events start the erosion of my faith, this was the blow that eventually sent me onto the path to reason. Sorry for the length and the wonky formatting.

***************************

35. A Long Afternoon

I was in Cultural Studies, fifth period. I cannot remember the teacher's name, but his thick brown mustache and heavyset frame stand out in my mind, as does his plodding diction. We were discussing Sumeria and really, I was bored -- and so, I suspected, was everyone else in the warm unvented classroom. I hadn’t seen much of Farah at lunch, either, and was irritated about that too.

Slowly, with no precise moment of notice, we realized we could hear a local demonstration of radicals protesting the martial law. These had cropped up occasionally nearby, and a couple of my friends had seen some from the windows of their schoolbuses; and I’d seen two m’self now up-close. It was an odd assemblage of subliminal sounds rolled into one presence: the murmured chant ("down with America," if I remember correctly); the shuffling of thousands of feet; the dopplered two-tone wail of foreign sirens; the dense rumble of heavy machinery. No gunshots rang out that we could hear, but those are funny things, gunshots. You never knew when they happened.

Mr. Mustache wasn't the smartest teacher I'd ever seen, but he really outdid himself when he tried to get us back on track by announcing: "It's only a riot." Like they ran on schedule, sure. At that point, perhaps a naked woman might have gotten my attention. An overweight guy lecturing on Sumeria would've done better to surrender to the riot and settle into a good book.

As the bell rang the official end of fifth period, I hunted up Leb.
"It's a riot, James."
"No shit, Leb."
"A big one. I hope they didn't get my dad's practice." His dad was my orthodontist, and had done all of the work on my mouth concerning metal, except for Dr. Irvani’s fillings. I suddenly felt much more kinship with radical Islamic fundamentalists than I had previously thought possible.
"Look at it this way, Jerry: they'll only jack his offices up if they know he's Christian, right? Now, as much as I've prayed in there, I can tell you -- God is nowhere near your dad's practice, crucifix or no."
“Shaddup, you. What does a Texan know about good teeth anyway?"

About this time Mrs. Reeves -- oh, you better believe I remember her name -- made a stab at order by calling roll. We answered dutifully, trying to get back to an enjoyable talk. No dice. Reeves pushed on with predicates until I was blue in the brain. I'd often thought that if the Bomb ever dropped, I could see her teach through World War III. Only a twelve-foot brick wall kept thousands of angry demonstrators from learning verb conjugations.

After what felt like an eternity, the bell sounded the end of English and the beginning of the last class -- in my case, art history. I took my leave of Jerry Balassanian in the hallway, and never saw him again.

I ran into Mike Kimmel near The Tank, and briefly saw Angus and Firoozi there as well. The riot had made the whole gang nervous and we found comfort in each other's company for the brief moment between classes, wondering if the crowd were going to disperse soon and why they were picking on us anyway. Then the tardy bell rang and we had to go. I never saw Angus Fletcher or Firoozi Yams again.

Mike and I had seventh period together, so we made some brave jokes at the party going on -- but the haze now suffusing the air added the odor not only of fire but fear as well. The teacher's lecture on color theory was also a brave attempt at denial that I think failed miserably; but we all pretended that it worked, and so it worked just fine. I s'pose we were about halfway through class when an office runner came in and handed Mr. Wood a note. He read the note, and then, his English accent dicing the words precisely, announced, "May I have your attention please? We will be staying here late due to our little disturbance. It won't be too much longer, but, again, we shall be staying late. Please continue with your work."

Well, shit fire and save matches. My feelings about Islamic radicalism took on a decided negative cast, and I wondered if my sister's school was subject to the same tomfoolery. I could really use a night off from her, but I preferred it be her kept locked up at school, not m’self. We went back to our quiet conversation and drawing, which Mike and I kept up even after the final bell had closed the official day out.

The rioting was louder than it had been all day, and the sun was now westering. I wondered if Farah was okay, if’n her dad was involved in this day’s events. The clock on the wall read 4:50 P.M. when the office runner returned, and suddenly I could hear that clock ticking even over the squalling miasma filtering in from outside.

