The Pagans Nailed It
They burn shit and dance around the flames. They wear goatskin pants and buffalo heads. They fart and worship stars and trees and dudes named Baal. They sleep late on weekends. These are my kinds of people! Why? Because they get it. They understand that we're all superstitious-until-educated-yet-completely-aware-of-the-coolness-of-the-weird, the eerie, and the insane-types of beings. In short, they see that we are friggin' HUMANS whose thoughts of the divine are more apt to be directed at 6 blips in the night sky that to us somehow represent a herd of wildebeasts meeting their maker against the backdrop of the Himalaya...on fire, than manifest itself in a book of rules so arcane that I believe James Joyce on his first try at it said, "fuck this".
And for this, the Pagans should be applauded.
But the main thing I dig about these lunatics? They DON'T LIKE ARBITRARY RULES. And they had zero tolerance for any self-righteous clown in a tunic who attempted to dictate to them The 1,382 Things One Must Do To Get Into Heaven (on Wednesday before breakfast). Not on The Feast of Nostromo's Testicles you don't, motherfucker! Naturally, this aversion to manipulative retardation made them very popular at one time among Joe and the Family Shmoe, and even got them invited to many of The Elites's places on The Black Sea. In comparison, rigid, political hacks did not fare well when came tithing time. Which is exactly what some dude hanging by a thread at his job of supreme ruler of the feces-covered lovers of the-guy-on-a-stick realized 1000 years ago. This is also why he merged a patently bullshit belief in the deep significance of the death of a guy who knew he was a god with those of proto-Trekkies. So that they wouldn't set their tree-phasers to "fucked".
Ironically, we've been fucked at X-mas ever since. As the latest in the long line of obfuscatin' cocksuckers well employed ("No, no, no! It's THE CLEAR SKIES INITIATIVE, see? So, the smog go bye-bye!"), the proto-xtians covered up the obvious destruction of everybody's good time by calling it a celebration of Da Baaaaybeee Cheebus, and inviting all to remain still long enough, "so that Goddha can size you up for a new pair of wings." Basically, they made everyone schizophrenic. And now, instead of peacefully mulling around a nice-smelling tree, drinking spiced oxblood out of a leopard skull and howling at Polaris during the winter solstice in codpieces and antlers, we've now got our heads so twisted up in a manger that we don't know whether to shit or buy trinkets. And I will never, ever forgive the Pagan Union reps who sold out their happy peoples so long ago because of it. I hope they're buried in the foundation of a Church of Mithras somewhere. "Right 'ere wit ya Virgin Muddah!"