DISPATCH FROM THE COON DOG CEMETERY

I’m in the midst of listening to shrill voice talent auditions, and it’s mildly unpleasant work, but not nearly as unpleasant as being maimed by jagged chunks of flying propellers.  I need to start feeling more gratitude that in 64 years I haven’t been randomly struck down by a cold, uncaring universe, at least not physically. But gratitude implies an object to which it’s directed, and at whom should I aim such missives? God? If God is sparing me, that means he’s consciously choosing who should be mauled by shrapnel from World War II era planes, who should contract a vicious terminal disease at age 9, who should drive a car filled with her children into a lake. In which case, worshipping Him would make me merely a sycophant amoral toady to a powerful amoral bully, so no thanks. It feels drearily stale to keep making cases against religion. Why bother? For the answer to that question, tune in to the next Republican debate.