Only a few of us (celebrities, infamous criminals, super geniuses, and great kings and figures of history, like Alexander the Great) will live on for a long time through successive memory and records. The rest of us are doomed to an eternity of Boxven (the Box God's version of Heaven). There is no Boxell. Unlike Jesus' Heaven, everyone will make it to Boxven.
We might as well refer to these reoccurring patterns of boxes as a divine phenomenon like the theists do who insist and carry on ignorantly about how the universe exhibits “design,” and therefore, has “a designer.” If the Christians or Muslims or Jews or mystics or any other of the superstitious breed are crazy enough to be seeing signs of heavenly forces, why shouldn't we entreat them?
Those who believe in God constantly boast about how the populace generally still believes in God because they instinctively “know” him to be real, like an inner-witness. People “know” God exists like they “know” deep down that they're sinners. Though this number seems to be fast dwindling, we won't debate it here. I've seen enough boxes in my lifetime to know that it can't all be coincidence.
My God exists and I have a name for him. I gave him the name while staring at a Huggies diaper box. It's a shortened albeit irreverent version of something plain, something we call “cardboard.” Carboardia is his name. He is everywhere humans are or have been since they've been humans. But Carboardia is a cool God...but not for what he promises, only for what he doesn't do.
Carboardia is not like the gods of the religious people. He doesn't care what you eat or what rules you live by. He doesn't care if you sleep until noon on Sundays or eat blood sausage and shrimp fried in pure lard with a side order of lobster. He won't insist on your eating fish on Fridays like some monsignor with a secret masturbation addiction who volunteers to entertain Boy Scouts. He doesn't make laws. Live in your clueless senile mother's basement and find work as online human trafficker. See if Carboardia cares. He doesn't.
And he doesn't want worship. Carboardia doesn't care if you flatter him with your worthless praises, as if you are actually giving him anything. He doesn't care if you like him either. He doesn't want to see pictures of your annoying fucking kids. He doesn't want to meet your spouse. He doesn't care about your aged mother in a nursing home. She can rot, as can you, for all he cares. He hasn't heard a single prayer of yours to date. He doesn't even know your pathetic forehead oil-producing ass exists.
Carboardia doesn't dislike you. He just has no faith in you or humanity. He doesn't hate the human race, but he's not interested in saving it. And he doesn't want us to save ourselves, or to try. And he's honest; if he did exist as a conscious entity and could save the Burmese and Haitians, he would fess up: “They all look like bugs to me. I don't care about them. Why should I save them?” You'd have no good answer that could reach him.
Carboardia doesn't take sides. He has no opinion on political or moral matters. He'd play Chess with Stalin or have beers with Hitler—and Martin Luther King Jr. would not be denied a seat at the same table. He's just that kind of god, Carboardia. He's an easygoing fella. We’re the ones who make things difficult.
Carboardia wants everyone to know that they are not entitled to exist and survive. He's a stickler for that point. He doesn't want any blood bag to survive or conquer or be a dick, rambling on about how they should be granted life and immortality...or think they're right or better or have some secret to life and well-being and happiness that others don't have or can't get.
The holy spirit of Carboardia demands that humankind realize that they are at best a stinking cancer to the universe, a sentient sickness to the body of what we call “being.” Death is everywhere, and then we came along and fucked things up. Real intelligence is to know that consciousness is synonymous with unhappiness. Even the wise King Solomon agrees (Ecclesiastes 1:2, 14, 18, 2:15-17, the whole rest of the damn book). We will never realize true contentment until death. All is futile. All is pointless. To know this is to surpass the greatest in greatness and wisdom.
So Carboardia's message to mankind is a grim one; we live and then we die, with nothing gained or garnered. But maybe, if you want, you can make changes in life for the living. Maybe, if you so desire, you can live life and then leave it better than you found it? No one beyond the grave will punish you for doing otherwise, but what sane person can deny that doing so is not in order? Its just Carboardia who doesn't care either way. We do care.
We humans always care and feel the ripples in the ocean of cause and effect produced by what our fellow man does. But that's the trick; it matters NOW how we live, not after we die. Reason says to make life (not just the transition into death) better for everyone—for you first and then for everyone else. Religion prepares you for death. A better, more productive life is just an afterthought to religion, but Carboardia's Way says to focus on what matters now.
