Now, I could be coy, and play nice, and suggest that I understand the point of view espoused by Kent R. Rieske, B.Sc., and Bible Life Ministries.
But I won’t, because the man is simply a fucking idiot.
Actually, I don’t believe I’m stating that point strongly enough. However, I’m not going to resort to large fonts and blinking text and various other late-90’s hallmarks of Geocities’ personal pages. Just assume that there are flames, and blood, and skulls, and lots of animated .gifs clustered around the theme of “OH HELL NO.”
My usual rhetorical modus operandi is to dissect the argument I find wanting point by point, citing counterexamples to the statements espoused by the party who has aroused my ire. Sometimes, I’ll even cite their own chapter and verse against them. In this case, yes, that would resemble swatting a three-legged fly with an M1A1 Abrams. That level of intellectual overkill isn’t a disincentive, mind you – it’s the equivalent of playing a game on God Mode for the simple enjoyment of blowing the ever-living fuck out of stuff without any possibility of being harmed.
I make no apology for being smart, or being smug about it, in the same way that I don’t apologize for being good at anything else I work at and enjoy. But, every once in a while, some clueless naif spouts off with something so demonstrably idiotic that my general tendency to ignore or try and correct it gets effectively side-stepped and short-circuited, and the perpetrator gets fed straight into the wood chipper.
And that doesn’t even presume he’s going to asphyxiate from trying to breathe with his head this far up his ass in the meantime. But, because I am who and how I am, I can’t resist one parting shot:
He himself shall also drink of the wine of the wrath of God, which is poured out full strength into the cup of His indignation.
– Book of Revelations, Chapter 14, Line 10
Now, I’m no Bible scholar, but Kent sure makes a lot of hay from it; after checking his citations out, I’m going to come right out and say that, you know, I kind of think his wrathful, end-times God and I could be poker buddies. Or maybe we’re the same guy; I haven’t checked my closet for swords and blood-dipped robes lately.
Kent, I could spend a very long and tedious morning beating you into a fine red pulp with a cluebat, but will sum things up in one compound clause: do everyone a favor – look up any kind of dietary statistics and eating habits for the last half century, and then throw yourself under a garbage truck.
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