Pointless

Then I thought in my heart, “The fate of the fool will overtake me also. What then do I gain by being wise?” I said in my heart, “This too is meaningless.” (Ecclesiastes 2:15)

Just as I’ve suspected all along. All this brilliance, all this religious insight, all this wit, all this charm, all this literary showmanship—it’s all for nothing. Nothing. Sure, you may worship me for my staggering genius now, but what good’s that going to do me when I kick the proverbial bucket? What good is all this spiritual freaking incandescence going to do me when, at the end, it’s fizzed like some cheap 20-watt bulb? What’s the point of this astonishing acumen, this high-power perspicacity, this super-charged system sizzling savvy when there’s only one exit—and it’s marked

So here’s the totally lame scenario:

Over here you’ve got a bona fide, world-class idiot who can’t tell his head from a hole in the ground. He’s a cretin of the first order, without class or intelligence or civility. He knows nothing and cares nothing about art, literature, morality or history. His walnut-sized cranium is just big enough to entertain thoughts of beer. He enjoys ESPN reruns. He belches for exercise and waddles even when he’s sitting still (which is most of the time). The guy’s a dunce, a dolt, an imbecile, a jughead, a big-time undisputed heavyweight champion numbskull. He is the missing link you wish were still missing. He contributes nothing, absolutely nothing to the general welfare. He’s a boil on the butt of society, a human hemorrhoid. He dies. Done deal.

Now over there you have—well, me. You know, the guy with all that brilliance, all that religious insight, all that wit, all that charm, all that literary showmanship. The guy with that high-power perspicacity, that super-charged system sizzling savvy, that veritable heartbreak of staggering genius. You know, me. The guy who sacrifices his time, his peace of mind, his marriage, his family, his very self in order to offer you—free of charge, mind you—a daily dose of unmitigated betcha-by-golly-wow-I-can’t-believe-he-said-that-where-does-he-come-up-with-this-fantastic-stuff stuff. So, after all that, he dies too. Snip.

So tell me

If Mr. Wet Blanket Ecclesiastes Dude is even close to being right about this—and, after all, his ultra-depressing book did make it in the Bible—if this guy’s inspired by more than vodka and Valium, then there’s something undeniably sucky about reality. If the good, the bad, and the ugly all end up at the same finish line, then, O Divine Mission Control, we have ourselves a problemo, a crusty heap of guano. This is so not how the universe is supposed to work. It’s supposed to be that the idiots of the world die young and painfully. Guys like me are supposed to gloat like emperors on their stinking graves—not share a bunk with them. I’m telling you, this is totally unacceptable. Somebody’s royally screwed up here. Who the heck is in charge of this joint anyway?

Gimme a Bud Light. Say, how ’bout dem Ducks?

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