"Okay, children, you may walk to your buses. I'll see you tomo--"
"Like Hell you will," said Mike rather loudly. He spoke my thoughts perfectly. An hour-and-a-half had passed since the final bell rang, and we had still 15 miles of traffic to fight to my bus stop at the intersection of Zafar and Old Shemiran. I wasn’t coming tomorrow for love nor money. I was angry at this waste of my evening . . . for about three seconds. That’s when we stepped outside, and my anger was replaced by fear.

It was still all wrong -- worse, even. The chanting and shouting, the sounds of melee, were as loud as ever, and the haze was now an acrid smoke, much thicker than before -- a surreal frosting on a hellish cake. I suppose I’d assumed that when they released us, it would be after the riot had subsided, but that assumption was quickly dispelled. The rumble of eighty school buses warming up, normally quite loud, was now background for the sound of sirens wailing and a mob chanting. Every so often, a bottle would carve an arc over the brick wall surrounding the bus-loading area, to land in a shattering explosion of glassy dust. Thunderous sounds rumbled my innards like Jell-O, and atop it all rode the chanting of an angry mob. Mike and I stuck together until we reached our respective buses. Farah’s bus was not in eyeshot. I found my bus and watched Mike get on his. As our buses pulled out, he gave the thumbs-up. I never saw Mike Kimmel again.

Through the iron grill of the campus gates one could see a sea of angry twisted faces and raised fists, scuffling chaos held at bay, and I felt keenly afraid for myself for the first time in my life. As the buses waited while the Army troops tried to clear a path, our driver warned us all to keep our heads below window level -- particularly us Westerners. No sooner had he said this than we heard a crack-crack-crack, and the wrought-iron gates swung open as rioters fled in panic and the air filled with the smell of cordite. Protesters fell writhing, flung by the impact of metal on flesh as the armored car at the end of the street added teargas canisters and the brute force of automatic cannonfire to the melee. The shooting died off, but police in riot gear were clubbing those still near the opened portal, beating out a path for us. Shocks of red torn out of dead crumpled humans cut through the gray haze. A kid outside my window clutching his bloody red gut, agony writ upon his face. Anger, fear, hurt, dismay, fierce hate. Soldiers ran alongside beating on the buses and screaming in Farsi "Boro! Boro!" -- "Go! Go!" -- but the shouted orders were unneeded. My bus was already moving and then we were in the crowd, bumping and rocking and rolling over dead bodies and my pants were warm with urine and sheer terror ruled me. Looking on in mute horror, living a nightmare, I heard no more shots, but they echoed through my brain and faces full of pain were frozen frames in my mind's eye. Some of the kids were crying, but I don't think I was a kid anymore. Leastaways, I wasn't crying.

Now we wound our way through the sometimes-narrow, sometimes-broad streets of Teheran and I gazed in shock out the window, barely noticing the burning rubbish, broken windows, torn façades passing over my retinæ, scattered individuals flinging the modern world into the bonfires of ageless anger. I heard the young kid sitting next to me whimpering and crying for Mommy and we hugged each other fearfully as I gazed numbly over the windowframe at the Hell outside. Despite the driver’s previous admonition, I could not keep my head down; the scenes unfolding around us gripped my eyes mercilessly, forcing their way into me, deflowering my innocence rapaciously.

We roll up to my stop, and even here there is detritus from an earlier skirmish.
Now I'm drenched in sweat as well, and I pull off my turtleneck as I race the two blocks to the apartment compound. The guard recognizes me and has the gate open before I get there. My adrenaline is still redlined as I dash through the foyer and into the elevator, punching the button for my floor -- fourth -- perhaps six or seven times.
I was still fumbling with my keys when the door opened. I fell into her arms and started shaking and crying.
"Mom," I said, "I'm home."

That day sounded the death knell for the world I knew. Although the imposition of martial law had impinged on my life, nibbled away at the edges of a broad range of activities, and I had seen a couple of friends leave, it was only when I woke up on 6 November 1978, with the day before resonating in my head, that I realized how far out on a limb our whole existence was, and how furiously the social upheaval we were witnessing was sawing at that branch. And more than that, I knew that my inner life was over too, that I would never be the same again. It was with new eyes that I regarded the bright sunlit morning.