And unlike all other gods that have ever been, Carboardia has another distinct advantage: he is not afraid of reason. He is not afraid of being contradicted or being opposed by logic or science or by some school of thought. He is not afraid of investigation or of falling out of favor in the consensus of scientists and think-tanks and becoming antiquated. When asked what he thinks of scrutiny and healthy investigation, he says with a smile (beer and peanuts in hand): “Ah, cool. Go for it, dude.” Then, he takes a sip and sits back.
Carboardia is an easygoing dude, but there is a way to piss him off. And he pisses off a lot of people. The happy people hate him, the right-brained religious optimists who are “going places” in life for sure. They hate him because they dare to believe and tell others that they were destined to be successful, destined for glory.
When you cry for your dead relatives, Carboardia gives you only one minute before saying: “Now, now, quit your bitching!” That's why evolved people feel guilty when they cry too long. It's a form of selfishness since millions die everyday in the world, and you shed not a single fucking tear for them. Carboardia hates babies, naturally, as they are only selfish.
Carboardia never lets you forget the box that is your destiny. There are old-timey pictures on his black, featureless walls typed in a 1950s font of you and a box dancing together on a ballroom floor on a date. It's like a prom...with you and death. But you'll only have to be knocked up once—and it will be against your will. Carboardia gets off to that.
Say something positive around Carboardia and it's like touching a nerve. He is that unforgivably harsh inner-critic who stares back at you and whispers in your ear about how you are nothing in the mornings when you look in the mirror and start to feel pretty or handsome. When you start to feel like you are making a difference in life, and when you start to repeat bullshit from preachers and say things like, “God has a plan for my life!,” Carboardia is there, saying: “Better fucking watch it, dickface!”
Now don't think for a minute that Carboardia is some pro-atheist mock-god either. He can be just as douche-y to us atheists. When my fellow atheists say things like: “Earth is a great planet and needs to be saved and preserved,” Carboardia gets all up in our faces and says: “Whoa, Whoa, whoa, whoa, watch it! You're only one step away from being buried in that tree you're trying to save! Go fuck yourselves sideways!” Hey, we've all been called out.
But Carboardia is still cool, and he's not like those pitifully typical gods that say that unless you worship and accept them and that their son died on a cross for your sins, you will come to eternal hurt. Remember, he doesn't care what you do or what you believe. Your destiny is already written in stone anyway; you are going to rot...in a box, like it or not. That will be your end. Have a bitch-fit all you want. It's still going to happen. It is the will of Carboardia.
Now it's true that Carboardia and Jesus wouldn't really get along. Jesus is all about the Jews reoccupying Israel and a millennial kingdom being set up on earth and angels and gathering around a throne and eating grapes for all eternity. Jesus had others write his church a book over the course of many bloody centuries. When the book finally came together and was accepted, it spoke to the selfish and to the scared, to the cowards who are too afraid to face and accept eternal death.
The violent, intolerant, bishop-poisoning, heretic-burning history of the church doesn't change the fact that their members are cowards…spineless and gutless, sniveling cowards who cannot accept that when their rotting, corn-ridden, puss-filled bodies give out, that there won't be new ones awaiting them in the hereafter. Just wait till your optic nerve fail you, when you experience macular degeneration, when you can only read the gigantic numbers on city hall’s giant clock tower. Things will not get better. There will be nothing more for you beyond the clouds. You will be all alone to stew in your uselessness, with your cataracts and your chronic rheumatism.
But Jesus and Carboardia do have one thing in common; they both want the needy and the broken to come to them. Both have outstretched arms. Jesus says: “Come unto me all ye who labor and are heaven laden and I will give you rest.” (Matthew 11:28) Carboardia says: “Come unto me all ye who know that life means nothing and that your wormish end is upon you. I give you rest. Progress is pointless; adaptation is vain; fighting to survive is a temporary measure to put off the inevitable. Purpose is a lie. Lay hold on the contentment of a thousand saints and sages. Striving is worthless. Accept your closed eyes in the sleep of death. There ye shall find peace.”