That morning was the beginning of our “house arrest”, as Susan and I called it; but I wasn’t much in the mood to go anywhere anyway. Someone might as well have crumpled up my world and skyhooked it into the nearest trashcan. Even if I had been of the mind to do so, there was no way my parents were going to permit me to carry on as before -- so this automatically put the kibosh on football, ripping up the town with The Expats, Farah, and school. (This last fact was brought home immediately by my sleeping in that morning). The city was strangely quiet and a thick haze hung low. It smelled of fire and gunpowder. Twice that sunny morning was the air rent by gunfire, one outburst being pretty close and lasting almost an hour, intermittently. My mom had called in to her work as well, but I didn’t want the company of her or my sister, so I retreated to the balcony outside my room and mulled things over.

After I’d gotten home the night before and told my parents what had happened, my dad and I went up to the roof. The evening was a regular Fourth of July display, with tracers carving swaths of sky and the surreal flicker of flames reflecting off’n the low clouds which had rolled in later that evening, and we watched the events unfold and intensify. The shooting got closer, appearing to come from the intersection of Saltanatabad Avenue and Old Shemiran Road, and the volume of noise increased concomitantly. Along about nine o’clock we heard but not saw some armored personnel carriers deploy not too far away, and the two tanks that had been stationed near Zafar and Mirdamad fired up their engines and wasted little time in taking up position less than four blocks from our apartment, by Old Shemiran. My dad, seeing this, had just decided that we should head downstairs when those M-60s opened up with their 105mm rifles and I heard the flanged whoosh of the shells splitting air followed by the dense crump of buildings stopping high-explosive rounds, and then Dad scooped me up and sprinted down the stairs.
“Johnnie! Jim!” I could hear my mom calling up the stairwell.
“Ruthie,” Dad called back. “We’re okay. Keep the door open.”
“What the fuck are they doing out there?” she yelled hysterically. I’d never heard Mom say the F-word before, ever, and was stunned. We got to the door and I could see her eyes wide with fear, her brown hair frizzed. Susan stood behind her, trying to look out into the stairwell at us.
We spent the rest of the evening in the bathroom. Aside from knowing (as do all natives of Tornado Alley) that the walls in your bathroom are the strongest ones in the house -- the pipes reinforce the plaster -- in this particular apartment, our bathroom was located almost exactly in the center of the building, and thus, Dad figured, was the best spot to sweat out the night, and so that’s exactly where we did it, all four of us.

Sleep escaped me for most of the night. Aside from the discomfort of trying to sleep in the bathtub while sharing it with Susan, I couldn’t dispel from my mind the memory of my schoolbus going ba-bump over those rioters like they were goddamned speedbumps. The shots I’d heard earlier had followed me home and punctuated the evening with exclamation points at random intervals, but what really haunted me through the night was the faces of the rioters I’d seen, in particular the one who’d been shot in the abdomen and was holding his guts in with one hand, staggering aimlessly on the edge of the crowd near the school gate, and he looked at me straight in the eyes. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen, and he had a lost look on his face, as if he was a little boy who couldn’t find his mom. As he staggered towards the ivy-covered brick wall around the school, he was clubbed from behind with a rifle-butt and collapsed in a heap, his pinkish-orange intestines spilling out through the gaping exit wound in his left flank. Then my bus pulled off slowly and the mob intervened -- I could see that guy no more -- but I’d seen quite enough to torment me all night. As I write this now, I am thirty-four years old, and I can still see that guy’s face in my head as clear as day, the thin mustache, the drawn cheeks, the pronounced dimple in his pointy-rounded chin, the foamy blood he was throwing up after being knocked senseless, and he was left there to die, alone in that spastic chaos.

Where was God in all of this?

That morning after, on my balcony, I figured that maybe there was no god after all. I had beheld evil, witnessed its triumphal dance, and knew that I couldn’t expunge that experience from myself, that my violation was a permanent thing I would carry with me. I didn’t trust any benevolent world anymore, and, by extension, any benevolent God who would permit this. I had spent years putting together the jigsaw puzzle, and now that was on the floor, scattered, pushed off the table by a remorseless reality where the dead were reported by the shock absorbers of the bus carrying me to the safety of a bathtub in the middle of a maelstrom.
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